Page 37 of About to Fall

Inside, the room was already empty. The bathroom door was shut. The shower was running. Steam curled out from the gap at the bottom, and I could practically see him in there, standing under water hot enough to boil shame out of his skin, pretending he wasn’t avoiding me.

Fine.

He could hide this morning but he couldn’t hide forever. Getting inside that beautiful head of his was becoming my favourite hobby.

◆◆◆

The arena was smaller than I was used to—maybe four thousand seats, intimate enough that you could hear individual voices from the ice if the crowd got quiet. For an exhibition, it was perfect. Close, warm, the kind of space that made everything feel like a conversation rather than a performance.

I watched the warm up group before mine from the tunnel and did what I always did before I skated—rolled my neck, bounced on my toe picks, and ran through my choreography in my head.

I’d brought a few costumes with me but I chose my favourite.

A fitted black top with strategically placed mesh panels and sheer sleeves that hooked around my middle fingers. Every tattoo was visible. The fabric of my black trousers caught the light like liquid. My hair was freshly coloured, the pale pink bright and intentional under the arena lights. Every piercing sparkled. Rings on every finger because I liked the weight of them—and because they flashed when I moved.

My exhibition look was, essentially, exhibitionist. A little reckless. A little decadent. Very much designed to make people stare.

I could already feel the eyes from the officials’ section. Not scoring today but the unspoken disapproval radiated from their stiff postures and downturned lips. I’d been feeling it since I was seventeen, when I’d arrived at my first senior event with blue hair and a stud in my nose.

The sport had a specific face it wanted to present. Mine was not it.

They could deal with it.

Across the boards, Renaud pinched the bridge of his nose in a gesture I was becoming intimately familiar with. He didn’t say anything. He was already learning that there was no reining in Adrian Zhao. You just threw a lasso and held on for dear life.

“That is some costume,” he said flatly.

“Custom made. You like it?”

“I think it will give the CBC commentators something to talk about.”

“That’s the spirit.”

He exhaled through his teeth—the particular sound of a man who had chosen this and was reminding himself of that fact—and gestured toward the ice. “Warm up. And try not to cause an international incident before you skate.”

“No promises.”

19. Adrian

Nicky took the ice two skaters before me.

The crowd reacted before I saw him—the fans leaning forward and murmuring in anticipation. And then he glided out from the boards and the murmurs became applause and I understood, not for the first time, why they called him Canada’s golden prince.

The press had coined that name years ago. Every headline, every profile, every breathless federation promo. Canada’s golden prince poised to take gold. Canada’s golden prince crowned national champion. Canada’s golden prince carries a nation’s hopes.

No pressure. But the title did seem to weigh differently on him now. Heavier instead of hopeful.

He was wearing a white shirt with a mandarin collar and crystal detailing that caught the light across his shoulders and down one arm like frost on glass. Fitted through the torso. Tucked into charcoal pants with a clean line that made his legs look endless. Hair slicked back from his face, every strand in place, that warm golden colour darkened slightly by whatever product he used.

He looked like the perfect little skating Ken doll.

No tattoos. No piercings. Not even a stray hair. He was the sport’s perfect son and he looked the part down to his fingertips.

The crowd adored him. Of course they did. He made himself easy to love.

His music started—something classical, piano driven, elegant in the way his skating was elegant—and he moved into the opening sequence with the kind of effortless precision that made other skaters want to quit. A quad toe, fully rotated, landed on an edge so clean it barely made a sound. The crowd gasped.

A combination spin that shifted axis three times without losing speed. And then a Biellmann—reaching back to grab his blade and pulling it above his head, spine arching into a vertical line so pure it looked drawn rather than performed.