Page 17 of Love Worth Gold
In the final pitch, her tuck held. The edges of her skis were biting just enough.
The clock stopped. First Place. Two-hundredths ahead of Blaire.
A ripple of approval moved through the coaches and staff clustered near the finish. Swiss voices called out congratulations. Isaline skidded to a clean stop, pulled off her helmet, and shook her bright blonde hair loose with a grin that could have powered the village lights.
Blaire turned away before their eyes could meet.
Later, near the ski racks where techs swarmed with tools and clipboards, they ended up side by side. It was inevitable in a space this small.
“Good run, Goldilocks,” Isaline said, unlacing her boots.
“Yours wasn’t bad either.”
“Not bad.” Isaline’s mouth curved. “I’ll take that high praise from a gold legend.”
Blaire straightened and balanced her skis on her shoulder. “You want me to lie and say you weren’t fast?”
“I want you to admit you’re a bit scared of me.”
Their gazes locked. Around them, the noise of the finish area blurred into background static.
“You’re a threat… in more ways than one,” Blaire said evenly. “That’s what makes this both interesting and dangerous.”
“Interesting.” Isaline tested the word on her tongue. Her voice dropped just enough to make it land differently. “Is that the English word we are using now?”
Blaire huffed a sigh. She walked away without answering, but her pulse was ticking faster than the training run could explain.
~~
The lounge smelled like cinnamon and fruit from the mocktails someone had arranged on a long table near the entrance. Music thrummed through hidden speakers, something instrumental and vaguely Swiss that probably tested well with focus groups. Athletes from half a dozen countries filled the sofas and tall tables. Voices layered over each other in a dozen languages.
Blaire had arrived with two younger skiers who immediately spotted friends near the mocktail station and peeled off. She told herself she’d stay twenty minutes, show her face, and leave before anyone asked her to pose for a team photo.
Her timetable was quickly changed when she saw Isaline just outside the balcony doors next to a heat lamp.
The Swiss skier stood with Reto and another teammate, holding a glass with something pink and fizzy inside. Her hair fell loose over one shoulder, and she’d traded her team jacket for a simple black sweater that made her look less like an Olympian and more like someone Blaire might have noticed in any crowded room.
Their eyes caught, and Isaline’s mouth curved, not quite a smile but close enough to feel like an invitation.
Blaire walked over before she could talk herself out of it.
“You lasted longer than I expected,” Isaline said, nodding toward the noise inside. “I thought you would run after thirty seconds.”
“Still might.”
“Then I will talk fast.”
Reto glanced between them, grinned knowingly, and excused himself with a comment in German that made Isaline roll her eyes. Her teammate followed without prompting. Blaire watched them go, then turned back to find Isaline studying her with open curiosity.
“Do you ever relax?” Isaline asked.
“I am relaxed.”
“You are standing like someone is about to interview you for a librarian job.”
Blaire shifted her weight and loosened her shoulders. “Better?”
“A little.” Isaline leaned against the doorframe. The balcony was empty behind her. “How many of these have you been to? Olympics, I mean.”