Page 36 of About to Fall

It was shitty and immature. I knew that.

It was the kind of thing that made me exactly the person the federation had always been slightly uncomfortable with—impulsive, boundary testing, more interested in the reaction than whether the experiment was advisable.

But then.

That whimper.

I exhaled and watched the vapour disappear.

I had expected him to roll over and tell me to fuck off. Expected the clipped sentences, the careful control, the jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. The contained, professional irritation I was becoming dangerously addicted to pulling out of him.

I had not expected the sheets on his side to shift. Had not expected the silence between us to change texture—from one person’s breathing to two, falling into a rhythm that was undeniable even with my eyes closed. Had not expected him to match me, stroke for stroke, in the dark, three feet away, pretending we weren’t doing exactly what we were doing.

And I had definitely not expected the sound he made at the end.

Small. Involuntary. Swallowed almost immediately, like he’d tried to catch it and missed.

Like his body had betrayed him in the one moment he couldn’t afford it.

I’d said sweet dreams because I was an asshole. And because I wanted him to know I knew.

Now I was standing on a balcony in Québec trying to pretend that sound wasn't on a loop in my head and that I didn't want to hear it again, closer, louder, with my name attached to it.

That was the problem. We were in the middle of an Olympic cycle, both competing for limited spots on the Canadian team. I could practically hear Cam's voice in my head—steady, reasonable, the big brother tone he pulled out when I was about to do something spectacularly stupid. Don't torpedo your Olympic dreams because you can't keep your head on straight.

Or your dick in your pants.

Sound advice. I was definitely going to ignore it.

Because I've never been good at leaving things alone. I see a locked door, I want to pick it. I see composure, I want to crack it. I see Nico Fontaine pretending he's unaffected and I want to be the thing that affects him.

Character flaw. Fully aware.

I took another drag and leaned my forearms on the railing and watched Québec wake up below me. Early joggers. A delivery truck. The world going about its business, completely unaware that Nicky had touched himself to the sound of me in a hotel room twelve floors above them.

I smiled around the vape.

Today was going to be interesting.

It was an exhibition day which, in my opinion, was far superior to competition day.

Competition was fine. A necessary evil. I understood the game: technical scores, component marks, judges pretending they weren’t influenced by reputation, federation politics, the weird little math problem that decided whether you were a genius or a disappointment on any given day.

I played it because I had to.

But exhibitions were my thing.

No scores. No protocols. No sitting in the kiss and cry pretending that a 0.3 deduction on a step sequence didn't make you want to break something. Just you and the ice and whatever you wanted to do with it, and an audience that was there because they wanted to watch you skate, not because they were evaluating you against a rubric.

I was known for a certain kind of skating. The press had their words for it: raw power, swagger, athletic dynamism. My jumps were big and fast and slightly reckless in a way that made traditionalists uncomfortable. My step sequences were aggressive where other skaters were lyrical. I used music like a battle song rather than a backdrop. And the costumes I wore—the sheer shirts, the visible ink, the general aesthetic of a man who had shown up to a black tie event in a leather jacket—were as much a part of the performance as anything technical.

The judges tolerated it because they couldn't argue with the difficulty. The audience loved it because it was different. I loved it because it was mine.

At an exhibition, I didn't have to calibrate any of it. Didn't have to think about whether a costume choice would cost me a component mark or whether a choreo sequence was too aggressive for a particular judging panel. I could do whatever the fuck I wanted and doing whatever the fuck I wanted was my favourite thing on earth.

I knew exactly the program I wanted to perform today. The song that would play. The costume I would wear. Something loud. Something unapologetic. Something that would make Nicky watch me like I watched him.

I finished my vape, watched the last curl of vapour disappear, and pushed off the railing.