Chapter 1: The Golden Course
Playlist:
Queen: We Are the Champions
Snow Patrol: Chasing Cars
Find the visual playlist on my Pinterest (@Mara_J_Ova).
Alta Badia, Italy – March 25, 2025
Thomas
At the top of the mountain, the Gran Risa lies beneath me, brutal, beautiful, unforgiving. Literally and figuratively, it’s at my feet. Every other racer is done, their hopes hanging on me.
They’re waiting for a crack. A slip. One wrong edge.
All season, they’ve been chasing my shadow; now they’re praying I’ll finally stumble.
I won’t give them that satisfaction.
The air tastes of metal and wax. I drive my boots into the snow and feel it bite back, cold pressing through heat trapped under my suit. I pack soft crystals around the buckles until they harden. The sun’s turned the surface slick, half ice, half slush. The kind of snow that punishes hesitation.
I roll my shoulders. The fabric pulls tight across my back, a stretch-and-release that wakes every muscle. My breath hums inside the helmet, slow, heavy, controlled. Beneath that calm, something stirs. A pulse. A hunger I can’t name.
Why push when winning has become routine?
The thought slips in, quiet as a draft. I shut it down. Doubt doesn’t belong here.
Far below, the crowd rumbles, a deep, rolling thunder through the valley. I know who they’re waiting for.
Their guy.
This is Italy, but the Austrian flags outnumber the rest. They want certainty. They want dominance. They want me.
A full-second lead after the first run. I could ski safely and still take it all—the race, the globes, the season.
But no.
Safe doesn’t feel alive.
Three beeps.
One sharp.
Go.
I launch.
The upper pitch flows like instinct, pines flashing past, sunlight slicing through shadow. The snow bites differently at every turn, but my body knows before my mind does. Light feet, fast transitions. Gravity tugs. I let it.
Compression hits hard. I absorb it, knees coiled, chest low. Skis carve perfect arcs through the steep. The world narrows to red-blue-red-blue. Every gate, a heartbeat.
Midsection, the wall.
Double fall line. Brutal gradient. Most guys lose it here: time, edge, nerve.
Not me.
I cut tighter, shoulder brushing the gates. The poles whip back, sting my arm. The edge grinds through ice, metal on crystal, the sound of control.
A roar rises from below. Green numbers; I don’t need to look. I feel them in the vibration of my skis.
Lower section: the flat. Build speed or lose everything. I fold low, chest grazing my knees, legs screaming. Ruts deep as trenches, left by the others. I skim them, uncoil into the final turns.
One last gate. A blur of red.
Line in sight.
Every muscle burns. I push harder, just to make it hurt.
The finish explodes, bells, horns, voices.
I cross, chest heaving, hands raised, head bowed.
I don’t need to look at the board.
I know.
Clean. Fast. Untouchable.
Another win. Another globe.
And still, the same hollow space where victory should live.
***
The podium platform vibrates under the bass of the crowd. I can feel it through the soles of my boots. Floodlights burn white against the dark mountain, confetti drifting through the glare like snow.
Lukas shoves the giant slalom globe back into my hands. “Try not to drop that one, yeah? They’d charge us a fortune.”
His grin is wide, forced around the edges. The cameras love him for it. And I do. Winning without my friends would taste like ash.
I lift the trophy. The crystal catches the light, cold, perfect. It’s heavier than it looks. People scream my name. Somewhere below, the brass of the anthem starts again.
Martin leans close, shouting over the noise. “Smile, superstar. You look like someone stole your dog.”
I manage half a smile. It feels practiced, the muscles knowing the routine before I do.
Another globe appears, the overall, the big one. My arms ache as I raise it. Champagne sprays from both sides, icy and sticky against my neck. The crowd roars, and for a heartbeat, it’s chaos: horns, flashbulbs, teammates pounding my back.
Inside, it’s quiet. The sound folds in on itself until it’s just a hum in my ears.
Lukas slings an arm around me. “You did it again, kid. Four globes now. You’re running out of shelves.”
“Guess I’ll build more shelves,” I say.
He laughs, but it fades fast. “Or find something else to chase.”
Niko bounds up the steps, bottle in hand, spraying more foam than he drinks. “You’re buying the bar tonight, boss!”
“Thought that was your job,” I say. He grins, teeth bright in the floodlight, already planning the party.
Coach Leitner steps up beside us and claps once. “Photos first, party later.” His voice cuts through everything. He adjusts my collar, straightens the flag behind us, the old-school way of keeping order. “Good run. Textbook. Don’t overthink it.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” I lie.
The anthem loops again. Cameras pop. I pass the downhill globe from four days ago and the super-G globe from yesterday to Leitner. He’s the coach; that’s how it’s done. Then I raise the two remaining trophies and smile.
My shoulders burn, but the crowd screams louder, and for a moment I give them the face they want, the champion, unbreakable, invincible.
A flash explodes. The world turns white.
***
The ceremony bleeds into the photo line.
