Page 68 of About to Fall

He was staring at the mat between his knees. His hands were still, which was unusual—Nicky's hands were always doing something, fidgeting with a water bottle cap, adjusting his sleeves, rolling the hem of his shirt between his fingers. Now they were just resting on his thighs, palms down, like he was bracing himself.

“The cover story about my break was exhaustion and dehydration,” he said. His voice was flat. Clinical. The voice of someone reciting something they'd rehearsed. “That's what Renaud told the federation and the press.”

He swallowed.

“That's not what happened.”

I waited.

“I overdosed. Took too many sleeping pills after struggling with insomnia for months.” A pause. His breathing was shallow. “My mother found me. She couldn't find a pulse. She thought I was—” He stopped. Swallowed. “The paramedics got there in time. I was hospitalized and then transferred to a treatment facility in Aurora.”

The gym was quiet. The overhead lights buzzed. Somewhere down the hall a door opened and closed.

I had stopped mid-stretch. My hands were still gripping my ankle but I wasn't stretching anymore. I was frozen, my brain trying to close the distance between what I'd believed and what he was actually telling me.

Overdose. Sleeping pills. His mother found him.

His mother found him.

Every interaction I'd had with Nicky since I arrived in Toronto rearranged itself. Every time I'd poked at him, pushed past his composure for sport, made some smartass comment about his perfect life. The first day at the rink when I'd said clearly it's not a two way street and watched something flinch behind his eyes. The way he went still and quiet when the pressure got too much, folding inward instead of exploding outward, swallowing everything until there was no room left.

That wasn't personality. That was survival.

“It wasn't intentional,” he added quietly. Still staring at the mat. “I just wanted to sleep. I was so tired, Adrian. The pills were prescribed—they were supposed to help. Two wasn't working so I took three. Then four. Then—” He stopped. “I don't remember how many after that. I just wanted to sleep.”

I wanted to say something. Every word I could think of felt completely inadequate.

So I didn't say anything. Just shifted closer on the mat until our shoulders were touching.

He didn't pull away.

“I didn't want to die,” he said quietly, like he was trying to convince himself as much as me. “I just wanted everything to stop for a while.”

“How long were you in—” I couldn't finish. The word treatment stuck in my throat.

“A month. Renaud made sure the cover story was airtight. Exhaustion and dehydration.” The bitterness in his voice was the most honest thing I'd ever heard from him. “My uncle's first call after my mother told him wasn't to ask if I was okay. It was to the federation communications team.”

Something white hot flared in my chest. Not the usual irritation I felt toward Renaud. This was fury. The kind that started in your stomach and climbed into your throat.

“He's more worried about his reputation than you,” I said.

“He's my uncle.”

“That makes it worse, not better.”

That's when his breathing changed. Faster. Ragged. His hands trembling where they rested on his thighs. The colour draining from his face.

“Nicky.”

He didn't seem to hear me.

I pressed our shoulders together more firmly. “Hey. You with me?”

He nodded but it didn't look convincing.

“What do you need?”

“Just—” A breath that didn't seem to go anywhere. “Give me a minute.”