Page 1 of Love Worth Gold
Chapter One
The mountain demanded a price for speed, and Blaire Hollis always paid it.
She hit the final compression, and her quads caught fire. The force of the wind tried to fold her in half, but she held her tuck as her legs screamed. The frozen air felt like a blade in her lungs. Ice crystals peppered her goggles. The only sounds were the rush of wind and the chatter of her skis slicing across the bulletproof snow. She shot across the finish line, a blur of red, white and blue against a bright sky.
Uncoiling from her tuck, Blaire glided into the finish corral. The burn in her legs had already settled into a satisfying ache. Steam rolled off her body and clouded the air in front of her face. The younger girls on the national team shuffled their skis as their glances moved from the massive digital clock to Blaire, then back again. Their eyes were always on her. For the better part of two decades, her time was the one that mattered.
Her name flashed onto the board.HOLLIS. Fastest of the morning training run.
Satisfaction cut through the exhaustion. She gave a single, sharp nod to no one in particular. Her time was good enough to make her heart race.
Her coach, Tess Kincaid, intercepted her near the fence with a clipboard in her hand. Tess’s eyes, sharp enough to cut glass, held a flicker of more than just professional approval.
“Solid line through the gut. It was a great run, Blaire.”
Blaire pulled off her goggles and let them hang around her neck. “Felt a little soft on the exit of turn three.”
“We can look at the video.” Tess made a note, then lowered her clipboard. “Listen, Blaire, the Federation wants to talk aboutmedia strategy for the upcoming Olympic Games. You know, the typical narrative…”
Blaire’s focus snapped tight. The media narrative was laser focused on her legacy and her final Olympic run. She’d been fielding the same words for months. The headlines were nothing short of trying to bury her before she was even done. She met her coach’s eyes with a look of annoyance.
“What’s the turnaround for the next run?”
Tess’s mouth thinned. She knew the deflection for what it was: a wall, built brick by careful brick over a career of keeping the world out. After a beat, she relented. “Forty minutes. Jordy’s waiting with your other skis.”
“Good. Thanks.”
Blaire pushed off, her skis skating over the packed snow. She left the whispers about her legacy behind her in the cold air. The satisfaction of the time was already fading, replaced by the consistent beat of her own internal clock. Next run. Next cue. Next task. It was the only way she knew how to survive.
The tuning room buzzed with the noise of the old ventilation system. Skis stood in neat rows like soldiers awaiting inspection. Her ski tech, Jordy, was already there with a file in her hand. Her focused gaze ran down the edge of a fresh base of wax.
Tess gestured Blaire over to a small table where a tablet glowed, displaying the morning’s run in a series of colorful overlays. “Right here,” Tess pointed, her finger tapping the screen. “You bled three-tenths coming out of the steep. The line was fine, but you held the edge a fraction too long. You can get away with a move like that at twenty; it’s a different story being a forty-year-old Olympian.”
The numbers were a comfort. They were missing pieces that completed a puzzle. They were rational problems withconcrete solutions. Blaire leaned closer. “I felt the clatter of my left ski. Thought I was going to lose it.”
Jordy glanced up from her work, wiping a thumb over the perfectly sharpened metal. “The snow’s getting aggressive. The cold snap sharpened the crystals. The skies are biting harder than yesterday.”
Tess swiped the screen, bringing up a calendar. Dates were blocked out in red. The schedule was a relentless march toward the Olympic Games. “St. Moritz is the final marker,” Tess stated, her tone leaving no room for discussion. Her eyes met Blaire’s over the top of the tablet. “You’re still the racer everyone else is chasing, Blaire. Our job is managing what it costs you to stay there.”
The wordcostwas thick with the unsaid history of injuries, sacrifices, and the relentless pressure of Blaire’s own expectations. It was a word that lived in the ache of her joints on cold mornings. She pushed it away, focusing on the equipment, which was the tangible part of her work.
Jordy slid a freshly prepped ski into the rack with a satisfying click. “Your skis will be ready. They’ll be perfect when it matters.”
That was Jordy. No pep talks, just a promise of flawless execution. It was the only kind of reassurance Blaire trusted.
Tess shut the tablet, and the numbers vanished. The quiet pressure of the future rushed back in. “That’s enough for today. Go get your recovery shake. Take the afternoon light. No ego laps, Queen of Gold.”
Blaire nodded, her body already anticipating the repetitive routine of her recovery. “Got it.”
She agreed, but a plan was already forming in her mind. Full stretching sequence, an extra fifteen minutes on the foam roller, and another hour with the race videos. Control was a muscle, and she would not let it get soft.
~~
Blaire’s room was a study in quiet order. Her gear was stowed, her tablet open, her phone charging on the nightstand. Left alone, she scrolled through a message from her parents, Don and Mary. It was a photo of fresh snow blanketing Sun Valley, with her dad a silhouette near the tuning shop. Her mom held a mug from Blaire’s first junior championship. Her smile was proud but distant.
The image pulled a memory forward: the sting of cold air on early morning drives, the shine of lodge lights before sunrise. The smell of wax and metal filings that had clung to her dad’s hands. Her mom’s love had always been measured in printed schedules and perfectly packed bags. Stability was something you built, something you earned. It was the only love language she fully trusted.
Another message appeared. A quick thank-you from a junior skier from her home program for a new pair of boots. Blaire had seen a team funding email and paid the invoice without a word. She found and deleted the digital receipt, having already made sure the kid’s coach got the credit.