Page 16 of Love Worth Gold
“Is that actual coffee or recycled snow?”
Isaline appeared at her elbow with her Swiss parka unzipped to show a base layer that fit like sponsorship money. Her accreditation badge swung from a lanyard printed with edelweiss flowers.
Blaire glanced at the coffee urn ahead of them. “Little of both.”
“Perfect. I will take two cups then.”
The line moved. They moved with it. To anyone watching, they were just two racers from different countries caught in the breakfast shuffle. Underneath, Blaire’s awareness sharpened like a blade against a stone.
“Sleep well?” Isaline asked, tone light.
“Good enough.”
“Liar.”
Blaire’s mouth almost curved. “Are you counting my hours now?”
“Someone should. You look like you are preparing for battle, not skiing.”
“Same thing at this level.”
Isaline tilted her head, considering. “Maybe for you. I like to enjoy myself a little.”
Blaire poured coffee with steady hands and said nothing. Across the room, Tess waved from the USA table. Matthias sat with the Swiss group, his gaze briefly landing on his daughter talking with Blaire Hollis before returning to a tablet.
They separated without ceremony. Blaire turned toward her team. Isaline headed toward hers. The space between them felt measured in heartbeats instead of inches.
Later, in the gym, Blaire claimed a stationary bike near the windows. The village sprawled below, with flags snapping in the wind. She set her resistance, clipped in, and started the warmup cadence Tess had drilled into her years ago.
Ten minutes in, a treadmill whirred to life two machines over. Blaire didn’t have to look to know who it was. She kept her eyes forward with her legs turning steady circles, but her peripheral vision tracked Isaline’s reflection in the glass: longstrides, controlled breathing, the type of effortless rhythm that came from a decade of disciplined mornings.
Their efforts synced without planning. When Blaire increased resistance, Isaline’s pace climbed. When Isaline hit an interval sprint, Blaire’s cadence ticked higher. Neither acknowledged it. Both felt it.
Twenty minutes later, Blaire dismounted first. Her legs were warm, and her lungs were clear. As she wiped down the bike, Isaline slowed to a cool-down pace, face flushed, chest rising and falling in a way that made Blaire’s insides tighten.
“Good session,” Isaline said, breath still coming fast.
“It was.”
Their eyes held, and for a moment it was painfully obvious that “just competitors” had stopped being true three months ago after one heated night in a tiny hotel bed in St. Moritz.
~~
Blaire’s skis sliced clean through the final pitch of the training run. The edges of her skis held a line so precise it felt like carving glass with a hot blade. She crossed the timing beam and let herself coast into the corral. Her thighs burned in that good, familiar way that meant she’d pushed without breaking.
The board flashed green. First place in the training session by three-hundredths.
Tess’s voice crackled through the radio clipped to a nearby tech’s vest. “That’s the exact line you need to ski for the race. Lock it in.”
Blaire listened without responding as she clicked out of her bindings. Around her, coaches scribbled notes. Cameras tracked her every movement. She ignored all of it, focusing instead on the rhythm of her breath and the feel of snow beneath her boots.
Then Isaline’s bib number echoed across the start announcement.
Blaire didn’t plan to watch. She had her own debrief to get through, her own splits to review. But her feet carried her toward the fence line anyway, close enough to see the big screen and the course monitor feeding live splits.
Isaline snapped out of the gate so fast Blaire felt the start in her own knees.
First split: green. Second split: green. At the compression where she’d crashed the day before, she committed hard, absorbing the terrain with legs that remembered how to trust themselves. Blaire’s chest tightened. The technical middle section blurred past in a streak of red and white. Isaline’s line was aggressive but controlled.