Page 41 of Love Worth Gold

The big screen showed Blaire in the leader’s box, Italy close beside her, flags whipping in the wind like battle standards. She had climbed into that cluster—bronze, for now—but the asterisk in Isaline’s mind screamed louder with every passing second. This wasn’t final. Not yet.

Each racer who launched from the start brought a fresh punch of adrenaline. Splits flickered green against her time through the upper section, then red in the technical middle. One Austrian ran terrifyingly close through mid-course. She was close enough that Isaline stopped breathing entirely as she watched the woman carve the exact aggressive lines that could erase her from the board.

Then the Austrian lost it on the lower pitch. Her skis washed wide, time bleeding out in fractions. The crowd groaned. Isaline’s knees went soft for a second, knowing how easily that could have been her.

Behind her, Matthias and Reto hovered just outside the fence. Not touching, not speaking, but close enough that she could feel the gravity of them pressing against her back like a physical weight.

Another racer finished outside the medals. The board held.

Two bibs left.

Isaline’s fingers tightened on the rail. The announcer’s voice washed over her in waves she couldn’t fully parse—something about the Swiss returning to the downhill podium, something about legacy and redemption. None of it landed. All she could focus on was the screen, the numbers, and the brutal math of hundredths.

The second-to-last racer came down fast and clean, attacking the course with nothing to lose. At the final split, she was only hundredths of a second behind Isaline’s time. The stadium noise swelled.

Then she crossed. Fourth. Just outside medal standing.

One bib remaining.

Isaline’s heart hammered against her ribs. The final starter wasn’t a medal threat on paper—an underdog, skiing late,already out of realistic contention based on the season. But at this speed, on this hill, anything could happen.

Isaline watched the woman drop into the course, willing her skis to hold, her line to stay clean and safe, but just slow enough.

The splits came through. Red. Red again. Red at the bottom.

The racer crossed the line. The number spun, settled, and locked outside the top three.

No more bibs at the start. The board flashed final: USA. Italy. Switzerland.

Isaline’s breath left her in one sharp, disbelieving sound.

Bronze. Olympic bronze. She had won an Olympic medal.

The world around her turned into controlled chaos—officials steering racers, photographers angling for shots, teammates celebrating top-tens. Isaline stood in the middle of it with her helmet dangling from one hand, staring at the board like it might change its mind.

Then Reto hit her. He came from somewhere to her left, wrapping her in a hug so violent it lifted her boots off the snow. “You did it,” her brother said into her shoulder as his voice cracked on the last word. “You actually did it.”

She laughed—half sob, half disbelief—and gripped him back hard enough that her fingers ached. Over his shoulder, she caught a movement in the crowd. Matthias pushed through the cluster of Swiss staff and media. His usual controlled stride had been abandoned for a faster, more urgent pace.

When he reached her, Reto stepped aside.

For a heartbeat, her father just looked at her. Then he pulled her in, both arms tight around her shoulders, holding on in a way he never had after any other race. Not after junior nationals. Not after her first World Cup podium. Not even after St. Moritz, when she was all but assured an Olympic bid.

When he finally leaned back, his eyes were wet. Not red-rimmed from the wind. Not damp at the corners. Actual wet tears tracked down his weathered face in plain view of every camera pointed in their direction.

“I’m so proud of you, baby girl,” he said, voice rough. “Not because of that.” He nodded toward the board. “Because you kept showing up. Because you chose the arena every time it tried to deny you.”

Her throat closed. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He cupped the back of her head briefly, the way he used to when she was small. “Your mother always said you were made of a stronger character than both of us combined,” he murmured. “She said you had more courage in you than your little body could hold. Your mother would be so proud of you. Not for the medal. She would be proud of you standing back up after the hardships and coming back here anyway. I know she’s watching. I feel her every time you leave that start gate.”

The tears she’d been holding back since the finish line spilled over. She wiped at them with the back of her glove, laughing through the mess of it. “I got a medal, Papa.”

“You earned one,” he corrected, then smiled—really smiled, not the tight coach version. “Now go stand on the podium where you belong, Isaline Senn.”

A race official appeared at her elbow with a clipboard in hand, speaking rapid German about podium staging and timing. Matthias squeezed her hands once, composed himself almost—but not quite—and stepped back into the role of coach.

But the wet tracks on his face stayed.