Page 11 of Love Worth Gold
“What would you say to the younger version of yourself who missed the last two Olympic Games?”
“What does your father think of this?”
The questions came fast and overlapped. Each one was wrapped in a narrative she recognized but hadn’t fully agreed to wear. Federation media staff appeared at her elbow, steering her toward pre-arranged photo ops: Isaline with the Olympic rings backdrop, Isaline with her team issued parka and goggles on, Isaline standing beside a poster that already featured her face next to veteran Swiss stars who’d been doing this for a decade and finally one next to a poster of the American gold medal hometown darling whom everyone was chasing… Blaire Hollis.
Isaline smiled and answered perfectly. She hit every note they wanted. And she gave nothing away as she smiled wide next to the repeat gold medal winner.
“I’m honored to represent Switzerland. This has been a long road, but I’m here to focus on the process and give everything I have.”
The cameras ate it up. A short on-camera segment followed. The reporter’s voice was pitched with that breathless tone reserved for comeback stories and legacy narratives.
“After two heartbreaking near-misses due to injury, Isaline Senn has finally arrived at her first Olympic Games. Daughter of gold medalist Matthias Senn, she’s become the face of Swiss alpine hopes this year, carrying not just her own dreams but the weight of a nation’s expectations.”
Isaline kept her expression warm, nodding at the right moments, but something tight coiled beneath her ribs. She was being framed as a symbol before she’d even clicked into her bindings on an Olympic course. The story was already written; now she just had to ski it.
Matthias stood just outside the media ring with his arms crossed. His eyes tracked the time with the same intensity he used to read a course. When the fifth photographer asked for “just one more shot,” he stepped forward.
“She has accreditation and logistics to process,” he said, voice calm but final. “Training starts tomorrow.”
Reto appeared at her other side, grinning at the cameras in a way that looked friendly, but he was actually functioning like a wall. “Don’t worry, she’ll give you plenty to write about after she races.”
He steered her toward the accreditation desk with his hand light on her shoulder. “You’re officially the Swiss face of the Olympic Games now. How does it feel to be more famous than me?”
She rolled her eyes, grateful for the joke. “You were never famous, Reto. You were moderately well known in three Swiss towns and one village with more cows than people.”
“I’ll have you know, those cows were very appreciative of my career,” he said. “Unlike some skiers I coach.”
Behind them, another camera swung in their direction. Reto shifted his body just enough to block the lens from getting a clean angle. He smiled as if he hadn’t done it on purpose.
They walked deeper into the secure part of the village, away from most of the media. The noise dropped.
Matthias finally spoke. “You handled that well.”
It wasn’t effusive praise. It was acknowledgment, which from him meant more.
“They want a story. I get it,” she said quietly.
“They wanttheirstory,” he corrected, stopping near the entrance to the accreditation building. “You need to ski yours. Don’t lose sight of that, Isa.”
She met his eyes. What she saw was the same steady calm that had anchored her through two failed Olympic bids, two brutal rehabs, and every moment she’d wanted to quit. He wasn’t asking her to ignore the attention. He was reminding her that it didn’t decide her results.
Reto nudged her toward the door. “Go get your affairs in order. We’ll do a course walkthrough briefing tonight.”
Isaline nodded, took a slow breath, and reminded herself of one simple thing: none of these people—reporters, photographers, federation officials with their carefully curated narratives—decided medals.
The hill did.
By the time she had funneled into the accreditation line, Isaline’s cheeks ached from smiling and her toes had gone numb in her boots. The line inched forward in jerks and pauses. Athletes shuffled along, yawning and hugging backpacks to their chests.
She fished her phone out of her backpack, more from habit than hope, and blinked when an unfamiliar number sat at the top of the screen.
Don’t hold it against me… I’m finally using the number you left in November.Team USA's beds are pure cardboard. Did Switzerland do you any better, or are we all suffering together?
A ridiculous heat pricked under Isaline’s collar. So Blaire Hollis did, in fact, save her number from St. Moritz.
She typed with her thumbs, biting back a smile.Just seeing this now—sorry. Swiss housing also has cardboard for mattresses. I slept great anyway. I can ski fast after lying on bad mattresses, remember?
After making her way through the accreditation process, Isaline claimed a corner table in the athlete lounge. She sat with her protein and electrolyte drinks and her feet propped on the chair across from her. The space was lively with voices in multiple languages, each jumbling over the other. Big screens looped previous years’ opening ceremony footage and race promos on silent rotation. Matthias and Reto sat a few tables away with their heads bent over tablets and printed course maps.