I’m handed from one camera to another, to officials, sponsors, teammates, a conveyor belt of smiles.
Then I spot my family.
My mother breaks through the barrier, her face lit by every flash. Her coat is too thin; her cheeks are red from the cold. She hugs me hard enough to drive the air out of my chest. I feel the tremor in her shoulders before I see the tears.
“Thomas,” she says, voice shaking. “We’re so proud.”
For a heartbeat, the noise fades. I smell her perfume under the layers of wax, champagne, and snow. Something small and human anchors me.
Then my father claps me on the back, firm, controlled. “Good work, son.”
My sister waves a flag from behind them, her eyes bright, already filming for her social media feed.
The photographer calls. I turn, smile, and lift the trophies again. My mother wipes her face fast, trying to compose herself. The camera catches her mid-laugh, mid-tear; the perfect image of joy.
Sponsors next.
“Unbelievable season, Thomas! How does it feel?”
“Feels great,” I hear myself say. “It’s been a dream year. Couldn’t have done it without the team.”
The words fit, practiced to the comma.
I feel relieved when the sponsors’ time is over, and I can finally reach the waiting fans, signing kids’ helmets, and taking selfies. Here, at last, I feel something. Their emotions are real; their admiration brings back memories of when I was a kid, chasing ski stars with a helmet to get their autograph.
Yes, this is why I do it. Right?
To inspire them to… do what, exactly?
No time to think. They deserve their champion; present, not lost in thought.
A voice brushes the edge of the crowd. “Thomas, please?”
I turn. Green eyes, framed by the hood of a red jacket, catch the floodlight and hold it. She isn’t screaming or waving, just waiting, pulse visible in her throat.
I step closer so we can fit into her camera’s frame. Her breath ghosts in the cold. “May I?” I ask, reaching for her phone. “My hands are longer; I can fit the mountain in.”
Our fingers meet; light, deliberate. The contact sparks through her thin glove, quick as static, gone before it’s polite to notice.
She tilts her chin up. “Go ahead.”
I raise the phone. She leans in, shoulder brushing mine. For the shutter’s flash, we’re one shape, her perfume cutting through the wax and champagne, clean and warm.
Another flash. A second too long.
“Will I see you at the party?” she asks, voice tight with something she’s trying not to name.
I look down at her, the noise of the crowd fading into the thud of my pulse. “You might,” I say, soft enough for only her to hear.
Her smile answers before she disappears back into the crowd.
Then I turn away, focusing again on the kids waiting patiently in line.
Maybe this is what winning should feel like; kids to inspire, women to admire, and champagne to wash it all down.
Yeah. The afterparty will be wild tonight.
***
Katharina
The mix zone smells like wet nylon, cold breath, and adrenaline. Reporters crowd the barriers, microphones poking out like bayonets, as steam rises from the racers’ suits. Everyone talks at once, their words frosting in the air.
I keep to the second row, close enough to see, far enough not to be shoved. On the screen above the barrier, Thomas Kern’s run plays again. Slow motion, every frame sharper than real life: the drop from the start gate, the clean edge, the compression, the finish.
The crowd screams when he crosses the line, but I’m watching his face.
Not the grin or the victory pump—the moment after. The split second when his shoulders drop and his mouth softens.
Not joy. Relief. And something else—fatigue, maybe, or a silence so deep it looks like calm.
I pull out my notebook and write:
The champion looked almost glad it was over.
Beside me, a journalist from one of the tabloids fumbles with his phone. “Four globes, three titles… how do you even headline that?” he mutters.
“Maybe ’Austrian Perfection Continues’?”
I glance at him. “If you’re writing a toaster manual.”
He laughs, not sure if I’m joking. I’m not.
The screen replays the finish again—his hands raised, head bowed, the picture of invincibility. But now that I’ve seen the flicker underneath, I can’t unsee it. The image feels like a mask he’s tired of wearing.
Maddie elbows me. “You’re staring at the TV like it owes you dinner. Secret crush already?”
I close the notebook. “Professional observation.”
“Uh-huh. I’ve seen that look before.” She grins, pulling her beanie lower over her ears. “You’ve got the face.”
I smirk. “Which one? The one that says I’m freezing, or the one that says I’m surrounded by amateurs?”
“Neither. The one that says you’ve just spotted trouble worth writing about.”
She’s not wrong.
The crowd surges as Kern appears for interviews, bright lights bouncing off his helmet. Every microphone lunges toward him.
The reporters shout his name. I don’t.
I just watch.
Trying to name the thing I saw in that half-second of silence.
***
Thomas
The lounge hums with low music and high laughter. Athletes half out of their race suits, sponsors in pressed jackets, waiters weaving through the crowd with trays of champagne. The smell is a mix of perfume, sweat, and victory.
I lean back on the stool, pretending to listen while my father says something about next season’s schedule. His coat’s already on. He checks his watch the way he always does when he’s about to leave a room.
