Page 8 of Love Worth Gold

More reporters swarmed before Isaline could fully click out of her bindings. Microphones jabbed toward her face while cameras pressed close enough that she could see her own reflection in their lenses—flushed, grinning, victorious. She answered in smooth, practiced phrases: grateful for the team, proud of the work, focused on execution. The words came easily because they were true, even if they only told half the story.

Behind the glare of lights, Matthias was standing with his arms crossed and tears filling his eyes. Reto was bouncing on his toes nearby and still punching the air like a kid who’d just watched his favorite team score. Their relief was palpable, thick enough to taste. This win wasn’t just hers. It was theirs too—proof that all the comebacks, all the physiotherapy sessions, all the mornings when her knee had screamed and her heart had begged her to quit, had been worth it.

A journalist asked about the pressure. Another asked about her father’s legacy. She deflected both with warmth, never letting the cracks show. Inside, her chest felt too smallto hold everything that was fighting for space: joy, vindication, exhaustion, and the stubborn ache left by Blaire’s dining hall indifference.

When the first rush of interviews thinned, Blaire approached. Her face was composed as her gloved hand extended in the universal gesture of sportsmanship. Up close, the control in Blaire’s expression was flawless—no anger, no warmth, just neutral professionalism.

“Enjoy it, Senn.” Blaire’s voice was steady. “My place is usually on top, in case you forgot.”

The corner of Isaline’s mouth twitched. She shook Blaire’s hand, the same hand that had mapped her body hours earlier and felt the firm pressure of her grip.

“I had a good coach.” Isaline nodded toward Matthias, then let her gaze settle back on Blaire. “And a very motivating training partner last night.”

The insinuation hung in the cold air between them. For half a breath, brightness flickered in Blaire’s ice-blue eyes. Maybe it was surprise, or possibly irritation, before her expression shuttered. She stepped back, nodded once, and walked away without another word.

Isaline watched her go. The sting was deep and sharp. She forced herself to turn back toward the cameras and smile like the win was enough.

On the podium, the Swiss flag rippled behind her as she stood on the top step. Blaire took her spot with her posture perfect and a half-smile on her face. Cameras flashed in bursts of white light. She held a crystal trophy in hand, heavy and real and hers. From the outside, it was everything she’d fought for: the Swiss darling on top in her own backyard, the American legend still close, still dangerous… but in second place.

In her heart, the moment felt twisted. She was elated—this result all but cemented her Olympic spot—but Blaire’s distanceclanged against the high like a wrong note in a perfect song. It wasn’t that Isaline had expected declarations of love or promises of a relationship. She’d just thought the woman who had come apart against her mouth, who had gasped her name in the dark, might show one twinkle more of recognition.

That night, alone in her room, Isaline set the trophy on the nightstand. It gleamed under the lamp, proof of what she could do when she let herself want something enough to risk everything. Her phone buzzed with a notification. An Olympic Federation email confirmed what she’d already known: her Olympic nomination was official.

She looked at the screen, then at the trophy, then out the window.

For a long moment, it was like her entire life unspooled there in the yellowed hotel paint: early mornings in empty gyms, night flights in economy with her knees jammed against the seat in front of her, the stink of wax rooms and cheap coffee, the physio tables where she’d gritted her teeth through rehab while other women raced. Two shattered qualifying dreams, two seasons spent watching opening ceremonies from her dad’s sofa with her father’s old Olympic poster looming over the television. Fundraisers where she’d smiled and poured wine for people who thought “skiing” sounded like a hobby, not a life. All those years of visualizing the gate drops, the flags, the ringed logo at the bottom of the screen—and now, finally, the first part was real. She was going. The gold medal was still a fantasy, but the door to that world had opened, and her name was on the list.

Blaire Hollis could ignore what had happened between them all she wanted. The Olympic Games were coming. In the Olympic Village, on that mountain, there would be nowhere left to run from what they’d started.

Chapter Five

Three Months Later

The chartered plane smelled like recycled air, protein bars, and nervous energy. Team USA’s alpine women sprawled across rows of seats, most of them wearing matching navy Nike joggers with the Olympic rings embroidered just above the left hip and white half-zip pullovers stamped with their names across the shoulders. Blaire sat near the front in the same gear. Her pullover sleeves were pushed to her elbows, and her compression socks were visible where her ankles crossed on the footrest she’d fashioned from her duffel.

Around her, voices rose and fell. Two younger racers debated which other events to watch live. Someone else passed around a phone showing opening ceremony footage from four years ago. The energy felt familiar and foreign at the same time. She’d lived this exact moment three times before, but never knowing it was the last.

She pulled her headphones tighter and closed her eyes. The playlist was one she’d built years ago: instrumental, rhythmic, designed to keep her mind from wandering where it shouldn’t. It didn’t work. What had happened in St. Moritz continued to surface like a splinter she couldn’t dig out.

She’d watched the race replay once this morning on the seat-back screen. Her line through the middle section had been textbook, and her final pitch had been nearly perfect. Nearly. Isaline’s had been hungrier. The Swiss woman had committed to risk where Blaire had measured it, and the clock had rewarded the younger woman for it.

Second place. By hundredths.

Blaire’s jaw tightened. She could still see Isaline standing on the top step of the podium, grinning like she’d stolen the last cupcake with cream cheese frosting. The worst part was knowing exactly what the Swiss skier had stolen and from where. It had nothing to do with baked goods or race times.

The memory of Isaline’s breath against her throat, the arch of her back, the way she’d laughed at her own mangled English. Blaire shoved it all into the same mental locker where she kept old injuries and bad press. Fuel. Not feelings.

She stretched her calves during descent, methodical and silent while others took selfies. At the team’s private baggage claim hall, she grabbed her skis before anyone could offer to help. Outside, the transfer bus idled under grey skies, and their breath fogged in the Idaho cold.

For Blaire, this wasn’t just another host site; her parents’ house sat a short drive down the road, and she’d learned to ski on these slopes before she could even spell Sun Valley.

When the team bus rolled from the airport and through the alpine village security gate in Sun Valley, Blaire pressed her forehead to the window. Flags from every competing nation snapped in the wind. Temporary banners declared inspiration in multiple languages. Cameras tracked their arrival.

She quietly made herself simple promises: walk in, do the work, walk out with gold. Don’t live anyone else’s narrative. You’re not here for anyone else’s ending.

The bus door hissed open. Blaire stood, pulled her bag over her shoulder, and stepped into her final Olympics like she owned it.

The Team USA housing block sat across from the central plaza. It was a narrow four-story structure wrapped in temporary cladding and red-white-blue bunting. Inside, the hallways smelled of new carpet and industrial cleaner. Voices echoed off bare walls—teammates claiming beds, someoneblasting music two doors down, a physio unpacking rollers and resistance bands in the common area.