Page 24 of Love Worth Gold
Blair hated this part—the part where someone who knew her well enough refused to accept the surface answer. Tess had been there for her first Olympics, her first heartbreak, and every year since. Lying to her felt pointless.
“St. Moritz wasn’t just a race for you,” Tess said, cutting through before Blaire could deflect. “And Isaline Senn isn’t just another name on the start list.”
The words landed like a punch to the gut. Blaire kept her eyes forward as her fingers worked the band.
“I’m not asking for details,” Tess continued. “But I notice when you check your phone more. I’ve seen you tracking results that aren’t yours. And it’s beyond obvious when you go quiet the second Switzerland comes up in conversation.”
Blaire let the band snap against her palm. The sting felt grounding. “None of this is changing my focus.”
“It’s not? Are you sure?”
“Positively sure.”
Tess leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ve spent your entire career keeping people at arm’s length so they couldn’t get in your way. That worked. But you don’t get to pretend she’s background noise when she’s clearly as loud as a marching band trying to hold your attention.”
Blaire turned her head, finally meeting Tess’s gaze. “What do you want me to say?”
“That you know what you can carry today. I’m not sure there is enough room on your shoulders for a race and a woman.” Tess’s voice softened without losing its edge. “You’reallowed to want more than medals, Blaire. You’re also allowed to admit when something matters enough to rattle you.”
Blaire looked away as her throat tightened.
Tess stood and zipped her jacket. “This race is still yours. Whatever happens with her after—that’s yours too. But right now, you’ve got one job.”
The coach walked toward the start area, leaving Blaire alone with the truth she’d been dodging. Isaline had already changed the shape of these Olympics, whether Blaire skied well or not.
Blaire turned her back to the nearest camera cluster and let her gaze drift toward the mountain. Snow glittered under hard sunlight, gates stark against white. The course that she’d memorized was now real and waiting. Around her, racers jogged in place, shook out legs, muttered quiet prayers in half a dozen languages. The energy felt familiar—the Olympics always vibrated differently than the World Cup—but this time the energy carried a weight she couldn’t shake.
Her chest tightened without warning.
The memory hit sideways: twenty-two years old, standing in a different start house, believing she had infinite chances ahead. Another Olympic Games. Another podium. Time that stretched forward like an open road. She’d been so sure then—sure of her body, her trajectory, the promise that hard work always paid in gold.
Then the older racer, who’d kissed her in the dark, had left her like she’d been a practice run. The humiliation had taught her to never need anyone again.
Then the memory of St. Moritz played in her mind. Isaline’s name flashing above hers on the board, and the jolt of pride she’d felt before jealousy could catch up. The way Isaline had looked at her on the podium—warm, teasing, alive—like Blaire hadn’t just lost the win but won the chance at love instead.
And now this. The last time she’d stand here as an Olympic competitor. No more after. No next cycle to chase, no comeback to plan. Just this race, this hill, this moment that was already half-memory before she’d even clicked into her skis.
Her throat closed. One tear escaped before she could stop it, hot against frozen skin, tracking down her cheek in a thin, betraying line.
She angled her face away from the lens forty feet to her left. Her jaw locked, and she forced her breath back into a steady rhythm through sheer will. Her gloved hand swiped across her face once, fast, erasing the evidence. No one could see this. Not the cameras. Not the younger racers who still thought she was untouchable. Not Isaline, wherever she was in her own warmup routine.
Tess appeared at her shoulder, quiet as snow. She didn’t ask about the tears, and she didn’t comment on the emotions. She simply held out Blaire’s poles, grip-first, and let the gesture speak.
“One more time, Hollis.” Tess’s voice stayed steady. “Ski your own race. You’re not racing against yourself. Remember that.”
Blaire took the poles. The familiar weight settled into her palms, grounding her. She stared ahead with her throat still tight as she let the grief compress into fuel.
She rolled her shoulders, shook out her legs, and locked every feeling behind the only wall that mattered… the start gate.
Isaline’s bib put her ahead of Blaire in the start order. Blaire watched the racers before her finish, then shifted closer to the monitor as Isaline’s number was called.
Her pulse thudded steadily in her ears, but her hands gripped her poles tighter than necessary. She told herself this was routine—study the competition, clock the splits, find theadvantage—but the moment Isaline launched from the gate, everything Blaire had spent two decades perfecting fractured.
Chapter Ten
Isaline’s father walked beside her along the fenced-off lane toward the start, boots thudding in the packed snow. The noise from the stadium below was a distant roar here, more vibration than sound. Someone’s radio crackled near the coaches’ stand, the announcer’s voice sharp and bright even this high up.
“Germany’s still sitting in gold,” Matthias said, eyes on the big screen mounted near the start house. “Austria’s on silver, Italy on bronze. You’ve skied right with, if not better than, all three of them all week.”