Page 48 of Love Worth Gold
Blaire’s mouth dropped open as she looked down at the phone that she held loosely in her hand.
“To rest,” Isaline continued, ticking off the reasons that were only half the truth. “To spend some more time in America. To figure out what my training looks like without my father breathing down my neck. And to see if this… us… feels the same when there aren’t competing medals on the line.”
The last of Blaire’s practiced composure cracked. She took Isaline’s phone and looked at the confirmation screen, letting the numbers and dates etch themselves into her mind like a start list she never wanted to forget. She handed the phone backand, instead of stepping away, she caught Isaline’s hand and held it. Her thumb brushed over Isaline’s knuckles as if she were memorizing them.
“I’ll make sure this month is worth staying on this side of an ocean for,”she said, her voice quiet, almost disbelieving.
They headed back toward the American housing block, shoulders brushing. The talk shifted, no longer about start lists or split times, but about the best grocery store near Blaire’s condo and whether Isaline had ever tried proper Idaho potatoes.
They paused at the door, the future pressed tight around them like the cold. Blaire’s eyes dropped to Isaline’s mouth, then back up. She grinned, a slow, wicked curve of her lips that made Isaline’s stomach flip. “Just so you know, as soon as we get to my house, I’m planning to wear you out so thoroughly you’ll think you raced three more downhills. Call it our official training program for making up lost time.”
Isaline’s pulse kicked hard, heat chasing out the cold. Blaire Hollis could have every medal on the planet, but by the end of this month, Isaline fully intended to be the only gold she thought about.
“Then don’t hold back, Hollis,” she said, letting her smile go slow and wicked to match. “I want my first post-Olympic training plan under you to be so demanding that I can’t tell if my legs are shaking from skiing or from you.”
Isaline curled her fingers around Blaire’s jacket, tugging her inside. Let the world remember Blaire as the Sun Valley legend. Tonight, Isaline intended to be the Swiss black widow who ate her alive and left her grateful for the ruin.
Epilogue
Four Years Later
The world returned to St. Moritz, Switzerland for the Olympic Games—Isaline’s home snow—and St. Moritz dressed itself fancy for the occasion. Four years after the last Games, the familiar sweep of the Corviglia mountain wore a new uniform of Olympic blue fencing, finish-line banners, and enormous, interlocking rings that gleamed in the early morning light. The air buzzed with the same race-day energy Isaline had felt her entire life, but this time, it vibrated with the steadying baseline of home.
Isaline slid through her final Super-G inspection, skis whispering on the impeccably groomed snow. At the bottom, she moved into the controlled pandemonium of the coaches’ area and immediately found her target.
Blaire Hollis paced near the timing board with a radio clipped to the collar of a bright red Swiss team jacket. The sight still sent a jolt of fond amusement through Isaline. Even after a full season, Blaire wore the Swiss color like a dare. The Swiss cross on her credential swung against her chest as a constant, delightful contradiction. The television cameras loved seeing the former USA Olympian in Swiss attire. A monitor nearby showed a replay of the pre-race show. With Blaire wrapped in American apparel, the announcer’s voice boomed over footage of their podium four years ago. The fairy tale narrative: the American legend who retired with gold, now in the corner of Switzerland’s own champion, chasing a new victory on Swiss home snow.
Another camera angle found Isaline’s father. Matthias stood near Blaire’s shoulder with his hands on his hips. He acted as if he were a dad there just to watch. Isaline knew better. Shesaw the way Blaire angled the radio for him to hear, the quiet murmur of a last-minute note from him, the small, affirmative nod from Blaire before she turned back to the start list. He insisted to any reporter with a microphone that he was only a “special advisor.”
As Isaline clicked out of her inspection skis and picked up her race pair, she slid past them. “Nervous, coach?” she murmured, just for Blaire.
Blaire stopped pacing and met her eyes as a slow smile pulled at her lips. “Only when you ski that casually through the traverse.” Her gaze moved over Isaline’s suit, her helmet, her skis, with the same intensity she once reserved for her own gear. It was the look of someone who understood exactly what these last Olympic Games meant for the Swiss skier, because she had lived it herself.
Isaline pushed the casual jab aside, and a familiar warmth spread through her chest. “Maybe I just want to make sure my former competition is paying attention.”
Blaire’s smile widened. “I’m always paying attention.” The words were a promise that had nothing to do with skiing.
The Super-G came first. In the start gate, the world narrowed to the countdown in her ears and the line Blaire had helped her draw on the mountain. As the last skier on the list, she pushed out with a silent thank you to her knees for holding on this long and let the years of training take over. The run was a violent, beautiful conversation with the hill. She felt the snow bite, the compression G-force press into her bones, and the sweet, terrifying release of letting the skis run on the final pitch.
She crossed the line, blind and breathless, and for a moment the only sound was the fire in her own lungs. Then the roar of the stadium rushed in, a physical wave of noise. She looked up. Her name hit the top of the board in a flash of green. First place. The camera found her, and she threw her hands up.The emotion was raw as a ragged sound tore out of her throat. On the jumbo screen, she caught a glimpse of Blaire turning away, furiously wiping at her cheeks before composing her face back into a coach’s stoic mask. The sight was more precious than the split time.
Days later, the downhill felt heavier with meaning. She knew in her heart that this was her last race. The broadcast narrative of another Senn capturing gold on home turf had been relentless. Switzerland’s champion, home snow, with an American gold medalist as her coach. Blaire had been quiet that morning, her hands lingering a little longer when she checked Isaline’s buckles, her eyes saying everything her mouth wouldn’t.
When the final countdown began, Isaline thought of every ghost that had chased her to this gate: the loss of her mom, the years of rehab, the metal in her bones, the man who taught her to love this sport, and the woman who taught her how to love a life beyond it. She pushed out of the gate not just to win, but to honor all of it.
The run was a masterpiece of earned instinct. She skied with the fearless precision of someone who knew every inch of hope and heartbreak this mountain held. It was a race built over four years, a thousand training runs, and countless quiet mornings with Blaire mapping out every possibility. When she flew over the final jump and tucked for the finish, she knew she had left nothing on the hill.
The scoreboard confirmed it. Green light. First place. The time gap was obscene.
The world dissolved into noise. Isaline sank to her knees in the finish corral, pressing her face into her gloves as the reality crashed over her. Double gold. At home. Through the blur of her own tears, she saw the big screen find Blaire.
There was no composure this time. Blaire was a beautiful wreck. She was openly sobbing with a face streaked with mascara. Her official composure was forgotten as she clutched at Matthias, who had his arm around her with his own eyes suspiciously wet.
Later, on the podium for the downhill, the weight of two gold medals in her final Olympics felt like an anchor, grounding her. The Swiss anthem swelled, and tens of thousands of voices sang with it, chanting her name between chords. Isaline looked out over the sea of flags and lights. Her gaze found the small figure in the red Swiss jacket standing just outside the media scrum. Blaire was watching with her tear-stained face lit with a pride so fierce it eclipsed the stadium lights. To be loved like that, Isaline thought, felt more like victory than the medal itself.
The medals hung heavy and warm against her chest while the media descended. Microphones and cameras formed a tight, suffocating ring around her. Reporters shouted questions in a chaotic chorus of German and English, all variations on the same theme: what comes next?
“Isaline, double gold on home snow! Are you going to defend your title in four years?”