Page 32 of About to Fall

You'll be seeing Théo Beaubien in Osaka. How are you feeling about that? Théo is a tremendous skater and I think his comeback has been remarkable to watch. I'm looking forward to competing with him again. We have a lot of respect for each other.

Clean. Professional. Completely devoid of the fact that Théo and I had once loved each other at the worst possible time.

I stepped into the shower and let the water hit my face and tried to wash the unease off my skin.

Théo and I had been toxic together—two people with disordered relationships to achievement and self-worth, enabling each other's worst impulses while calling it love. Still, getting dumped while your boyfriend was in treatment was a new kind of low.

Then he fled the country, moving to Chicago two months later. I had let him go because I loved him and because his recovery required distance from everything that had contributed to the problem.

Including me.

Losing Théo meant losing the only thing I had outside of skating—and even that hadn't really been separate, since our entire relationship had been tangled up in the same rink, the same coach, the same relentless machine. So when he left, there was nothing to fill the space he'd occupied except the sport that had hollowed me out in the first place.

There was no one to distract me from my own head anymore, no warm body to reach for at 2 a.m. when the thoughts started spiraling. I stopped sleeping. And that's when the pills got worse—one became two became three until that awful night in October when it felt like nothing would help me sleep.

Théo had come to the hospital. Sat across from me and said it gets different. Not better. Different. He was too honest for better.

In three weeks, I would be in Osaka and so would he. Whatever we were to each other now—that awkward aftermath of we both broke and are trying to become whole again separately—I was going to have to figure that out on international ice in front of cameras.

I turned the shower off and stood in the steam for a moment.

Then I dried off, changed into my pajamas, and went back out to face the music.

Adrian was at least partially dressed now. The white towel had been swapped for black plaid boxers, still riding low on his hips. He was sprawled on top of the sheets, one arm behind his head, studying the room service menu. He gave me a tentative smile, probably due to the little tantrum I had about the door.

I tried not to stare at his half naked body. It was just there. All of it. On display like he had never once considered the concept of modesty.

My eyes traced the line of his collarbone before I could stop them. The dip of his throat. The way the shadows pooled in the hollows of his hips where the boxers sat. Something hot prickled at the back of my neck.

I pulled back the top sheet and got settled on the bed.

16. Adrian

Oh fuck, I really did forget that I'd latched the hotel door. From his pissed off expression, Nicky obviously thought I'd done it on purpose. And the mess on both beds? Only child syndrome. Well, not technically, but basically. I'd promised Cam I'd try to play nice and I was already screwing it up. Nicky practically fled into the bathroom the second he had his bearings.

Sighing, I finished towelling off and pulled on a clean pair of boxers. I should get dressed properly, but I was wrecked after flying in this morning and skating all afternoon. I just wanted to rot in bed for an hour. I wondered why Nicky hadn't flown with the rest of us but didn't want to seem too eager.

I flopped onto the bed and grabbed the room service menu. The bathroom door clicked open, steam rolling out.

Nicky emerged in actual pajamas, buttoned all the way up like someone's grandpa. The golden hair was damp and pushed back off his face, softer without product in it. No glasses—I wondered if he brought them. He settled onto his bed wordlessly, stiff as a board, like sharing a room with me was a hardship he was nobly enduring.

Awkward.

“You hungry, Nicky? I was going to order room service.” I held out the menu like an olive branch. He looked at it for a second like it might be a trick.

He took it, scanned it, handed it back. “Cobb salad, extra chicken, no bacon, vinaigrette on the side. Thank you.”

“They have poutine. And pizza. Oh—make your own sundae option.”

“You do know we're skating tomorrow?”

“Ever heard of carb loading?”

“You're going to make yourself sick.”

“Nah. Only tequila makes me vomit.”

I picked up the phone and placed the order. “Hot fudge on the side,” I added, because I didn't want my ice cream melting before I finished my pizza. “And two Coke Zeros.”