Page 25 of Love Worth Gold
Isaline swallowed hard as her fingers flexed inside her gloves. “In training.”
“In training,” he agreed, turning to face her fully. “On this hill. In this snow. You’ve matched their splits, and you’ve beaten their splits. You didn’t come here to ski their race, Isa. You came here to ski yours.”
The wind tugged at the loose hairs escaping her helmet. Her heart thudded hard enough that she could feel it in the strap under her chin.
He reached out, catching her by the shoulders and gave her the same steadying squeeze he’d used when she was five and convinced the kiddie hill was a cliff. “You know every bump on this Super G. You know where it’s blind, and where the groove wants to grab your skis. You are not a long shot here. You belong on that board, Isa.”
“I know, Dad. And I’m going to ski like it.”
“Good! Be smart at the top, fearless in the middle, and greedy at the bottom. If it feels like too much, you’re probably doing it right. You’ve got this.”
The starter called her bib number. Her father gave one last nod and a soft, “Show them who you are, kid,” before stepping back behind the fence.
Isaline slid into the start, poles planted, tips hovering near the wand. The world narrowed to the drop in front of her, the sound of her own breath in her ears, and the echo of her father’s voice in the back of her mind.
The beep sounded.
Isaline attacked the top section of the Super G with fearless commitment, carving through terrain where earlier racers had hesitated. Her line choice at the second gate was aggressive, nearly reckless, and somehow perfect.
Her breath caught in her chest as she hit the mid-course compression, flirting with the ragged edge of control before pulling it back in a way that looked effortless to those watching from the screen.
Isaline crossed the finish line of the Super-G with her lungs on fire and her legs screaming. She straightened just enough to look up at the board. SENN. Third place. Bronze position. An Olympic medal… for now.
The stadium erupted. Coaches shouted. Swiss flags waved.
For three perfect seconds, the world crystallized around that single fact. She’d done it. First Olympics, first medal. The roar in her ears might have been the crowd or her own pulse; she couldn’t tell and didn’t care.
Then the waiting to see if she could keep that medal started.
More racers came through. Times flickered and reshuffled. She stood in the corral watching the board like it held her entire future—because it did. When Blaire’s bib number was called, Isaline’s stomach dropped before the American had even left the gate.
A hand closed over her shoulder, firm and familiar. Her father stepped into her peripheral vision. His headset was crooked around his neck and his eyes were still on the board.
He squeezed her shoulder. “Look at me, Isa.”
She tore her gaze away from the screen. His eyes were bright and proud. The lines at the corners of his eyes were deeper than they’d been the last time she’d watched him race on TV.
“You skied the hell out of that,” he said quietly. “Top, middle, finish. You left everything up there. That’s all any of us ever get.”
She started to disagree. “If I lose the bronze—”
“If you lose the bronze, you still skied like you belong in this field,” he cut in, gentle but firm. “Germany, Austria, Italy… you’re right there with them. First Olympics, best you’ve ever skied, on the biggest stage. Be proud of that. Your mom would be losing her mind right now.”
The mention of her mom hit harder than the lactic acid in her legs. Isaline drew in a slow breath, letting it settle.
“From here, it’s not your race anymore,” he added. “It’s theirs. Let them worry about the clock. You’ve already done your job.”
She nodded as her fingers curled around the cold metal of the finish corral fence. Her heart still hammered, but the sharp edge of panic dulled into something steadier. She’d done what she could. The rest was math and gravity.
Over the noise of the crowd, the announcer’s voice cut sharply through the speakers.
“Now in the start gate, representing the United States of America… Blaire Hollis.”
Chapter Eleven
Blaire’s brain processed the number in an instant. Isaline’s third place standing was bronze unless someone faster came through. Someone like herself.
The math was brutal and unavoidable. Her planned race, if she executed cleanly, would almost certainly push Isaline off that podium. Barring a catastrophic error, Blaire would be the one who stole a medal from her.