Page 111 of About to Fall

Nicky tilted his head to look up at me, eyes bright with amusement. “I've noticed.”

“Traitor,” I said, but I was pulling him closer, fingers playing absently with the ends of his still damp hair. I thought about not kissing him in front of Bash for about two seconds before closing the distance. I couldn't resist Nicky. Maybe I never could. His lips moulded against mine like they belonged there, soft and warm, and I felt him smile into the kiss.

When I pulled back, Bash was watching us with an expression I'd never seen on him before. Something past surprise. Past amusement. He looked almost moved, which was deeply unsettling coming from a man whose emotional range usually topped out at stoked.

Tomorrow was the short program. The Olympic team would be decided by Sunday. Everything I'd worked for—every early morning, every sacrifice, every time I'd chosen skating over my father's expectations—came down to the next three days.

But tonight, I had my best friend and my boyfriend in the same room, and they were already ganging up on me, and despite Bash's warnings still hanging in the air, I couldn't remember the last time I'd been this happy.

I was going to make that Olympic team. I was going to prove that Adrian Zhao was more than the wayward son of a real estate empire. I was going to build something that was mine—my career, my legacy, my name.

And Nicky was going to be there when I did.

45. Nico

I woke up in a cold sweat.

We had stayed up late catching up with Bash, who was a character. Loud and warm and completely without pretence—the kind of person who said exactly what he meant and laughed at his own jokes before anyone else could. He and Adrian teased each other mercilessly, finished each other's sentences, and bickered like brothers.

I had a genuine blast.

Bash had finally headed back to his own room around midnight and Adrian had pulled me into our bedroom with intent written all over his face.

Something had shifted since the fight. The sex was different now. Before, we'd been all urgency—grabbing, pulling, trying to consume each other like we were running out of time.

Tonight, he'd undressed me slowly, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered like he was memorizing it. His hands had been reverent, almost worshipful, tracing the lines of my body like I was something precious. When he'd finally pushed inside me, he'd held my face in his hands and kissed me through it—deep, consuming kisses that felt less like sex and more like a confession he didn't have words for.

Afterward, he'd cleaned us both up with a warm washcloth, pressed kisses to my shoulder, my neck, my temple. I'd fallen asleep with his arms around me, feeling safe and wanted and terrifyingly, overwhelmingly happy.

Now he was wrapped around me and my heart was racing.

My chest was tight. That familiar constriction wrapping around my ribs, making each breath feel shallow and insufficient. The room was dark and quiet but my mind was loud—too loud, spiraling through everything waiting for us on the other side of sleep.

The short program. Tomorrow. No, later today. Less than twelve hours away.

Adrian's arm was heavy across my waist, his breathing slow and even against the back of my neck. Warm. Solid. Real.

And I couldn't breathe properly.

My hands were trembling where they rested on top of the duvet. I could feel sweat trickling down my neck. My heart was hammering so hard I was surprised the frantic rhythm against my sternum hadn’t woken him.

The weight of everything that was going to unravel over the next few days pressed down on me. The Olympic team would be decided by Sunday. Three spots. Three Canadian men going to the Games.

Adrian would almost certainly be one of them, barring a major disaster. That wasn't in question—he'd been too consistent, too good, too undeniable all season.

I could probably be another. Probably. The reigning national champion, which sounded impressive until you remembered that the reigning national champion had fallen in his last two competitions. Had failed to medal on international ice not once but twice. Had spent a month off ice “resting.”

I had the title but I didn't have the season to back it up and titles only carried you so far when the selection committee was looking at trajectory, not history.

And then there was Théo.

Théo, who was somewhere in this same building, probably sleeping peacefully because Théo had always been better at compartmentalizing than I ever was. He was the prodigy who had trained with Renaud for most of his senior career. The one the press was calling the comeback kid this season—clean programs, rising scores, the narrative of a man who had hit rock bottom and rebuilt himself into something stronger. Meanwhile I was the question mark.

Add in two other contenders—both older, both hungry for a spot. Evan Caldwell, 28, who'd missed medalling at the last Games and had spent four years rebuilding his jumps from the ground up after a hip injury. The skating forums loved him—the comeback narrative, the perseverance, the fact that he'd stuck around when most skaters his age had already retired. And Oliver Toussaint, 26, charismatic and gorgeous, as much an influencer as he was a figure skater, who'd been devastated when he'd missed the team by one spot and had documented his entire comeback season for his socials, his follower count climbing into the millions. He had the artistry judges loved and a quad combination that could compete with anyone's technical content.

Five men. Three spots. And the entire country watching to see who would represent Canada at the Olympics.

And I was sleeping with one of them.