Page 121 of About to Fall

“It's the fucking Olympics, Umma. If I have to explain it to you, you'll never understand.”

“It's not like you haven't gone before…”

The words hit like a blade landing wrong—that sick, jarring shock that radiated outward from the point of impact. My hand was shaking. My jaw was clenched so hard my teeth ached.

Not like I hadn't gone before. Like the Olympics were a trip to the grocery store. Like the culmination of my entire life's work was a recurring inconvenience she'd already sat through once and couldn't be expected to care about again.

“Good night, Umma.”

I hung up. Threw my phone across the bed hard enough that it bounced off the mattress and hit the carpet. Sat there with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, breathing through the rage until my pulse stopped hammering in my ears.

Tomorrow I had the free skate. Tomorrow I had to be Adrian Zhao—passionate, powerful, the wild card who made the sport uncomfortable by existing in it. Tomorrow I had to land a quad flip and perform the program of my life and earn my spot on the Olympic team.

Tonight I was just a guy who was worried about someone he loved and angry at everyone who had failed him.

I lay back on the bed, still in my costume, feathers crushed beneath me, and closed my eyes.

49. Nico

Dropping out of the Olympic race didn't miraculously cure my insomnia.

I was lying on the pullout in my parents' hotel suite, staring at the ceiling the way I'd stared at a hundred ceilings before. Margaux was asleep in the adjoining room. My mother had checked on me three times before finally going to bed herself, each time lingering in the doorway a beat too long, eyes searching for something she was afraid to find.

My father had cried. Dominic Fontaine—the man who watched my competitions with stoic composure, who expressed pride through quiet nods and firm hugs—had sat on the edge of the pullout and wept.

“We love you, son,” he'd said, voice breaking on the last word. “Your health and happiness are our top priorities. I feel like I've failed you. Like I should have seen it sooner. Should have stepped in. Should have told your uncle—” He stopped. Pressed his fist against his mouth. “I trusted him to take care of you and I should have been paying closer attention.”

My mother had been quieter. She'd sat beside him, gripping his hand, and when she finally spoke her voice was barely a whisper.

“We thought you wanted to go back,” she said. “We thought skating was the thing you loved above all else. That getting back on the ice was what would make you whole again. You seemed so determined to get back. We didn't—” Her voice cracked. “We didn't know it was hurting you this much. Why didn't you tell us?”

I didn't have an answer. Not one that wouldn’t have broken her further.

Because the truth was ugly and complicated and it implicated everyone in this room, including me. Because telling them would have meant admitting I wasn't getting better. Because my mother's face when she'd found me on the bathroom floor was seared into my memory like a brand and I would have done anything—anything—to never be the reason she looked like that again. Because my parents had come to visit me every week at rehab and sat in family therapy and took away time from Margaux so they could focus on me. How do you repay that kind of devotion by saying it didn't work, I'm still broken, I'm sorry?

Because I was Nicolas Fontaine and I protected people from my pain. That was the thing I did best.

“It's complicated,” I said instead. “I do love skating. But everything else that comes with it—the expectations, the pressure, the feeling like the whole country is watching and waiting for me to either be perfect or fall apart—I haven't been handling that well for a while. Therapy and meds help but they're not magic. I didn't want to let anyone down.” I paused. “I didn't want to let myself down.”

She was quiet for a long time. Then she reached out and smoothed my hair back from my forehead the way she'd done when I was small.

“My brother only ever had one thing,” she said softly. “Skating. It was all he ever wanted, all he ever built his life around. And I watched it make him brilliant and I watched it make him hard and I watched him pour that same single-mindedness into you like it was a gift.” She paused. Her hand stilled on my forehead. “It wasn't a gift, Nico. It was all he knew. And I should have seen it sooner. I should have said something sooner.”

“Maman—”

“No. Let me say this.” Her voice was steady now, the way it got when she'd made a decision. “I love my brother. But I love my son more. And I don't want you to have one thing that defines you. I want you to have more than one thing that makes you happy.”

I thought about Adrian.

Probably worrying about me in our suite right now instead of celebrating his first place ranking. Adrian, who had walked up to Renaud and said the truth nobody else had the guts to say. Adrian, who had wrapped his jacket around my shoulders like keeping me safe was instinct.

Adrian had never once asked me to be the golden prince. He’d spent months picking at the composure and the politeness until he found the real person underneath.

And somehow, he liked that version better.

The one who was a little uptight and a lot stubborn. Who nagged him about his eating habits and confiscated his vape during training hours. Who planned itineraries down to the half hour, read reviews before picking a restaurant, and got quietly competitive about everything—from jump height to who could hold a plank longer.

Far from perfect. Just Nicky. And somehow that was enough.