Page 35 of Love Worth Gold
Matthias ran through practical details—where the course was breaking down, what needed adjusting in their own approach. His voice stayed level, but even in his cadence there was a hint of that sober recognition: if someone as precise as Blaire Hollis could blow up like that, the margin for error was razor thin.
“The compression’s eating people who press early,” he said, tapping the tablet. “Have patience through the blind section. Let it come to you.”
Isaline nodded, answered their questions, and made the right sounds of agreement. But the image of Blaire disappearing into the fence continued replaying in the back of her mind. The earlier fourth place in Super-G, her father’s arena speech, and today’s crash braided into one tight knot inside her chest.
She wasn’t distracted in the way Reto had warned her about before the Super-G. She was frightened in a way she didn’t want to admit—less of losing a medal, more of losing the chance to even stand in a start gate again. She trembled at the thought of becoming another name called over the radio with a long pause held with fear of injury afterward.
When Matthias told her to get ready for her timed training run, she nodded and tightened her boots with disciplined focus. She silently promised herself she would not be the next racer carried off this mountain.
Her bib number was called ten minutes later. She clicked in, tapped her poles against her boots, and stared down the mountain. Everything felt sharper now—the cold, the gradient, the knowledge that at this speed, control was always one fraction away from catastrophe.
At the start, Isaline clicked into her downhill skis. The long boards felt heavier than usual. She took a breath, set her poles, and pushed out when the timer cleared. The first gates went by in a blur of muscle memory. She hit her marks, stayed in a clean tuck, and did exactly what she and Matthias had agreed on during inspection.
Except that everywhere the hill whispered,you could push here, she eased back just a fraction. In the compression that had thrown Blaire, she gave the terrain more respect than she would have yesterday, letting the skis run but pulling her center of mass slightly back. It kept her safe, but it cost her time.
The middle section came fast. She managed the blind roll cleanly, absorbed the next pitch without drama, and held thetuck through terrain that had eaten two other racers earlier in the week. Technically, everything looked solid. Practically, she knew she was leaving hundredths on the table with every conservative choice.
At the bottom, the clock confirmed what her body already knew: her training time was fine. Respectable. Not remotely dangerous to the top of the board. She skied into the Swiss pen and tried to pretend she didn’t care, that saving the risk for race day was part of the plan.
Blaire was standing off to one side near the USA tent. Her helmet was off, and her hair was slightly mussed. She kept her posture stiff but upright. Bruised clearly, but not in a sled. That visual grounded Isaline even as her own legs still vibrated with leftover adrenaline.
Reto handed her water without meeting her eyes. A tech took her skis to check the edges. The usual post-run routine unfolded around her while she stood there feeling like she’d just lied to everyone, including herself.
Matthias met her with a nod, then a look that told her he’d seen everything she hadn’t said out loud. He didn’t pull her aside immediately—there were still logistics, other racers coming through, cameras scanning for reactions. But his expression stayed on her like a question she’d have to answer, eventually.
She drank the water slowly, willing her pulse to settle, trying to convince herself that skiing smart was the same as skiing well. She scoffed at the lie her brain was trying to get her to believe.
Around them, other teams reviewed splits and debated wax choices. Someone laughed. A coach shouted corrections in Italian. The mountain carried on, indifferent to whether Blaire was okay or if Isaline had skied from courage or caution.
Isaline caught herself looking across the finish area toward where Blaire had disappeared into the USA team tent. The imageof her hitting the fence replayed one more time, sharp and unwanted.
Chapter Fifteen
Inside the team tent, Tess and Jordy waited in a silence that hit harder than any lecture ever could. Blaire peeled off her helmet and ran a hand through sweat-damp hair. Her ribs ached where the fence had caught her, and her left shoulder throbbed with the promise of a spectacular bruise by morning.
“Bad read,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Wrong attack. That’s what training’s for.”
Jordy handed her water without meeting her eyes. A younger teammate hovered near the edge of the tent, clearly uncertain whether to offer sympathy or stay invisible.
Tess stood in front of her with arms crossed and jaw set like wet cement.
“That snow must be jealous of my Super-G medal,” Blaire joked, forcing a weak grin.
No one laughed.
Tess stepped closer. “We need to talk. Now.”
The tent cleared fast. Jordy ushered the others out with a look that said, give them space. Within seconds, it was just the two of them, surrounded by gear and a look from Tess that could have melted snow.
“It was one mistake,” Blaire started.
“It wasn’t.” Tess’s voice stayed level, but the edge underneath cut clean. “This isn’t about one bad attack, and we both know it.”
Blaire opened her mouth to argue, but Tess raised a hand.
“I’ve watched you since St. Moritz. The extra tension. The way you’re wired so tight that you’re vibrating. The way you skied today was like you were trying to outrun a ghost instead of race.”
“I’m focused on—”