Page 40 of About to Fall

I didn't say anything for a long time.

“It's not fair,” I finally said and I was surprised by how childish it sounded. How true.

“No,” she agreed. “It's not.”

“So what do I do with that?”

“What do you want to do with it?”

“I want to stop being angry at him for having something I want.”

“That's a good start.” She paused. “And what is it that you want, Nico? Not what your uncle wants. Not what the fans want. What do you want?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“I don't know,” I said. “But I think he makes me want to find out.”

Dr. Priya smiled. Just barely—the kind of smile that said now we're getting somewhere.

◆◆◆

My meeting with Renaud was at ten the next morning in his office, which meant I arrived fifteen minutes early. On time was late in his book.

He was already behind his desk when I knocked. The gold medal caught the light. The Canadian flag presided. I sat down and waited.

“Québec was adequate,” he said, which was his version of well done. “Your quad toe is consistent. Your spins are as strong as they've ever been. The Biellmann needs more extension through the upper back but that's conditioning, not technique.”

I nodded. This was familiar ground.

“For Osaka, I want to see a full run-through of both programs by next week. We need to discuss whether you're attempting the quad Salchow in the short or holding it until Nationals.” He paused, looking at something on his screen. “Your component scores have room to grow. The judges want to see more emotional connectivity. More vulnerability.”

The irony of that almost made me laugh.

“I also want to be clear about something.” He looked up. “You cannot afford any more distractions.”

“Distractions?” I repeated.

“You have two weeks until Osaka. Six weeks until the Grand Prix Final. Ten weeks until Nationals. The Olympic selection committee will be watching every performance between now and January, and your absence from Maple Leaf Classic has not gone unnoticed regardless of the official explanation.” He folded his hands. “I need your full focus. Nothing else.”

“I've been fully focused.”

“I'm not suggesting otherwise. I'm reminding you of the stakes.”

“I haven’t forgotten them,” I said, standing to leave.

“Nicolas.”

I stopped at the door.

“The quad Salchow. I want it in the short program.”

“Fine.”

“And eat something before afternoon practice. You're looking… tired.”

I closed the door behind me and stood in the hallway for a moment, breathing.

Down the corridor I could hear music from the main rink—bass heavy, distorted guitar, unmistakably 3xit—which meant Adrian was already on the ice, already taking up space, already existing in that loud unapologetic way that made me want to scream and also made me want to stand at the boards and watch him for reasons I was running out of excuses not to examine.