Page 99 of About to Fall

And again. Two footed.

And again. Clean, but barely.

The inconsistency was the problem. It wasn't that he couldn't do it—he could, beautifully. It was that he couldn't do it every time, and at this level, every time was the only thing that mattered.

Three in a row for me. Clean, consistent, the flip becoming more natural each time. Meanwhile Nicky was hitting maybe every other attempt, the misses piling up like evidence.

Renaud finally spoke. Just one word, directed at Nicky. “Again.”

It was the tone. Not angry. Not encouraging. Just expectation, stripped of warmth, the coach who had built Olympic medallists demanding the standard he'd set for all of them. The same standard his nephew was currently failing to meet.

Nicky launched into another one. Underrotated.

“Sloppy.”

Clean this time but his landing edge wobbled.

“Commit.”

The third was perfect. Nicky held the landing, steady and sure, and looked toward the boards. Renaud gave a single nod—acknowledgement, not praise—and turned his attention to his clipboard.

I nailed the flip a sixth time and looked over at Nicky. The expression on his face stopped me mid-breath. Pride and fear, all tangled together in those blue eyes. A look that said I'm so proud of you and I'm terrified I can't keep up.

I turned away before my own face gave us both away.

◆◆◆

In the car after practice, he was quiet.

I walked to the rink since it was so close to Cam's. After practice, Nicky would drive us to his place or mine—Cam was in LA wrapping up their next album so we had the apartment to ourselves. On nights at his place, he'd drop me off early enough to walk to the rink on time. On nights at mine, he'd leave first and I'd take an extra leisurely stroll to the rink.

“What's going on in that beautiful head of yours?” I asked, eyes flicking over his face as he focused on the road.

Silence. Then, quietly like he was afraid to speak the words into existence, “What if I'm not ready?”

“You're better than 90% of those skaters on your worst day.”

“The combo is still inconsistent. It's two weeks out and I'm landing it sixty percent of the time and that's not—”

“Shut up.”

He looked at me, startled.

“I mean it. Shut up.” I said it gently. “You're the reigning national champion. You have the highest technical base score of any Canadian skater right now. You landed six clean combos today.”

“Six out of ten.”

“Six out of ten two weeks out is fine. Your body knows this jump, Nicky. You've been landing it since you were a teenager. Whatever your hiatus shook loose, it didn't take your quads. Your brain just hasn't caught up yet.”

“What if it doesn't catch up in time?”

“It will.”

“You don't know that.”

“I know you. And I know that when it matters, when you're standing at centre ice with everything on the line, you're going to land that jump. Because you're Nicolas fucking Fontaine and you don't know how to do anything halfway.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. Just barely. “That sounds more like you.”