Page 108 of About to Fall

I hopped off the couch and jumped into my best friend's open arms, clinging onto him like a baby koala. His dark curly hair was sticking out from a bright red beanie—a stark contrast against his warm brown skin—and his smile was wide, showing off perfect white teeth. Bash was six feet two inches of Danish Jamaican chaos with the kind of effortless cool that made people turn their heads when he walked into a room.

It had been six months since I'd seen him in person. A record for us.

“You're such a whiny little shit.”

He laughed, thudding my back hard enough to rattle my teeth. “You're welcome. I missed you too. The flight from Calgary got delayed three times because of all the fucking ice.”

“Thank you for coming, Bash.”

“Like I'd miss your Olympic qualifier.” He dumped me back onto my feet and pulled back, holding me at arm's length to give me a once over. Those hazel eyes—more green than brown today—narrowed as he studied my face. “You look different.”

“I changed my hair.”

“Nah.” He squinted. “You’re smiling all weird. It's freaking me out.”

“I’m always happy to see my bestie.” I grabbed his duffel bag before he could pick me apart further. “Come on. We're on the eighth floor. Nicky and I have a two bedroom suite but we're—”

“Whoa, slow the fuck down. Nicky?” Bash stopped walking, grabbing my sleeve to make me stop too. “As in Nicolas Fontaine?”

“It’s a long story.” I sighed. Bash had a tendency to talk too loudly and the lobby was starting to fill up. “Can we do this upstairs?”

◆◆◆

The suite was nice. One of the perks of being a medal contender—the federation sprang for the good rooms. Glossy hardwood floors, marble topped coffee table, two ensuite bathrooms with heated tiles. Velvet chairs in a deep forest green flanking a tufted leather couch the color of caramel. A brass and crystal chandelier hung overhead, catching the late afternoon light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city.

Nicky was out at his afternoon practice slot, which gave me approximately 20 minutes to explain the situation before he got back.

Bash dropped onto the couch and fixed me with a look. The one that said start talking.

“So,” I said. “I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Tell me what?”

“Nicky and I are dating.”

Silence.

Bash blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Hold up.” He held up a hand. “I think that edible I took before the plane ride hasn’t fully worn off. It sounded like you said you and Nicolas Fontaine are dating.”

“That's what I said.”

“Dating. As in, boyfriend and boyfriend. As in, a relationship.”

“Yes.”

“You. Adrian Zhao. The guy who once told me—and I'm quoting—that relationships were 'a scam invented by greeting card companies and divorce lawyers.' That Adrian Zhao.”

“People change.”

“Since when?!”

“Since Nicky, apparently.”

Bash stared at me for a long moment. Then he stood up, walked to the minibar, pulled out a tiny bottle of whisky, and downed it in one go.

“I've known you since we were fourteen,” he said slowly. “I've seen you hook up, have one night stands, even that weird situationship with the guy in Japan. 'I don't do feelings, Bash' and 'commitment is for people who lack imagination, Bash.' And now you're telling me you have a boyfriend?”