Page 114 of About to Fall

“It was a—”

“Say it.”

“I love you.” The words came out broken, terrified, honest. “I love you and I'm sorry, I know it's too soon and we're about to—”

He kissed me. Hard and desperate and sure, his hands coming up to frame my face, thumbs brushing away my tears.

When he pulled back, his forehead pressed against mine, his breathing as unsteady as my own.

“I love you too,” he said and it sounded like a vow. “I'm completely gone for you, Nicky. Have been for a while. Maybe since that first day you told me to kiss your ass and actually meant it.”

A laugh bubbled up through my tears, broken and wet and relieved.

“You're serious?”

“Dead serious.” He kissed me again, softer this time. “I love you. The way you challenge me. The way you let me see past all the golden prince bullshit. The way you try so hard to keep everything together even when you're falling apart.” Another kiss. “I love all of it.”

“But the short program is tonight and things are going to—”

“Fuck the short program.” His hands tightened on my face. “Today, right now, I love you. And tomorrow I'll still love you. And the day after that. Whatever happens out there doesn't change this.”

“You can't know that.”

“Yes, I can.” His eyes were fierce, certain in a way I'd never been about anything except skating. “I've never done this before, Nicky. Never let anyone in like this. Never wanted to. But you—” He broke off, shook his head. “You made me want to try. And I don't do things halfway. You should know that by now.”

I did know that. Adrian Zhao never half assed anything—his skating, his friendships, his style.

Of course he'd go all in on this too.

On me.

“I love you,” I said again, because I could now. Because he'd said it back. Because the fear was still there but it felt smaller next to the certainty in his eyes.

“I know.” He pulled me back against his chest, wrapping his arms around me like he could shield me from everything waiting outside this room. “I've got you. We're going to be okay.”

I closed my eyes and focused on his breathing, letting it guide mine until they synchronized. The panic was gone, leaving behind only exhaustion and the terrifying, exhilarating certainty that I loved him more than I'd ever loved anything that wasn't skating.

And maybe that was the problem.

Maybe I'd finally found something I wanted as much as gold.

46. Adrian

Nicky and I were sitting with Renaud in the green room. I was surprised Renaud didn't wedge himself between us but he must have sensed how wound up Nicky was—his knee bouncing, his fingers working the zipper of his team jacket up and down in a rhythm only he could hear.

Nicky looked devastating tonight. All navy with silver beading along the neckline and cuffs, his hair slicked back the way it always was for competition. The navy made his eyes almost glow—pale blue turned electric under the arena lights. I wanted to reach over and squeeze his hand but Renaud was right there, clipboard on his lap, expression unreadable.

I'd gone for a sheer black shirt with feathers that started at my chest and flared out at the sleeves. Dramatic, sexy, the kind of costume that moved through spins and jumps like it had its own choreography. It also showed off the tattoos on my collarbone and shoulders. Renaud had looked at it for a long moment when I'd walked out of the changing room, his lips downturned in silent disapproval, but he didn’t dare tell me to change.

I skated a clean program—landed my quad flip in the second half, nailed the combination, hit every element with the kind of aggressive precision that came from having something to prove. My scores were strong. 109.42. First place heading into the free skate.

Théo took the ice next. His short program was set to some moody pop track I didn't recognize and he delivered it with the quiet, devastating efficiency that made him impossible to dismiss no matter how boring I found his style. Clean. Consistent. Every element locked in. 104.87. Second place. Close enough to be dangerous.

Now it was Nicky's turn.

I watched him stand at the boards, rolling his shoulders, shaking out his hands. Renaud leaned in and said something close to his ear—too low for me to catch—and Nicky nodded once, expression fixed in that blank, determined mask he wore before competition.

He took the ice and the arena shifted. It always did for him. There was something about Nico Fontaine on competition ice that made people stop talking and lean forward. The presence. The posture. The way he commanded the space before the music even started.