Page 9 of Love Worth Gold

Blaire’s room was on the third floor, end of the hall. She pushed the door open and took inventory in seconds: twin bed, thin mattress, single window overlooking the plaza, desk barely wide enough for a computer, closet that might fit half her gear if she stacked it right. The walls were thin enough that she could hear footsteps in the hallway and laughter bleeding through from the neighboring room.

She dropped her duffel on the floor and her ski bag against the wall. No wasted motion. She folded her compression gear into the top dresser drawer and hung her race suit in the closet with extra base layers beneath it. Helmet, goggles, and gloves were lined up on the desk like surgical instruments. Her phone was plugged in, set to airplane mode, screen blank.

The room was small, functional, and designed for sleep and nothing else. Perfect.

She stretched her hamstrings against the bedframe, rolling tension out of her calves. Through the window, she watched athletes drift across the plaza in mismatched national kits—Germans in black and gold, Austrians in red, a cluster of Italians laughing near the big screen. Cameras tracked the movement like wild-game cameras.

This was the part she’d forgotten between cycles: how the village forced proximity. There was no private hotel room to retreat to, no rental car to escape in. Just flags, faces, and the constant energy of performance anxiety dressed up as celebration.

She sat on the edge of the bed and laced her fingers behind her neck, letting her spine decompress. Tess had reiterated during the flight:Get settled, hydrate, sleep. We start fresh tomorrow.Past medals don’t matter.

Blaire pulled her phone off the charger and turned airplane mode off long enough to confirm the team schedule. Messages loaded in a flood: her parents, a sponsor check-in, three junior racers she’d helped fund asking for photos.

She toggled through her phone to her contacts.

Isaline Senn.

The contact sat there like a candy bar in front of a chocolate addict. She’d added it in her phone as soon as Isaline had left her room in St. Moritz. At the time, she’d told herself it was professional courtesy. The lie was what she wanted to believe. Months had passed, and she’d never sent a word.

Blaire locked the screen and shoved the phone under her pillow.

Routine. Structure. Focus.

That was all she needed.

Later that evening, Tess gathered the women’s speed squad in the common room. She stood near a whiteboard covered in marker scrawl—training blocks, shuttle times, media windows—while the team settled into folding chairs and a sagging sofa someone had dragged in from another room. Jordy leaned against the wall near the back with her arms crossed and a team-issued hat pulled low.

Tess ran through the schedule with her usual efficiency. Super-G training started in three days, downhill a few days after that. No wasted training, no ego runs, no press ambushes without her approval. When she got to Blaire, her tone shifted just enough that everyone noticed.

“This is the Olympics where you cement it,” Tess said, meeting Blaire’s eyes. “Stack the final medals on top of the pile. Walk out of your career untouchable.”

One of the younger racers, Emma, who’d barely made the team, sat up straighter. “I mean, she’s already pretty untouchable.”

Jordy grunted. “Skis are running smooth. Snow here suits your style. You’ve raced Summit Ridge in person more than most of them have seen it on TV. It’s practically your own backyard.”

Blaire sat with a neutral face, and with her elbows on her knees. The praise slid over her like water off wax.Coronation. That was a word for other people to use—reporters, commentators, the federation suits who wanted their headline moment. To her, this was still a job. Ski as close to perfect as her body allowed, manage pain, manage noise and distractions, get out with two gold medals.

Tess tilted her head. “How do you feel?”

Blaire straightened. “Ready to work. Ready to take what’s mine.”

“Good.” Tess capped the marker and tossed it on the table. “Because the Swiss are here to prove something, the Austrians are stacked, and everyone’s going to treat you like the target.”

Blaire’s mouth curved, just barely. “Let them. I can’t see anything behind me if I’m focused ahead.”

The meeting broke. Emma lingered near the door, clearly working up the nerve to ask something. Blaire stood, stretched her shoulders, and walked past her before the question could land.

Back in her room, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her phone out again. The screen glowed in the dim light as she tapped on contacts.

Isaline Senn.

Tess’s pep talk joined the St. Moritz result in the same mental file labeled focus. She locked the screen and set the phone face down.

Take the gold.

That was all she needed to do.

That night, Blaire walked into the dining hall with Emma trailing behind her. Her tray of food was in hand, even though her appetite was dulled by focus. But forced calories were a necessity. The space was loud and bright, full of team jackets and accents layered over each other like competing soundtracks. She scanned for an open spot and saw the Swiss contingent clustered around one table near the far wall.