Page 6 of Love Worth Gold

There was a soft rustle of the sheets as Isaline stood up too. The duvet pooled around her waist.After discarding the bedding, she pulled on her own clothes with grace as her eyes remained locked on Blaire. At the door, she paused with an expression on her face of pure mischief.

“Get your rest, Hollis,” Isaline’s voice was a playful purr. “You’re going to need the energy to keep up tomorrow.”

“Awfully mouthy for someone who hasn’t even stood on an Olympic podium yet. Win a medal, and then you can start worrying about my stamina. Goodnight, Isaline,” Blaire said, the corner of her mouth twitching before she could stop it.

Chapter Four

Isaline woke alone in her own bed with her thoughts as scrambled as the sheets. A pleasant ache settled deep in her muscles as she replayed the night in sharp flashes: Blaire’s hands mapping her body like she would approach a ski hill. Blaire’s full lips pressing kisses to her inner thigh. Blaire’s control, which Isaline had eagerly surrendered to.

The bed in Blaire’s room had been warm. The goodbye had been anything but. “You should go,” had landed with the impersonal snap of a ski boot clicking into its binding. It was more efficient than it was cruel. Isaline ran her tongue over her teeth. The memory from the previous night twisted like a pretzel in her gut. But the evening’s ending felt more like a challenge than a hurt.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Team messages about the morning pre-race inspection flooded her screen. There was a weather update for the Corviglia course. And then a news link with her face in the race promo. No message from Blaire. Isaline had left her number on the hotel notepad by Blaire’s bed; Blaire simply hadn’t used it.

A satisfied smile crept across her face as she pressed the back of her head into her pillow. She hadn’t gone to Blaire’s room looking for a promise of forever. She had wanted a piece of the legend for some time now, a moment that belonged only to her and the woman who owned the mountain. She got it.

~~

Isaline walked into the chaotic energy of the hotel dining room with her hair still clinging damply to the nape of her neck.She found her brother, Reto, guarding a table near the window. He had a sly grin already playing on his lips.

“Someone looks like they slept well.” His voice was filled with laughter as she sat, the sound a private joke between them. “Must be this crisp mountain air.”

Isaline rolled her eyes and her lips twitched as she stole a corner of toast from his plate. “It was the good physio work yesterday. My hips have never felt so loose.”

She laughed as she watched the way his eyebrows shot up. Before he could retort, their father set a tray on the table. Matthias looking Isaline over was a quiet inventory, the same way he inspected a course for hidden dangers.

“You look wound up and ready to go, kid. That’s a good thing. You will need all of your focus today. Pay attention to every detail. The selectors will treat the result of this race as a big part of the Olympic picture.”

As if on cue, a current of awareness moved through the breakfast crowd. Blaire Hollis had arrived. She moved with her entourage—Tess, Jordy, and a few younger racers—a tight unit of American Olympic success. Blaire’s face was a masterpiece of disguising emotions. Her posture radiated a calm that seemed to absorb the room’s frantic energy.

For a breath, Isaline’s world narrowed to the space between their tables. Blaire’s ice-blue eyes met hers. There was no flicker of memory, no trace of the previous night’s heat. Just a polite, professional acknowledgement. The faintest dip of a chin. Then Blaire turned away. Her attention had been captured by something Tess said, as if Isaline were just another racer in a crowded room.

The coolness hit like an unexpected patch of ice on a snow-free sidewalk. Isaline immediately felt the sting. She had known the rules of Blaire’s game, but feeling the dismissal firsthand was a different animal. A quick flash of hurt ignited, then hercompetitor’s instinct caught the flame. She fed it to the part of her that thrived on being underestimated.

Isaline scooped a spoonful of oatmeal and chewed slowly. A smile curved her mouth. Fine. If Blaire wanted to pretend last night was nothing, Isaline would remind her on the hill that she could still leave a mark.

~~

The wind that had held them hostage for training the day before gave way to a truce with the mountain for race day. On the course, the air was sharp and thin. Isaline slid alongside Matthias as her skis whispered over the groomed snow. They moved over the trail in the slow rhythm of inspection. It was like a dance of athletes memorizing every dip and curve of the track.

Isaline’s dad, in coaching mode, pointed with a ski pole. His voice was mixed with the distant crackle of team radios. “Here you can let it run. Out of the start, it’s a glide. Don’t fight it.”

They stopped above a blind compression. “Here, you simply manage. Stay stacked. No heroics, Isa. You need a solid result, not a highlight crash reel.”

Below them, Blaire Hollis carved a perfect arc with her coach, Tess Kincaid. Even at this crawling pace, Blaire moved with mesmerizing efficiency. Each shift of her weight was a calculation, the product of a thousand runs on a thousand mountains. The memory of that same body, sitting on her face above her in the dark, tightened Isaline’s throat.

She turned away and snapped her focus back to the course. The cold knot in her gut that Blaire’s indifference caused at breakfast finally loosened. It uncoiled into confidence and resolve. Blaire could build walls in a bedroom, but she could not control the space between the gates.

Isaline pushed off as her mind converted the sting of dismissal into a clear set of instructions. Every flare of hurt became a decision. Ski smarter through the traverse. Breathe through the compression. Stay low over the final jump. Ski like she belonged here. Ski like someone who earned her own name, not her dad’s hand-me-down.

Her inspection run was a blur of focused aggression. At the bottom, Isaline glided into the finish area. Her heart raced, and her legs screamed the same overplayed song. She looked up at the empty timing board and envisioned her name flashing onto the screen next to a number. In her imagination, her name settled at the top. The clock was indifferent. The numbers didn’t care who had slept with whom. The cold fact of it steadied her.

It was the typical wild energy of a race day. The sky was a brilliant blue. The snow on the Corviglia course was fast. Isaline saw her name on the official start list, her bib number nestled in the sweet spot—late enough to get information on the early racers, early enough to matter if the sunlight flattened against the snow. Blaire’s name sat in a prime position, as expected.

Reto knelt and tightened the buckles on her boots. The familiar clicks were a steady rhythm against her own heartbeat. He checked her helmet strap with a focused pull, just as he had when she was twelve and terrified at her first junior race.

“You’ve done this run a million times in your head. You’re always a winner, sis. Well, maybe not the two times you wiped out. But that’s not what we are focusing on,” he reminded her.

The joke landed softly, a reminder of the hardships she had clawed back from. Isaline’s mouth quirked into a half-smile. A moment later, Matthias leaned in, his presence a sudden pocket of stillness. His advice was stripped to its bones, like a surgeon’s final instruction.