Page 9 of About to Fall

I shrugged, took another drag. He took another hit. Neither of us felt the need to fill the silence. When the last of the amber light finally gave way to the flat grey blue of early evening, he spoke.

He turned his head to look at me. “How are things really going?”

“It’s fine,” I said. “Lots of trouble to get myself into in a new city.”

“You could find trouble in an empty room. I'm sure mom's worried about you being out here on your own.”

That was generous of him. She was probably too busy redesigning the Hong Kong penthouse or traipsing along Alberni Street with a shopping bag in each hand or having brunch at the Saint Clément to notice I'd left Vancouver. Let alone worry about where I'd ended up. Even when we were in the same city, we barely overlapped—me in my apartment in Mount Pleasant, her and my dad in their West Bay mansion.

“She's got her hands full at home,” I said, keeping my eyes on the skyline. “She doesn't need to add me to the rotation.”

“Adrian—”

“I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time, Cam.”

“That’s not the flex you think it is.”

I shrugged. Cam and I had grown up on opposite sides of the same woman’s choices. His dad—the one she’d actually loved—had poured everything into raising him. Showed up to every gig, every school talent show, every shitty open mic night in a dive bar that smelled like spilled beer. My dad had written a cheque and made it someone else’s problem.

“You’re not alone,” he said. Simple. Not a lecture, not a production. Just offered without condition. “You know that, right?”

“Yup.” I took a drag, watching the vapour disappear into the night sky. “I’ve got you to nag me about eating vegetables and flossing.”

He snorted and I heard him settle deeper into the chair. My brother knew when to let things go. We didn’t grow up with the closeness of shared bedrooms and common history. It was something more deliberate. Chosen.

“How's the new coach?”

“Bit of an uptight prick.”

“You have a problem with authority.”

“I liked Coach Allen just fine.”

“Yeah, 'cause he let you do whatever you wanted.”

“I was his only senior skater. It was efficient.”

“And how are the other skaters feeling about Adrian Zhao joining their ranks? I'm sure you’ve pissed off a few people just by showing up.”

I thought about perfect Prince Nicky. The way he'd looked at me in the tunnel like I'd personally pissed in his cornflakes.

“Have you heard of Nico Fontaine?”

“Canada's golden prince? I haven't been living under a rock, Ade.”

Nico Fontaine was the poster boy for Canadian figure skating. Golden hair, blue eyes, the kind of face that belonged on a magazine. A Disney prince who had somehow also developed a quad Lutz. And even had a sweet as pie demeanor to match. The press loved him. The fans loved him. The federation loved him.

But nobody was that perfect. And I had seen the cracks.

I think you should put a shirt on.

Dream on. That careful, controlled voice with something hot flickering just underneath.

There was a temper in there. A real one, buried deep under years of practised composure. It only showed at the edges—the set of his jaw, the flush creeping up the back of his neck, the way he went dead still right before he said something with actual bite. The guy was too nice for his own good.

And I wanted to poke at it until something real came out.

Cam scrunched his face after I didn’t continue with my train of thought. “What about him? I thought he was like your enemy or something.”