Page 28 of About to Fall

“No?” His thumb traced the bone of my ankle. “What do you need from me, Nicky?”

My breath hitched. The question landed like a match in a room full of fumes. I watched the smirk creep back into the corner of his mouth. Five days of restraint, abandoned the second he had his hands on me.

I should have pulled away. Should have said thank you and stood up like a normal, well adjusted person. Instead I sat there with my leg across his lap and his fingers on my ankle and my pulse threatening to escape.

Adrian's eyes dropped to my mouth and he leaned forward for a second.

And then he pulled back, his expression shuttering.

He let go of my ankle, gently placed my leg back on the mat, and stood up.

“Stretch before plyos next time, Prince Nicky.”

He walked back to the weights like nothing happened. I sat on the mat for another ten seconds. My calf was fine.

The rest of me was in serious trouble.

13. Adrian

The last few days at the rink had become an exercise in self-control I hadn't known I possessed. After the cramp incident, I'd doubled down on keeping my distance. It hadn't worked, not really. I'd run into him during ice time, at the boards, in the locker room, and every single time I'd found myself doing the thing I'd promised myself I'd stop doing.

Watching him.

He moved across the ice like something out of a dream—all that fluid grace, every line clean and deliberate, the kind of skating that made the rest of us look like we were trying too hard. I'd hated it. I'd also been completely unable to look away from it.

Now we were in Québec for an exhibition and, to my surprise, rooming together like a couple of amateurs. They'd rattled off some excuse about last minute logistics and I'd briefly considered switching hotels, but Renaud already thought I was a diva and I wasn't about to hand him more fuel. So here I was, sharing four hundred square feet with the one person I was trying very hard not to think about.

I was lying on the hotel bed when my brother's name flashed across the screen.

“Finally,” Cam said when his face appeared on screen. He was sprawled on a black leather couch, the LA skyline glittering behind him through floor-to-ceiling windows. “I was starting to think you'd forgotten how to answer your phone.”

“I was busy.”

“Busy doing what? Being the world's second best figure skater?”

“Among other things.”

He grinned—the lopsided one that showed up in all the band's press photos, the one their fans lost their minds over. “How's Québec treating you?”

“Cold. French. Full of people who take themselves extremely seriously.”

“So your natural habitat.”

“Fuck off.”

He laughed and shifted on the couch and I caught a glimpse of recording equipment in the background—a laptop, headphones, an open guitar case. The band was in LA working on the sophomore album, which meant Cam had been living on studio time and takeout for the past two weeks. He looked tired but exhilarated—dark circles, messy hair, the particular glow of creative obsession.

“How's the album coming along?” I asked.

“Getting there. We scrapped two tracks yesterday and rewrote them from scratch. Dev almost cried.”

“Dev cries when his coffee order is wrong.”

“He's a tortured artist.” He stretched, cracking his neck. “So where are you staying? Some fancy hotel the federation put you in?”

“Just some hotel right by the arena.” I paused. “They're making me room with someone.”

Something in my tone made him sit up straighter. “That's bullshit. You're a huge draw for them. Can’t you book a single?”