“I spoke to Lena yesterday,” he says, tone casual. “Still single.”
My jaw tightens. “Good for her.”
He gives a mild smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You should call her. She still asks about you.”
“I’m sure she does,” I say, already signaling the bartender for another drink.
He nods once, the conversation closed, and walks off into the noise.
I down the rest of the glass. It burns, clean and fast.
The guilt burns familiar. Why would my father bring her up now?
I was an asshole. I cheated on her while she waited patiently for me to come home from the tour. I did it once, desperate to feel some thrill I hadn’t felt in two years with her. I confessed, ready to beg for forgiveness, to atone. Because I thought I needed Lena. She was safety. She was home.
But she didn’t want me to beg. She just nodded, pain in her eyes, saying: I guess you need other women on the tour. I’m not angry. I’ll learn to accept that. Just don’t tell me next time, okay?
And that’s when I knew I needed to end it. She was safety, and that safety wasn’t only boring. It turned me into a villain. No woman deserves the man I’d become if she let me.
So, I broke up with her. And after all that, she still waits for me to come back.
I gulp another shot of Williams, close my eyes, enjoy the sting, and hug my father once more before turning to Niko.
“Another round?” I ask as he already waves at the barman.
The night is loud, the adrenaline still crawling under my skin. I turn and notice a brunette beside me laughing at nothing, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. She’s a blur of perfume and tanned skin, easy distraction, easy warmth. Perhaps that’s what I need: something simple to shut my head off for a while.
Maybe I should look for the green-eyed fan with decent behavior. The party tents are full of fangirls, models, and sponsor consorts ready to get naked the minute they see a star. They all look the same, too much makeup, heels inappropriate in the mountains. The fans I meet outside seem more genuine and honest. But those girls aren’t the kind to throw their clothes away at the first sight of a superstar. Pity.
Guess the brunette will have to do tonight.
“Hi,” I offer, and she meets my eyes. Confident and ready for anything, really. She chose this place to get my attention, I’m sure of it, maybe even scratched some eyes out to fight for the chair at my side. I smile. Pathetic, but cute.
“Hi,” she giggles, licks her lips, and leans closer.
“You from here?” I start and watch her trail her fingers along her neckline, never leaving my eyes.
“Uhh.” She nods and smiles, brushing her knee against mine deliberately.
Gosh, this one wants me badly. I might even skip the trying with her.
“Ehm, you want something to drink?” I offer uncertainly.
The woman is pretty, her perfect cleavage drawing my eyes, her full lips wet, her eyes saying she wouldn’t mind curling them around my cock. The combination of adrenaline and alcohol in my blood tells me to forget the unpleasant shiver down my spine. Her naked foot rubbing at my calf makes me feel a little like prey.
“I’ll get you a glass, what do you say?” I stand up quickly, desperate for time to think.
“Whatever you like,” she flutters her lashes.
I rise and head to the bar, signaling for two champagne glasses, then change my mind. A champagne for her and beer for me. Beer is better. Beer is me. Beer gives me my alpha male feeling back. Alpha males don’t go around jingling tall champagne flutes, right?
I lean at the bar casually, the beer glass heavy and cool in my hand, giving me my confidence back. I eye the brunette waiting at the table for me. Her long-nailed fingers tap her phone, probably texting some friend about the prey she caught. Then she looks around, eyes wild, uncertain if I left. I smile. Not so confident after all.
And really, the perfect opportunity to quench the adrenaline thirst that sends signals to my cock every time I watch her trace her fingers along the glass stem. Why did I even hesitate? I thank the barman and get our drinks.
When I turn, I nearly collide with someone. A glass of white wine tilts dangerously, then spills, a sharp splash against my shirt, her wrist, the floor.
“Damn, I’m sorry… ”
She laughs, startled but steady. “My fault. I wasn’t watching where I was… ”
I catch her arm before the wine glass slips. Her skin is warm, smooth against my fingers. For a moment, everything slows: the hum of the music, the scent of wine, and winter air clinging to her hair.
She looks at me, and her eyes widen as she recognizes me.
Her eyes are sharp and focused, too intelligent for small talk, and I immediately notice the notebook under her arm. A journalist. Damn. As pretty as she is, this is not the time for quotes.
The spark that shoots through me is quick and inconvenient, wrong time, wrong woman.
I release her arm. “No harm done.” A polite smile. Professional distance. No quotes tonight.
She opens her mouth, maybe to apologize again, maybe to say something else, but before she can, the brunette calls my name, voice syrup-sweet.
“Thomas! Come on, don’t disappear on me.”
She loops her arm through mine, leading me toward the dark corridor behind the lounge, the kind of place where deals and bad decisions happen.
I let her— habit, training, autopilot.
Still, when I glance back, my focus slips, the noise dulls. For half a heartbeat, I forget which world I’m supposed to belong to.
The reporter’s watching me, a faint smile playing at the corner of her lips, wine glass steady in her hand.
