Page 82 of About to Fall

Another thirty minutes of questions and then the conference ended. I stood too fast and had to grip the edge of the table for a moment as the room tilted. Théo caught my arm as we filed out.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked quietly, hand on my elbow. “You look pale. I know how much you hate these things. And I can't stand that Natalie woman. They couldn't have sent someone who wasn't a total hack?”

“I'm fine.”

“They might as well have invited someone from The Spill. I thought this was a professional event.”

“Really, it’s fine. She’s just asking the question that everyone wants to know the answer to.” I gently removed my arm from his hold. My skin felt too tight. Everything felt too close. “I'm glad you're doing well, Théo. I should get back to the hotel. Get some rest.”

When I walked past Adrian—Reynolds standing a little too close beside him—neither of us said a word.

◆◆◆

I fell.

It was the quad Salchow—the jump Renaud had been pushing for, the one I'd landed a hundred times in practice, the one that was supposed to prove I was back, I was ready, I deserved my place at the top of the standings.

The timing was off. Just like he’d said. I rushed the three-turn, never let the back inside edge settle, and launched into the rotation already tilted. I knew I was falling before I left the ice.

The landing wasn't terrible. I got a hand down, kept my blade from touching, scrambled up and kept skating like it hadn't happened. But the damage was done. The technical panel would see the underrotation. The missed triple. The GOE would crater. The narrative would shift from Canada's golden prince returns to Has he lost it?

I finished the program on autopilot. Hit my spins. Sold the choreography. Smiled for the crowd even though everything inside me was screaming.

The scores came up in the kiss and cry: 91.47. Fifth place.

Renaud sat beside me, stone faced, while the cameras captured every second of my failure.

He didn't say anything until we were backstage, away from the press, in the concrete corridor that led to the athletes' lounge.

“That was unacceptable.”

My shoulders climbed toward my ears. My hands, still trembling from the adrenaline crash, curled into fists at my sides.

“I know.”

“You rushed the entry. Exactly what I told you not to do.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” He stepped closer and I fought the urge to step back. My heart was pounding again—that same erratic rhythm from this morning. “Because you've been distracted all week. Unfocused. Whatever is going on in your personal life, you need to leave it off the ice.”

Something in me cracked.

“My personal life,” I repeated flatly.

“Don't play dumb with me, Nicolas.” His voice dropped, cold and precise, and my stomach turned to ice. “I see you with Zhao. The coffee breaks. The gym sessions. You think I don't notice?”

“We train together. That's all.”

“That's not all and we both know it.” He was close enough now that I could see the vein pulsing in his temple. “I brought Zhao into this program to push you. To light a fire under you. Not to become a distraction that tanks your short program.”

“The fall was my fault. Not Adrian's.”

“Was it? Because the Nico I trained for fifteen years doesn't rush his entries. The Nico I trained knows how to focus. Whatever is happening with Zhao—”

“What's happening with Zhao?”

Adrian's voice came from behind us.