Page 7 of Love Worth Gold
“You know where the risks live. Take the ones you’ve earned. Leave the ones that belong to rookies.”
She nodded as the words locked into place. Blaire had now finished her own inspection and warmup. For a beat, they stood almost shoulder to shoulder with nothing but a thin strip of packed snow and a thick, invisible wall between them.
As she walked by, Blaire caught her eye and gave a cool nod. “Safe run.” It was the standard blessing, a phrase exchanged a thousand times in start zones, scrubbed free of any personal meaning.
The echo of the night before—the heat of Blaire’s skin, the sound of her unguarded laugh in the dark—surfaced for a half-second before Isaline packed it down. She let a small, genuine smile touch her lips.
“You too.” The tone was even, a perfect match for Blaire’s own professional calm. Inside, her mind added a sharp footnote.Safe isn’t the same as slow.
Isaline swung her skis over her shoulder and moved toward the start house. Her pulse was a sure, steady drumbeat. She was done watching others go to the Olympic Games. That spot was hers, and she was ready to claim it.
Blaire was already there and clipped into her skis. Her goggles were down, and every line of her body was honed to a single point. Two racers separated them on the start list—close enough to feel like fate, not coincidence.
The starter called Blaire to the gate, and she edged her skis up to the start wand—the narrow metal bar that held every racer back until the clock said go. She slid forward with her poles set. “Racer in the gate.” The sharp beep sequence began. On the final tone, the Olympian exploded out, vanishing down the fall line in a spray of crystals and speed.
Isaline didn’t see the run; she only heard it with the shift in crowd noise, the low rumble when a crowd favorite was flying. When she stole a glance at the board, HOLLIS flashed to the top in glowing green. The Olympian managed a brutal, beautifultime that shoved the field down a line. Blaire was in first. Of course she was.
Two more racers. Two more chances for doubt. Isaline rolled her shoulders back and forced her focus into the here, the now, the home course she knew like her own hand.
She listened as the next two racers went down the hill. Each time, the crowd swelled in a roar and then settled while the board blinked and left HOLLIS still burning green at the top.
When the starter finally called Isaline’s number, memories of splintered bone, torn ligament, and two stolen Olympic chances slammed into her. For a split second, her mind raced with all the ways this could end on her back instead of on her feet. She quickly drove the heart-wrenching thoughts down into the tips of her skis and stepped to the wand.
The beeps started their merciless countdown. Four. Three. Two. One. Her poles dug in, her shoulders stacked over the tips, and her breath locked tight in her chest. On the final drawn out beep, she sprang out of the start like she’d been shot from a cannon. The world dropped away into steep white. The first turn came at her like a wall. Her edges bit, chattered, and then held. Wind clawed at her suit. The gates rushed up in a red-blue blur. Every brush against her arms was a sharp reminder: stay on your feet or spend four more years watching because someone else slid into your place.
Midcourse, the snow turned mean. It was polished hard into ice by thirty racers before her. The next pitch rolled over steeper than she remembered from inspection. She hit the transition a heartbeat late, and her skis skated sideways. It was a tiny skid that flashed her a memory of bone snapping and sky flipping. Her stomach lurched, but her legs did what they’d been trained to do: pressure, angle, trust. The edges caught again, screaming over the icy surface. She let the fear burn itself out in her quads and drove harder. Every gate she cleared was anotherfist in the face of all the times her body had tried to take this away from her.
Isaline’s skis vibrated against the packed snow as she pushed through the final gate. Her body folded into a tuck so tight her quads screamed. The finish line streaked toward her. She held the position until the last possible beat, then straightened as the timing beam caught her.
The crowd noise reached her first. It was a roar that felt bigger than the usual polite applause. Then the board flickered as digits and letters assembled themselves into a verdict.
SENN flashed green at the top.
Below it, HOLLIS sat in second.
The margin was small—hundredths of a second—but in downhill, hundredths were more like continents apart.
Isaline stopped hard, snow spraying from her edges. Her chest heaved as she stared at the board, waiting for it to shift, to correct itself, to admit a mistake. It didn’t. Her name stayed where it was, stubborn, bold and green, and impossibly real.
A grin cracked her composure wide open.
She ripped her goggles off and blinked against the sudden brightness. The Swiss coaching staff erupted from the fence line. Matthias stood motionless with his face stretched in a wide grin. Her brother was already halfway toward her with his fists in the air. The cameras swarmed and microphones thrust forward with voices overlapping in German and English.
“Isaline, how does it feel?”
“Did you know you had the best time?”
“What does this mean for your Olympic chances?”
She couldn’t answer yet because her breath wouldn’t cooperate. The adrenaline sang through her veins like an opera singer. It was the same fire that had carried her through the compression and into the final pitch when her legs had wanted to quit. She’d skied the run Matthias had drawn out for her,perfect and committed. But she’d also skied with her own inner confidence that had nothing to do with her father’s legacy.
Isaline glanced toward the leader’s area. Blaire had already vacated the chair, standing off to the side with Tess and Jordy. Her posture was composed, and her face was neutral. She was the model of professional grace in defeat. But Isaline caught the quick flick of Blaire’s eyes toward the board and the tightness around her mouth that hadn’t been there a minute ago.
Their gazes locked for half a second. There was no warmth. And clearly, no acknowledgment of the night that still clung to Isaline’s skin like a deep purple bruise. Just the cold, hard facts of the result between them.
Isaline let her grin spread wide and fierce. She turned back to the cameras and finally found her breath.
“It feels very, very good,” she said with her soft accent.