13. Adrian
The last few days at the rink had become an exercise in self-control I hadn't known I possessed.
After the cramp incident, I'd doubled down on keeping my distance.
It hadn't worked, not really. I'd run into him during ice time, at the boards, in the locker room, and every single time I'd found myself doing the thing I'd promised myself I'd stop doing.
Watching him.
He moved across the ice like something out of a dream—all that fluid grace, every line clean and deliberate, the kind of skating that made the rest of us look like we were trying too hard. I'd hated it. I'd also been completely unable to look away from it.
Now we were in Québec for an exhibition and, to my surprise, rooming together like a couple of amateurs.
They'd rattled off some excuse about last minute logistics and I'd briefly considered switching hotels, but Renaud already thought I was a diva and I wasn't about to hand him more fuel.
So here I was, sharing four hundred square feet with the one person I was trying very hard not to think about.
I was lying on the hotel bed when my brother's name flashed across the screen.
“Finally,” Cam said when his face appeared on screen. He was sprawled on a black leather couch, the LA skyline glittering behind him through floor-to-ceiling windows. “I was starting to think you'd forgotten how to answer your phone.”
“I was busy.”
“Busy doing what? Being the world's second best figure skater?”
“Among other things.”
He grinned—the lopsided one that showed up in all the band's press photos, the one their fans lost their minds over. “How's Québec treating you?”
“Cold. French. Full of people who take themselves extremely seriously.”
“So your natural habitat.”
“Fuck off.”
He laughed and shifted on the couch and I caught a glimpse of recording equipment in the background—a laptop, headphones, an open guitar case.
The band was in LA working on the sophomore album, which meant Cam had been living on studio time and takeout for the past two weeks.
He looked tired but exhilarated—dark circles, messy hair, the particular glow of creative obsession.
“How's the album coming along?” I asked.
“Getting there. We scrapped two tracks yesterday and rewrote them from scratch. Dev almost cried.”
“Dev cries when his coffee order is wrong.”
“He's a tortured artist.” He stretched, cracking his neck. “So where are you staying? Some fancy hotel the federation put you in?”
“Just some hotel right by the arena.” I paused. “They're making me room with someone.”
Something in my tone made him sit up straighter. “That's bullshit. You're a huge draw for them. Can’t you book a single?”
“They're renovating half the hotel. Not enough rooms.”
“There are other hotels.”
“Full. Like you said, I'm a big draw.” I let the smirk spread across my face. “And I'm sharing with Fontaine.”
Cam stared at me through the screen for a long moment. Then he pressed both hands over his face—a gesture I was intimately familiar with, given that I'd been inspiring it in people my entire life.
“Adrian.” Exhausted. The tone of a man who had seen this movie before.
“It's fine.”
“Adrian.” Warning now. Big brother energy.
“We're adults. We can share a room.”
“Can you though?” He dropped his hands. “Because the last time we talked about Fontaine, you said you couldn’t stand him.”
“That was weeks ago.”
“And things have changed?”
I thought about the gym. His leg in my lap. The way his pulse had been visible in his throat. The way he'd looked at me when I asked what he needed from me.
“Define changed.”
“Adrian.” Cam's voice went flat. “Tell me you're not going to do something stupid.”
“I never do anything stupid.”
“You got that questionable snake tattoo. You let Bash pierce your nose with a safety pin. You once flew to Tokyo to hook up with a guy who then ghosted you when you landed.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “You do almost exclusively stupid things. That's your whole brand.”
“That tattoo is very popular, thank you very much. I was like fourteen and it healed just fine. And that guy… it was his fucking loss.” I paused. “Fine. I might be a little impulsive.”
He pointed at me through the screen. “You're headed to the Olympics.
You've been working toward this for years.
You're in medal contention. This is your shot, Adrian.
The one you've been killing yourself for.
The one that has nothing to do with your dad's money or his name or any of that bullshit.
Do not—and I cannot stress this enough—do not fuck with the coach's nephew in a shared hotel room during the most important competition season of your career.”
“Ye of little faith. I wasn't planning to fuck with him.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“My face is innocent.”
“Your face has never been innocent a day in its life.” He sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Just... be on your best behaviour. Whatever that looks like for you. Don't start anything you can't come back from.”
“You're very invested in my career.”
“I'm invested in you not torpedoing your Olympic dreams because you can't keep your head on straight.”
“When the rockstar is telling me to behave, I might be a tad fucked up.”
“Start therapy. Any professional will tell you that you're more than a tad fucked up.”
“Thanks, bro.”
“I'm not perfect either. I have mommy issues a mile long.”
“And you want me to listen to you because...?”
“Because I fucked my life up first and I don't want the same for you.” His voice softened. “Text me after the short program. And don't do anything I wouldn't do.”
“That leaves a lot of room.”
“Exactly.” He grinned. “Love you. Don't be an idiot.”
“Love you too. No promises.”
He hung up and I sat there in the hotel room and looked at the two beds separated by approximately three feet of carpet.
I could behave for a few days.
Probably.