Page 28 of Love Worth Gold
The replay of her run looped uninvited behind her eyes. One turn a shade too conservative. There was one section whereshe might have trusted herself more and held the tuck for an extra heartbeat. She’d skied clean. She’d skied smart. And it still hadn’t been enough.
Tears pricked hot and insistent. She tried to force them back on sheer habit—racers didn’t cry over fourth, not when they still had another event coming—but for once, the tears didn’t listen. They poured down her face and soaked into the sheets, silent and relentless.
She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes until she saw stars.
A knock came eventually. Soft, patient, unmistakably Reto.
She sat up, swiped at her face, and croaked, “Come in.”
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Seeing her sitting on the edge of the bed with red eyes knocked some of the older brother teasing right out of him. He didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t tell her fourth was still incredible. Didn’t remind her the downhill was coming.
He just sat down beside her, shoulder brushing hers, and let the silence hold.
After a minute, he spoke. “Dad wants to talk to you when you’re ready. Not a coach talk.”
Isaline only nodded because her throat was too tight to answer.
She washed her face in the tiny sink, changed into team sweats. Her legs felt heavier than they had after the race.
The small meeting room smelled like stale coffee and old heating vents. Thankfully, someone had left the TV on mute. Olympic highlights cycled through moments that belonged to other people. Matthias turned it off as Isaline slid into the chair across from him.
Outside, the village buzzed with evening routines—dinner rushes, recovery sessions, athletes laughing their way through the pressure. In here, the quiet pressed close.
He didn’t open with video review or line analysis. He simply looked at her, really looked, in a way that made her chest tighten.
“How does your body feel?”
“Fine,” she said automatically. “Knee’s good. No tweaks.”
He nodded. “And your head?”
“Same.”
A beat passed. He let the lie breathe. “And fourth?” His voice stayed level. “How does that feel?”
The careful wall she’d built when facing the media had cracked. She looked down at her hands, which still bore faint indentations from pole grips.
“Like I did everything but win.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Understandable.”
The simplicity of it landed hard. No softening, no false comfort. Just acknowledgment of wanting a win and not getting it.
He leaned back, fingers laced together, gaze distant in a way she recognized from childhood. It was the expression he wore when replaying old races in his mind.
“I won Olympic gold,” he said quietly. “People remember that. What they don’t see are the races I buried. The ones where I skied my best and still lost. The ones where I played it safe, missed a podium, and spent the flight home hating myself for not trusting the race I wanted.”
Isaline blinked. He never talked about those races. Never admitted doubt.
He continued. “I spent years thinking the only version of myself worth anything was the one holding hardware. Imissed entire seasons of joy because I couldn’t see past results. Teammates became competitors. Training became a burden. I loved skiing, and somehow I made it feel like punishment.”
His eyes refocused, landing on her with an intensity that was pure vulnerability.
“The arena isn’t just the podium, Isaline. It’s the start gate. It’s the choice to step in again when your body’s been broken, when you’ve been bumped off the board, when every logical reason says to quit. The world celebrates medals. But what changes you—what makes you—is showing up in the arena when the world is stacked against you.”
Isaline forced words past the lump in her throat. “I wanted a medal so badly, Dad.”
“I know.” His voice softened without losing its steel. “And that wanting doesn’t make you weak. It makes you brave. But if you let one number, whether that be fourth, tenth, or first, decide whether you’re worthy of being here, you’ll never enjoy a single second of this.”