Page 30 of Love Worth Gold

Fourth in the Super-G belonged to yesterday. Tomorrow’s training run belonged to her.

She made a quiet promise to the empty room: she would ski the downhill for the joy of being fast, for the honor of standing in that start gate, for every morning she’d dragged herself back onto snow when quitting would have been easier.

And if a medal came with it? She’d take it. But even if it didn’t, she would still be the woman who showed up.

Isaline was halfway to the outlet, phone cord in hand, when the screen lit up one more time. The contact name she had created stopped her cold.Goldilocks.

She sat on the edge of the bed, pulse kicking up before she even opened the message.

Fourth is brutal. I know. You skied great today—better than you’re probably giving yourself credit for. That compression ate everyone but you.

Isaline blinked at the words, reading them twice to make sure she hadn’t imagined the warmth underneath. This wasn’t the polished, media-trained Blaire who’d barely looked at her at breakfast. This was something closer to the woman who’d kissed her in the dark near the trees, the one who’d texted because she cared.

The message continued.

Downhill’s yours if you want it. Just save a little speed for me so I have someone worth chasing.

A laugh broke out of her before she could stop it—half disbelief, half relief. The tease landed exactly where it needed to: not diminishing the sting of fourth, but refusing to let it be the final word.

Her thumbs moved before overthinking could stop them.I’m not going to forget you bumped me right out of a bronze, Hollis.

She paused, then added,I’m not done yet. You’ve made me hungry for more.

The reply came fast.Good. I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.

Isaline’s throat was tight in a way that had nothing to do with losing. Blaire had just handed her something more valuable than sympathy. Respect. The kind that came from someone who’d stood in fourth herself once, who understood that the number didn’t erase the heart it took to try.

She set the phone down gently, like it might break if handled wrong. She let herself sit with the strange cocktail of emotions flooding her chest. The loss still ached. Her father’s words vibrated underneath everything. And now this—Blaire reaching across the gap between gold and fourth to say I see you.

Outside, the village carried on. Someone yelled down the hallway. A shuttle horn echoed from the plaza.

Isaline lay back on the narrow bed with her arms folded behind her head, and let her mind settle. The downhill still terrified her—the speed, the stakes, the knowledge that her body had betrayed her before on courses like this. But it also thrilled her in a way nothing else did.

And somewhere between her father’s reminder that the arena was the start gate and Blaire’s quiet kindness, she foundthe thread she’d been looking for. She was here. Actually, here. Not watching from home with hardware in her leg and regret in her chest, but in the Olympic Village with one more race to ski.

Fourth hurt. But it didn’t define her.

She closed her eyes, Blaire’s last message glowing behind her eyelids. She fell asleep thinking not about what she’d lost today, but about the wild, improbable fact that she was going to get to step into that start gate one more time and fly.

Chapter Thirteen

Blaire opened her eyes to the Super-G medal sitting on her nightstand staring back at her like she owed it an explanation.

Olympic gold. Perfect race with textbook execution. It was everything she’d trained for two decades to claim.

She rolled onto her side, staring at the medal until her vision blurred. The raw ache that had settled under her ribs the moment Isaline’s name dropped to fourth hadn’t shifted overnight. If anything, it had burrowed deeper.

At breakfast, teammates surrounded her with congratulations that felt too loud. Younger racers asked to see the medal. With pride written across her face, Tess squeezed her shoulder in passing. Jordy raised her coffee mug in silent salute from across the table.

Blaire accepted it all with her practiced smile, the one that photographed well and gave nothing away.

Across the room, the Swiss table buzzed with energy. She didn’t let herself stare, but her peripheral vision tracked movement until it snagged on Isaline’s profile. Her hair was pulled back tight, and her team jacket was zipped high around her neck. She focused on her tray as if the oatmeal required her full attention.

Fourth place sat between them louder than any crowd.

Blaire finished her eggs and left before anyone could suggest a photo.

Physical therapy came next. Routine check, standard questions about soreness and sleep. She answered on autopilot while the therapist worked the knots out of her calves. Through the window, she watched athletes filter toward the gym, the shuttle stop, and the plaza. They were normal Olympic rhythmsthat felt foreign now that she’d taken what she came for and still felt wrong.