Page 6 of About to Fall

I had always assumed Adrian was gay. The pink hair, the jewellery, the competition outfits that screamed for attention. The way he moved through the world like he was daring someone to have a problem with it. None of that was evidence of anything. It was just part of the Adrian lore I’d created in my head.

But he was very clearly flirting with Sabrina. Leaning in. That lazy, crooked smile. The easy gestures and casual touches—her arm, her shoulder, her lower back. Two weeks at this rink and already working his way through the roster.

Not that I cared who Adrian flirted with. It was just unprofessional. Renaud wouldn’t approve. That was all.

I heard Sabrina laugh again and I was going to grind my molars into dust at this rate.

If Théo were here, he would have been unbothered by Adrian’s presence. That was his thing—nothing external got under his skin because the only person Théo competed against was himself. He held himself to impossible standards and the rest of the field was irrelevant. He would have glanced over, shrugged, and said something like good for her in that flat way he had that could mean anything or nothing.

Adrian’s not a threat, he would have said. He’s just obnoxious.

And I would have said totally and you’re right and it doesn’t matter. And I would have almost believed my own bullshit.

But Théo wasn’t here. Théo was in Chicago, getting better without me, and I was standing at the boards watching my friend laugh at my rival’s jokes and feeling something petty and childish curdle in my stomach.

Sabrina was just being polite anyway. Professional. You didn’t spend years as Théo’s best friend and one of my closest confidantes and emerge with warm feelings toward Adrian Zhao. It didn’t mean anything.

I put my head down and finished my session.

◆◆◆

I was running on fumes by the time I finished my ice time but I went to my uncle's office before hitting the showers anyway. Some things were more urgent than clean hair.

The door had a narrow vertical window in it and through the glass I could see him at his desk, head bent over his notepad. I knocked. He glanced up and waved me in without getting up.

It was a room I had been sitting in since I was a kid. I knew every shelf, every trophy, every framed article and photograph. The Canadian flag signed by the 1994 Canadian Olympic figure skating team that took up most of the wall behind his desk. The single gold medal in its frame, positioned so that it was always in your eyeline when you sat across from him—not a boast, he would say, a reminder. Of what was possible. Of what all the hard work was leading to.

It had always felt, to me, a little bit like a crucifix in a confession box—something you knelt before and promised to be better.

I sat down without being invited to. I waited for him to finish and he spent another minute scratching something into his notepad before closing it.

“Nicolas.” He folded his hands on the desk. “How was your first day back?”

Not how are you. Not how are you feeling. Not I'm glad you're alive. How was your first day back. As if I'd returned from a vacation and not a hospital bed. As if the word overdose didn't exist in his vocabulary—and maybe it didn't. Maybe he'd filed it under the same category as every other inconvenient human failing that threatened to derail the Olympic timeline. Things that happened. Things you moved past. Things you certainly didn't name out loud in this office, under the gold medal, where weakness was the only unforgivable sin.

“I'm still a little unsteady but that's to be expect—”

“We'll need to add some extra off-ice conditioning.” He was already frowning, already calculating. “If you've lost significant ground in your base fitness we should address it before we look at the jump content.”

“I didn't come here to talk about that.”

“The Olympic selection—”

“Uncle.” I held his gaze. “I came here to talk to you about Zhao.”

He flicked his hand, a small dismissive gesture I had seen him make a thousand times—toward journalists, toward federation officials, toward anything he had already decided didn't warrant his full attention. “What about him?”

The casualness of it made something tighten in my chest. “Why is he here? Why isn't he in Ottawa or Calgary? There are other coaches at this level.”

“Because I am the best.” He said it the way he said most things—not as arrogance, just as fact. The sky is blue. Water is wet. Jean-Pierre Renaud is the best figure skating coach in this country.

“This is supposed to be my Games.” I fought to keep my voice even. “I'm your national champion.”

He looked at me for a moment. Something shifted almost imperceptibly in his expression.

“Was supposed to be,” he said and flipped his notepad back open. “Things have changed. You let your situation with Théo derail your trajectory at a critical time. And then—” he paused, the silence loaded with things we hadn’t discussed. “You've had a difficult autumn.”

“I've worked myself to the bone my entire career.” The evenness in my voice was fraying at the edges. I could feel it and I couldn't stop it. “I've given you everything. I almost—” I stopped. Breathed. The betrayal and righteous indignation was right there, just below the surface and I was a month into learning how to feel it without drowning in it. “I've earned my spot. I've only been away six weeks.”