22. Nico
I had managed to mostly avoid Adrian since Québec.
We overlapped ice time a few times a week but it was easy enough to steer clear on a full sized rink.
I made sure to work on my off-ice conditioning when I knew he wouldn't be there.
And I had resorted to eating lunch in my car like some sort of fugitive, scrolling through my phone with a protein bar and pretending this was a normal thing well adjusted people did.
Dr. Priya and I had spent two sessions on the Adrian situation and I was no closer to resolving it.
She'd helped me see that what I felt wasn't really anger—or wasn't only anger—and that his freedom triggered something in me that was worth examining.
Great. Very insightful. Didn't stop my stomach from dropping every time I heard his laugh carry across the rink.
The last thing I needed was to get tangled up with another skater.
But every time I thought about Québec—about the dark hotel room and the sound of his breathing and the way my body had responded before my brain could intervene—my chest did something involuntary and inconvenient.
Avoidance seemed like the healthiest option available to me.
Now we would be forced to room together in Osaka and it filled me with equal parts dread and anticipation, which was its own problem.
My phone rang while I was staring at my open suitcase sitting on top of my unmade bed, mentally making a packing list and getting nowhere.
I was grateful for the distraction. I turned away from the mocking emptiness of the suitcase and slid down the side of the bed, settling against the frame as I hit the green check.
Kat’s face filled the screen—dark hair scraped back in her perpetual bun, sharp cheekbones, one eyebrow already raised before I could even say hello.
“You haven’t packed,” she said.
“I’m trying to but you rudely interrupted me.”
“I can see the empty suitcase behind your head.”
“There are pants in it.”
“One pair of pants is not packing.” She propped the phone against something and started pulling bobby pins from her hair with the efficient violence ballerinas applied to their own heads after rehearsal. “How long have you been trying to pack?”
“Twenty minutes. I’m decompressing.”
“You don’t want to go to Osaka?” The question was light but I could hear the edge underneath.
Kat had made her feelings clear about me jumping back into competition barely six weeks out of treatment—too fast, too soon, you're not a machine, Nico—and my insistence on returning hadn't changed her mind so much as exhausted her arguments.
I exhaled. “Of course, I do.”
Kat and I had been friends since we were five. Two tiny, overly serious kids at a ballet school on Yonge Street. For a while, we were on the same path. Then, when I was twelve, my uncle gave me an ultimatum: the barre or the ice. If I was going to be serious about either, I needed to choose.
I chose the ice.
Kat went on to become the youngest principal dancer in TMB history. I became Canada's golden prince. Somehow, through all of it, we stayed best friends.
“It's about Théo then?”
I chewed on my bottom lip, the familiar tightness creeping into my chest—the low hum of anxiety settling behind my sternum like a second heartbeat.
“It’s normal not to want to see your ex,” she said.
“I'm dreading it. The last time—” I stopped.
Breathed. The tightness pulsed. “The last time I saw him was at the hospital. I was a mess and he came despite everything. Do I smile at the boards and pretend we're just two guys who used to train together? Am I supposed to act like we’re just competitors now? Why does it have to be so complicated?”
“Uncomplicated doesn't exist between you and Théo. It never did.”
She was right.
“We've been unpacking the relationship in therapy,” I said.
“Théo holds everyone at arm's length. That's just how he's built.
And instead of telling him that wasn't enough for me, I just... became whatever I thought he wanted. Easier. Smaller. Less demanding. I rearranged myself around his boundaries until I fit inside them perfectly and then wondered why he never saw the real me.”
“Why did you feel like you had to hide?”
“Because it was Théo. We came up together. He’s one of the most talented and driven people I know.
And when he chose me, it felt like proof I was worth something.
” I raked a hand through my hair. “I thought we were inevitable. At least that’s what all the fan edits on Tumblr said.
And I was so desperate to keep that going that I stopped asking whether it was actually good for me.
I just wanted him to keep choosing me. And if I showed him who I really was—the messy, anxious version underneath the golden exterior—why would he? ”
“So you just kept going round and round.”
“Yeah. It was like we were on this carousel. We'd fight and make up and fight and make up and tell ourselves that the intensity meant it was real. But we never actually went anywhere. Just kept spinning until we were both too dizzy to stand.”
Kat was quiet for a moment.
“Nico. By never telling him what you needed, you never gave him the chance to show up for you. You decided what he could handle and made the choice for both of you. That's not kindness. That's control.”
The word sat heavily in the air.
“And it's not just Théo,” she continued, gentle but relentless in the way only Kat could be. “You do this with everyone. You figure out what they need you to be and you become that person. Renaud. Your parents. Me, if I’d let you. You've been doing it your entire life.”
“Dr. Priya said something similar,” I said quietly.
“I like this woman more every time you mention her.” Kat leaned closer to the screen. “Théo came when you needed him. He deserves to see the real you. It’s okay not to be perfect at all times.”
I didn't answer. My pulse was ticking too fast in my throat.
“You don’t owe anyone a recovery performance,” she said, softer now.
“You’re allowed to just be where you are, Nico.
Messy. Uncertain. Still figuring it out.
That’s not failure—that’s being a human being.
And the sooner you stop shrinking for everyone’s approval, the sooner you might actually figure out what you want instead of what you think they need from you. ”
“When did you become my therapist?”
“I've been your therapist since we were five. I'm just not licensed.” She sat back. “Now the other elephant in the room.”
“What elephant?”
“Adrian Zhao.”
“There's nothing—”
“Are they making you guys room again? Is he still being a jag off?”
I almost choked at her choice of words. The Québec hotel room was a secret I planned to carry to my grave.
“Yes, we're rooming again. And it's fine. His presence can be… challenging.”
“I’m sure if you told your uncle—”
“That’s not necessary. He's not the biggest diva I've ever crossed paths with.”
“If you’re suggesting that title is mine, you better look in a mirror. You have more costumes than I do.”
“Speaking of costumes, I really should start packing now. Thank you for talking me through it,” I said.
“Pack the grey costume. It makes your eyes pop. The fans lose their minds.”
“Good night, Kat.”
“Good night. You're going to be just fine.” A pause. “Eventually. But for now, we put our best face forward. Love you, Nico.”
“Love you too, darling.”
She hung up. I sat for another minute, waiting for the tightness in my chest to fully loosen. It did, eventually—not all at once, but in slow degrees, like a fist unclenching one finger at a time.
Then I picked up a pair of training pants, folded them into the suitcase, and kept going until it was done.
I packed the grey costume. It couldn't hurt.