Page 3 of Love Worth Gold
Reto’s smile softened, and his voice dropped so only she could hear. “All we care about is that you cross the finish line… healthy and in one piece.”
Their faith was a tangible thing, a weight she carried with gratitude. Her dad and brother had seen her through the long,dark months of rehab, twice. For them, a successful race wasn’t just about the podium; it was about her standing on her own two feet at the bottom. She felt the pressure settle in her bones as a well-known companion. She wanted this for them, but she needed it for herself.
She looked at her father. “I’ll ski smart, Dad. I promise.”
Then she turned to Reto, a small smile playing on her lips. “And I’ll still ski hard. And probably a little reckless, because it’s in my DNA.”
Matthias gave a single, slow nod of acceptance. Reto squeezed her shoulder, his belief a solid anchor in the biting wind.
~~
Isaline sat across from the Swiss team director. There was a tablet between them displaying the cold, hard math of Olympic selection. Lines of data and columns of World Cup points shown on the screen. Her name was highlighted in green, sitting just inside the qualification bubble. Below her, two other Swiss names hovered in yellow, close enough to feel their breath on her neck. A bad weekend from her, and a great one from them would mean the colors could flip.
A muted television in the corner of the office flashed from a car commercial to a sports news segment. Isaline’s face filled the screen. It was a shot from her last podium finish, with her smile bright and unguarded in the trophy area. The chyron underneath read:Senn’s Daughter: Swiss Speed’s New Hope?
The broadcast cut to grainy footage from decades ago: a man in a red speed suit, Matthias, crossing a finish line with his arms thrown wide. And then a snapshot of a gold medal hanging around his neck. The story was already written for her. The media had already declared it her legacy and destiny. A pre-packaged narrative that felt both useful and confining. Fatherand daughter both take gold. It was the relentless narrative that never disappeared.
The attention meant the Federation had to take her seriously. But a fierce part of her rebelled against the fame. She didn’t want to be Matthias’s daughter at the Olympic Games. She wanted to be Isaline Senn, getting there through her own grit, discipline, and hard work.
She closed the tablet, the soft click punctuating the thought. St. Moritz would either cement her place on the Olympic team or make everything in her world complicated again.
~~
The air in the Alpenblick Grand Hotel was thick with the nervous energy of a tour stop. It was a current of mixed languages, the soft scrape of equipment bags on stone floors, and the buzz of a hundred quiet conversations. Isaline felt the shift immediately. Cameras from the accredited press pool lingered on the Swiss team. Their lenses quickly found her face.
The receptionist behind the grand oak desk offered a bright smile. “Welcome, Miss Senn. It is an honor. Your father will be pleased with the conditions once this wind settles.”
A flat screen mounted above the fireplace silently cycled through a race promo. There was her own face, smiling from a podium, followed by a dramatic shot of the St. Moritz course.The Swiss darling. The new hope. The narrative followed her everywhere.
Then she saw her.
Across the lobby, Blaire Hollis stood near the Team USA check-in. She was a study in contained force; her posture relaxed yet stone cold. There were no wasted emotions from her. She listened to one of her staff with her head tilted. Isaline had spent a decade watching Blaire’s race footage, memorizing the wayshe held her line through compressions that made other skiers flinch. Seeing her in the flesh still sent a private jolt through her system. It was the same electric current she’d felt last season in the Kvitfjell finish area, where they shared a brief, charged moment of eye contact and pleasantries.
Blaire was the undisputed standard on the hill. Off it, she was exactly Isaline’s type: confident, controlled, and with a reputation for leaving before the sun came up. She was a challenge on every level. Isaline felt a relentless competitive instinct sharpen, but it was aimed at something other than the clock.
“Isaline, here is your key.” A teammate nudged her arm, holding out a small keycard wallet.
She took it, but her attention was still fixed across the lobby. Blaire turned and moved toward the elevators without a backward glance. The moment was over. But the reminder settled deep in Isaline’s bones that for the next forty-eight hours, the American legend was in the same building.
~~
The wind hit her first. A sharp, physical force that snapped the sponsor banners and sent a plume of snow skittering across the packed ice of the start area. Isaline flexed her hands in her gloves as the training current hummed through her while she ran the course in her mind. The long glide out of the gate, the compression before the Eagle’s Nest, the final pitch into the finish. Her mind played every turn, every risk.
Then came the crackle over the PA system. The voice of a FIS official, first in German, then English, the words flattened by the wind. “…due to high winds at the summit, the morning training run is cancelled. Further updates at noon.”
A collective groan moved through the crowd of athletes. A German skier slammed her pole into the snow. An Austrianswore under her breath. Isaline felt the coiled energy in her gut go slack. All that preparation, all that mental fire, suddenly had nowhere to go.
Back at the Alpenblick Grand, the lobby had turned the entire day into a holding pen for the restless. Athletes in team jackets sprawled on the sofas, scrolling endlessly through their phones. The quiet rhythm of stationary bikes drifted from the direction of the gym. The structured, purposeful world of a race weekend had dissolved into a long, empty day.
For Isaline, it became an ambush. A reporter from a Swiss paper cornered her by the elevators. His questions were a repetitive cocktail of legacy and expectation.
“Isaline, another strong showing is expected of you. Does carrying the Senn name add pressure here at St. Moritz?”
She gave him the warm, practiced smile she had perfected over the season. “My father taught me to focus on the things I can control. The name is history. The race is now.”
He nodded, satisfied. Before he could ask another question, a television crew from Eurosport angled a camera in her direction. Her poise held, but a tight band began to form across her shoulders. Each question and each reference to her father felt like another layer of varnish that hardened the public shell around her. This wasn’t a sincere story from her. This was performance.
She needed to breathe air that didn’t taste of a headline.