Page 33 of Love Worth Gold
Isaline’s fingers slipped under the hem of Blaire’s shirt. Her nails scraped lightly against her taut stomach, and Blaire’s knees nearly buckled.Downhills at eighty mph hadn’t rattled her this hard. Apparently, the real danger to her knees was a Swiss skier under her shirt with the slow drag of those fingers against bare skin.
A distant shout from another building cut through the haze. They broke apart in stages—one last kiss, then another, foreheads pressed together as they struggled to catch their breath.
“This is insane,” Blaire whispered.
Isaline’s hands were still fisted in Blaire’s hair. “Ten out of ten, very bad idea.My responsible side is crying in the corner.”
Blaire let a quiet laugh slip from her lips. They locked eyes in the dim light as the air between them crackled with everything they’d just ignited and couldn’t finish here.
Blaire forced herself to step back. Her hands shook as she zipped her jacket.
“I should—”
“Yeah.” Isaline’s voice was rough. She straightened away from the wall, adjusting her clothes with unsteady fingers. “Me too. I have a gold to chase.”
They walked back separately, taking different paths. But Blaire’s heart hammered the entire way to her building like she’d just skied a full Olympic run. When she collapsed onto her narrow bed, her body refused to settle.
She’d told herself for weeks she could box this up. Keep it contained. Treat it like every other night that had meant nothing.
The lie tasted bitter now, like maybe she had swallowed a Sour Patch candy.
~~
Blaire attacked her morning routine with an almost aggressive efficiency. Gym at 5:45 a.m. instead of her standard 6:15 a.m. Bike intervals harder than necessary, pushing resistance until her quads screamed. She stretched with exaggerated focus, counting each rep like it mattered more than oxygen.
To anyone watching, she looked like an athlete doubling down after a win. Not someone trying to scrub the feel of another woman’s hands from her skin.
At breakfast, Tess watched her over a coffee mug with eyes narrowed just enough to signal she saw the extra edge. Jordydropped a plate of eggs in front of her without comment, but her expression said you’re wound too tight.
Younger teammates joked about the downhill training being just a rehearsal before the real thing.
Blaire corrected them without smiling. “Training counts. Nets don’t care if the clock’s on or not.”
The table went quiet. Someone mumbled an apology that she didn’t acknowledge.
She didn’t look at the Swiss table, even though she could feel Isaline’s presence like static electricity along her spine. Every laugh that drifted from that direction made her jaw tighten. She focused on protein intake and hydration timing as if they were the only variables that mattered.
On the shuttle to the training venue, she claimed a window seat and shoved her headphones in before anyone could sit beside her. Her phone screen glowed with video from yesterday’s Super-G—splits, line choices, the precision of her winning run.
She replayed it three times and absorbed nothing. Her mind kept flickering to the press of Isaline’s body against the wall, the way her breath had hitched when Blaire’s hands found bare skin, the taste of her mouth that no amount of morning coffee could erase.
Focus. She forced her attention back to the screen. First gate. Compression. Final pitch.
The memory of Isaline’s fingers slipping under her shirt pushed through anyway.
Blaire gritted her teeth and rewound the video again. The hill didn’t care who she’d kissed. The course wouldn’t forgive distraction. She’d spent twenty years mastering the art of compartmentalization—feelings in one box, performance in another, never letting them touch.
That angle had always worked before.
As the shuttle pulled into the venue, she tucked her phone away and stared out at the mountain. Olympic rings flanked the start house. Cameras lined the course. This was what mattered. This was why she was here.
She pulled her game face on like armor and stepped off the bus with one thought locked tight… the hill didn’t care who she wanted to make love to until the sun came up. Only her race mattered.
She was determined to prove that, even if every cell in her body was screaming otherwise.
At the top, Blaire clicked into her downhill skis and flexed into the bindings. The familiar weight settled under her boots—longer, faster, built for violence and precision in equal measure. Around her, other racers jogged in place and shook out tight muscles. Radios crackled with updates from coaches scattered along the course.
Tess appeared at her shoulder with last-minute notes. “Surface is holding. Watch the compression at kilometer one-point-eight. A couple of racers got late coming out of that spot. Remember, this is training, not the real thing. You don’t have to prove yourself here.”