Page 60 of About to Fall

“You too.”

He let go. Squeezed my arm once. Walked back toward the lobby.

I watched him go and grieved us quietly. Not the relationship—that had needed to end. But the possibility. The version of us that existed in some parallel life where we'd met each other whole, where the pressure hadn't warped us, where love hadn't become another thing we used to hurt ourselves with. That version deserved to be mourned, even if it had never existed outside my imagination.

And now I was standing in a stairwell wondering if I was doing the exact same thing again—reaching for someone who burned too bright, mistaking intensity for intimacy, confusing chaos for connection because chaos was the only language my heart seemed to speak.

That was a problem for my therapist's couch, not a competition morning.

I stood in the alcove for another thirty seconds, steadying my breathing. Through the wall I could hear the muffled sound of the lobby—athletes, coaches, the hum of competition morning carrying on without me.

I straightened my shoulders. Adjusted my expression. Pulled the mask back into place. And walked back into the lobby.

28. Adrian

Nicky had snuck out of our room before I woke up. No note. No text. Just an empty bed and the faint smell of his shampoo lingering in the bathroom.

After our not-so-hate sex, I had showered and gotten into my own bed. Separate. Deliberate. Because the alternative was wrapping myself around him and falling asleep with my face in his hair and that was definitely not something you did after hate fucking.

So I'd created the distance. And then he'd widened it by disappearing before dawn.

Fine. Whatever. We had a competition to focus on.

Today, I wore head-to-toe red. Love. Passion. Anger. All three seemed appropriate.

My shirt was loose and embroidered with crystals in a jagged pattern, like lightning frozen mid-strike. Unbuttoned to my sternum, paired with red pants that hugged my legs. The colour offset the pink hair nicely. I added a silver body chain that draped across my exposed chest because if Nicky was going to pretend last night didn't happen, I was going to make damn sure he spent the entire competition looking at what he was pretending he didn't want.

In Japan, I always felt more like an idol than a skater, so I played up the part. I smudged black eyeliner along my lash line and blended it out until my eyes looked smoky and sultry. Dabbed soft pink blush across my cheekbones and the tip of my nose for a dewy, almost innocent flush. Pressed a berry lip stain into the centre of my mouth and let it blur at the edges, bitten and soft. The overall effect was pretty but dangerous.

Let them stare. Let them whisper. Let the judges clutch their pearls.

I was going to give them something to remember.

We were corralled together in the green room and I tried my best to ignore Nicky. Emphasis on tried.

He was in dove grey and charcoal, his hair slicked back in his usual competition style. Pristine. Composed. The golden prince ready for his coronation. I had an adverse reaction to this version of him—too polished, too perfect, too pleasing.

Last night was my version of Nicky. The side only I got to witness. Where he was snarky and combative. Where he pushed back and bit out opinions he'd never voice in daylight. Where the golden prince cracked open and something real spilled out—messy and desperate and alive.

We had collided like two stars consuming each other. All heat and gravity and the kind of destruction that left nothing behind but light.

This morning's Nicky was a stranger. Polished smooth. Every edge filed down. The mask back in place like it had never slipped.

Like I hadn't woken up alone to an empty room and a closed door and felt something I refused to name.

And then I'd found him in the lobby. Tucked into a corner with Théo Beaubien, heads bent together, voices low. And something hot and ugly twisted in my chest. He couldn't get out of my orbit fast enough but he had time for a cozy little heart-to-heart with his ex.

I didn't do this. Not with skaters. Don't shit where you skate—that had been my rule since seventeen, when I'd watched two ice dancers implode their partnership and their careers over a messy breakup. I hooked up outside the sport. Kept things clean. Kept things separate.

And then Nicolas fucking Fontaine had to go and ruin everything by telling me to kiss his ass in a voice that made me want to do a lot more than that.

It was just getting it out of my system. Scratching an itch. That's what I told myself as I laced my skates. One night. One mistake. We'd finally snapped and now it was done. I could go back to finding him mildly irritating instead of distractingly beautiful.

The lie sat heavy in my stomach.

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Théo skated first in our flight.