Page 13 of About to Fall

Not that I was going to tell him that.

Still, going out to celebrate his return seemed diabolical. Skaters loved to have a good time. That was universal across every competition and event—the discipline required to compete at this level created a pressure valve that had to blow somewhere and Friday nights were historically where it blew. Pre-competition hookups, post-competition blackouts, the kind of reckless decisions that got made in hotel bars at 3 a.m. and never spoken of again. I was fluent in the ecosystem.

But Nicky agreeing to this? That was the part I couldn’t wrap my head around. I couldn’t picture him in any of it—the shots, the sweaty dance floor, the 3 a.m. bad decisions. He was too controlled, too careful, too Prince Nicky for that scene.

For the little time I’d spent around him, I’d already clocked it—the chronic people pleasing, the inability to put himself first, the way everyone in his orbit seemed perfectly comfortable taking from him without ever checking what was left. A week back from God knows what and his friends were planning a night out like everything was totally normal.

Who needed enemies with friends like these?

◆◆◆

I arrived late because I’d spent an hour debating whether to show up at all. And then another thirty minutes trying on outfits.

Hanging out with people who regarded me with varying degrees of curiosity and suspicion wasn’t exactly my idea of a fun Friday night. Cam was in LA so I had no one else to go out with—not that I needed a wingman. I could always pull up an app and have company in twenty minutes.

But I didn’t want to piss off Sabrina. She was the only person in the program who’d gone out of her way to make me feel like I wasn’t an invasive species and I’d learned in three weeks of friendship that Sabrina Gallagher’s I won’t accept no was not a joke.

So I went.

The club was small, dark, the kind of place with exposed brick and low lighting and a DJ who valued volume over taste. I found the group in a booth near the back—eight or nine skaters from the program plus a few civilians I didn’t recognize—and stood at the edge for a moment, assessing the situation the way I assessed the competition during warm ups. Exits, threats, where to position myself for maximum impact.

Sabrina spotted me first.

She was in an emerald dress that walked the line between tasteful and indecent. She looked fucking incredible and she knew it—the green against that red hair, the pale skin, the particular energy of a woman who understood exactly the effect she was having and was thoroughly enjoying it. She had a pink drink in one hand that was sloshing dangerously close to the rim as she leaned across the table. When she noticed me, her whole face lit up and she was out of the booth before I could bolt.

“You came!” She kissed my cheek and grabbed my arm and hauled me toward the group, her drink leaving a faint sticky trail on my sleeve.

“Of course I came, gorgeous.”

I shrugged off my leather jacket and she took a step back, green eyes raking me head to toe with the critical appreciation of a woman who took fashion as seriously as her free skate.

“You look obscene.”

I had put in effort. Not for anyone specifically—for myself, because getting dressed up was one of the few forms of self-expression I’d never needed permission for. And yeah, maybe I liked the attention. Sue me.

A sleeveless black crop top that showed a stripe of hard earned abs above low slung baggy jeans. Years of six hour training days had built me a body I wasn't afraid to show off—dense, sinewy muscle earned one crossover at a time, obliques cut sharp where the fabric rode up. Tattoos on full display. Pink hair slicked back to expose the pearl necklace I'd layered over a silver choker. The usual stack of rings on every finger.

“This old thing?” I tugged at the crop top. “Just threw it on.”

“Shut up.” She swatted my arm. “I thought you were going to bail on us.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I glanced toward the booth. “Maybe fantasized about it a little.”

She laughed—loud and delighted, the kind of laugh that made people at nearby tables turn and look. “You're such an asshole. I love you. Come on.”

She grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the booth. “Also, fair warning—Nico's being weird tonight. Quieter than usual. Don't poke at him too much.”

“Define too much.”

“Adrian. Play nice. This dress might be tiny but you don’t want to see what I have stashed in my clutch.”

“Fine, I can play nice.”

Sabrina spotted another late arrival and I was left to my own devices. That was when I saw him.

Nicky was sitting at the far end, half turned toward the girl beside him, drink in hand. He was wearing a cream coloured sweater with navy slacks, his hair brushed back from his face in the effortless way that managed to look both unstyled and perfect. And he was wearing glasses.

I had never seen him in glasses before. Tortoiseshell frames that did something unexpected to his face—softened the regal edges, dialled down the golden prince wattage. He looked less like the cover of a skating magazine and more like a grad student who’d wandered into the wrong bar on his way to research something obscure and deeply serious. Younger. More approachable.