20. Nico
I had never been so glad to sleep in my own bed.
Familiar streets, familiar rink, familiar routine.
My apartment was small and clean and mine and there was no one in the next bed breathing in ways that derailed my entire nervous system.
I could sleep here. I could think here. I could exist without the constant, low frequency hum of Adrian’s proximity.
Québec had been complicated. Professionally, I'd done what I came to do.
My exhibition skate was solid—clean landings, strong elements, the kind of performance that told the federation and the press and the selection committee that Nico Fontaine was back and still worth betting on.
The crowds had welcomed me back with open arms. Canada's golden prince, proving he still deserved the crown. Mission accomplished.
The rest of the trip, I was handling less well.
Adrian hadn't tried anything after that first night.
Not directly. Not in any way I could point to and say this, this is the problem, this is the line you crossed.
He had been—maddeningly—normal. Cordial, even.
He left the bathroom clean. He didn't hog the limited outlets.
He said good morning and good night and didn't mention what had happened.
But I swear—I swear—there was a gleam in his eye every time we made eye contact. Something mischievous and knowing and held just long enough to make my stomach drop before he looked away. Like he was carrying a secret we both knew and had decided to let me be the one who broke first.
I was not going to break first.
I had spent several therapy sessions talking about Adrian and at my first session back from Québec, he was the star topic once again.
Dr. Priya specialized in working with elite athletes and therefore understood that her clients were deeply unreasonable people.
She listened to me describe the situation with the kind of attentive neutrality that meant she was forming conclusions she was waiting for me to arrive at myself.
“He makes me so angry,” I said, lying on the green velvet couch in her office, staring at the ceiling the way I always did when I was avoiding eye contact.
“You rarely express this level of intense emotion about anyone. Why do you think he brings this out of you?”
“He could drive a priest insane. He's just maddening.”
“Can you say more about that?”
I could not say more about that. I could not, specifically, utter the words mutual masturbation to my therapist. There were limits to the therapeutic process and I had found them.
“He just floats through the world without a care,” I said instead.
“He vapes. Eats garbage. Wears costumes that are definitely not regulation.
Mouths off to coaches. Shows up late. Breaks every rule I've ever been told was non-negotiable.” I stared at the ceiling.
“And none of it catches up with him. He went to the Olympics. He has sponsorships. The fans love him. The judges reward him. He does everything wrong and it all works out.”
“And that bothers you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I did everything right.” My voice came out smaller than I intended.
“Every single thing that was ever asked of me. I ate what I was told to eat. I trained when I was told to train. I smiled for the cameras and gave the right interviews and never once pushed back. I was perfect, Dr. Priya. I was so fucking perfect.”
“And?”
“And I'm the one who ended up in rehab.”
She let the silence sit. She was good at that—holding space for the ugly truths without rushing to fill them.
“So when you say Adrian makes you angry,” she said carefully, “is it possible that what you're actually feeling is envy?”
“I'm not envious of Adrian Zhao. I’m the national champion.”
“Not of his talent. Of his freedom.”
Some days I'd rather be the pink haired rebel.
“He doesn't perform for anyone,” I said. “He just exists. Loudly and unapologetically. And somehow nothing falls apart.”
“And you've been performing for everyone. Quietly and perfectly. And things did fall apart.”
I didn't say anything for a long time.
“It's not fair,” I finally said and I was surprised by how childish it sounded. How true.
“No,” she agreed. “It's not.”
“So what do I do with that?”
“What do you want to do with it?”
“I want to stop being angry at him for having something I want.”
“That's a good start.” She paused. “And what is it that you want, Nico? Not what your uncle wants. Not what the fans want. What do you want?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“I don't know,” I said. “But I think he makes me want to find out.”
Dr. Priya smiled. Just barely—the kind of smile that said now we're getting somewhere.
◆◆◆
My meeting with Renaud was at ten the next morning in his office, which meant I arrived fifteen minutes early. On time was late in his book.
He was already behind his desk when I knocked. The gold medal caught the light. The Canadian flag presided. I sat down and waited.
“Québec was adequate,” he said, which was his version of well done. “Your quad toe is consistent. Your spins are as strong as they've ever been. The Biellmann needs more extension through the upper back but that's conditioning, not technique.”
I nodded. This was familiar ground.
“For Osaka, I want to see a full run-through of both programs by next week.
We need to discuss whether you're attempting the quad Salchow in the short or holding it until Nationals.” He paused, looking at something on his screen.
“Your component scores have room to grow. The judges want to see more emotional connectivity. More vulnerability.”
The irony of that almost made me laugh.
“I also want to be clear about something.” He looked up. “You cannot afford any more distractions.”
“Distractions?” I repeated.
“You have two weeks until Osaka. Six weeks until the Grand Prix Final. Ten weeks until Nationals. The Olympic selection committee will be watching every performance between now and January, and your absence from Maple Leaf Classic has not gone unnoticed regardless of the official explanation.” He folded his hands. “I need your full focus. Nothing else.”
“I've been fully focused.”
“I'm not suggesting otherwise. I'm reminding you of the stakes.”
“I haven’t forgotten them,” I said, standing to leave.
“Nicolas.”
I stopped at the door.
“The quad Salchow. I want it in the short program.”
“Fine.”
“And eat something before afternoon practice. You're looking… tired.”
I closed the door behind me and stood in the hallway for a moment, breathing.
Down the corridor I could hear music from the main rink—bass heavy, distorted guitar, unmistakably 3xit—which meant Adrian was already on the ice, already taking up space, already existing in that loud unapologetic way that made me want to scream and also made me want to stand at the boards and watch him for reasons I was running out of excuses not to examine.
I turned the other way and went to the weight room.