Page 47 of Love Worth Gold
Chairs scraped back on the wooden floor as they bundled into jackets and scarves. They spilled out into the snowy street as a loud, laughing unit, still talking over each other. The air was frigid, biting at any exposed skin, but the warmth from the restaurant followed them out. In the distance, the Olympic flame pulsed against the dark sky, a steady heartbeat marking the end of one story and, Isaline hoped, the beginning of another.
~~
Later, back in her official team kit, Isaline stood in the sprawling, noisy staging area outside the stadium for the closing ceremonies. Music with a bass line so deep it vibrated through the soles of her boots pulsed around them. A controlled pandemonium of athletes laughed and shouted in a kaleidoscope of languages. Faces were lit by the constant flash of phone cameras capturing the last moments of their shared experience. Isaline adjusted the zipper of her jacket, her knuckles brushing the solid weight of the bronze medal tucked underneath. A nervous energy, so different from the sharp focus of race day, fluttered in her stomach.
Ahead in the throng, she spotted the American delegation, a moving mass of red, white, and blue. Blaire stood near the center of her group, no longer at the front of the pack, no longerthe athlete setting the pace, just one of a hundred others soaking in a final walk. She was another legend just a part of the crowd.
They couldn’t walk together, but it didn’t stop Isaline from tracking her between waving flags and proud shoulders. As if she could feel the attention, Blaire glanced back. Her gaze swept over the crowd until it landed on Isaline. She lifted her chin, a private gesture that sliced through the roaring noise more clearly than any announcer’s voice. It was both an acknowledgment and a promise.
When the signal came for Switzerland to move, the world exploded. Isaline stepped through the stadium tunnel and into sound and light. Fireworks cracked overhead, strobes swept across a sea of faces in the stands, and the roar of the crowd washed over her in a physical wave. She fell into step with her teammates, linking arms with Reto for a moment, his grin wide and unreserved. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild rhythm matching the drums. She was marching in the closing ceremony of her first Olympic Games as a medalist. Two nights ago, she had lain tangled in cheap sheets with the greatest American downhill skier of a generation and talked about a future that felt both impossible and inevitable. The surreality of it all made her feel light-headed.
The finality of the ceremony settled in. This was the punctuation mark, the definitive end. The thought of walking away from this electrified bubble, away from Blaire, left a hollow space in her chest that no medal, no matter its color, could fill.
As the athletes funneled onto the infield, the parade broke apart. The music shifted from a bombastic march to something softer, more nostalgic. Amid the joyful chaos, Isaline found herself standing near a knot of American athletes. They were close enough that the sleeves of their delegations’ jackets brushed. For a stolen second, between a swelling anthem and an Olympic official’s speech, Blaire and Isaline shared a quick look.It held the memory of a hotel room in St. Moritz, the sting of fourth place, the shared glory of the downhill podium, and the terrifying, thrilling question of what came next.
~~
The next forty-eight hours passed in a blurry sequence of logistics.Checkout instructions taped to doors that were already propped open, gear bags piled in the hallways like drifted snow, and a constant, rolling tide of goodbyes. The village emptied with unsettling speed. Isaline went through the mandatory Swiss team debriefs, nodding as coaches talked about “next season’s goals,” while a stone settled deeper in her stomach every time someone mentioned her flight back to Europe. The place that had always felt like the center of her universe now felt empty, haunted by the ghosts of what had been.
She found Matthias in a quiet corner of the nearly deserted athlete lounge, a half-empty coffee kiosk still brewing coffee nearby. She sank into the chair opposite him, wrapping her fingers around a paper cup just to feel something warm. She watched him for a moment, taking in the sag of his shoulders and the weary set of his jaw.
“I’m stepping back,” he said without preamble. “No more full-time travel. I have done my time. It is time for you to leave the nest, Isaline.”
The words came out lighter than she expected, edged with a relief that was all his own.
Isaline’s head tipped up. Before she could form a question, he kept going.
“If you wanted Hollis’s input going forward, on course-setting, on schedules, on how to survive this circus without losing yourself… I would have no objection.” He paused, letting the statement land. “I trust her eye. I trust her character. She would be a great coach for you.” He leaned forward just afraction. “If you want to keep her close, whatever this is turning into, I will not stand in the way.”
The blessing landed like a quiet permission slip she hadn’t realized she was waiting for.
He offered a rare, half-crooked smile. “My only condition is this: if you drive her as crazy as you have driven me for twenty years, you must at least take a gold while doing it.”
Her eyes stung with tears she refused to let fall. She nodded once. The simple motion carried the weight of a thousand unspoken thank-yous.
“I would never aim for anything less, Dad,” she promised, her voice thick. “I’ll make both of you proud. On the hill and off it.”
After the talk with her father, Isaline sat on the edge of her narrow bed for a long time. The laptop on her knees glowed with the cold light of her original flight itinerary. Zurich. The Swiss team charter. The life she’d always been slotted into. Matthias’s words echoed in the room, threading through the quiet of the emptying village:Leave the nest. I trust her character.
Her fingers flew over the trackpad, pulling up the number for the Swiss team administrator. She took a breath and hit the call key.
“Isaline, congratulations again. Everything all right with your travel packet?”
“Everything is fine,” Isaline started, her voice steadier than she felt. “But I need to make a change. I won’t be on the team flight.”
A beat of surprised silence on the other end. “Is something wrong? Are you extending for medical purposes?”
“I’m extending for myself.” Isaline calmly walked through the lie she’d prepared, framing it as a chance to decompress and explore a new off-season training structure in the States. She parried the administrator’s volley of questions about insuranceand camp dates with a resolve that felt brand new. By the time she hung up, a confirmation email pinged in her inbox. A new flight. One month from now, departing from an airport she’d only ever seen on Blaire’s Instagram stories. The choice felt like jumping a blind roll, terrifying and freeing all at once.
Later that evening, she found Blaire walking a slow loop near the hollowed-out plaza. The air had gone soft and quiet; the village’s sharp edges blurred by the lack of crowds. Blaire’s steps were measured, and she had a wistful look in her eyes, a posture Isaline recognized as someone bracing for a goodbye.
They fell into step, breath ghosting in the cold, their conversation circling logistics and departure times. Isaline let her talk, waiting for the right moment. Under a muted floodlight that highlighted the packed snow, she stopped.
“I need to show you something.” She pulled out her phone and opened the screen to her new itinerary and handed it over.
Blaire’s brow furrowed as she scanned the phone. She looked at the date, then the departure city, then back at the date. The frown deepened into confusion before it melted into a huge smile.
“I’m not flying home yet. I’m staying. For a month,” Isaline said with an enormous smile.