35. Nico
The Nova Arena was bigger than I remembered.
Or maybe I was just smaller now. More aware of the weight of every point from here on out. Every competition felt less like an opportunity and more like a test I might finally fail.
I had snuck out of Adrian's room under the pretext that I needed to get ready for morning skate but what I really needed was time to fall apart in private.
It hit me in the shower. The tightness in my chest, the shallow breaths that wouldn't deepen no matter how hard I tried.
My heart hammering erratically against my ribs.
The edges of my vision going grey. I braced my hands against the tile and forced myself through the grounding exercise—five things you can feel, four things you can hear—until the band around my lungs loosened enough to breathe.
I stayed under the spray for a little longer than necessary. Then I got dressed in my training gear, swallowed my meds, and grabbed my skate bag.
The hallway felt too bright. The elevator too small. The lobby too loud with people who smiled and expected me to smile back. And I did smile back. God, I hated it.
An hour ago I'd been in Adrian's room, his arm heavy across my waist, his breathing slow against my neck, the world reduced to a warm, quiet bubble where nothing existed except the two of us.
In that room, I hadn't had to perform. Hadn't had to hold my spine straight or arrange my face or constantly be on.
Now I was back in the real world and it fit like a costume I'd outgrown overnight.
Practice went fine. I landed my jumps. Hit my positions. Skated through my short program twice without major errors. But my body moved through it mechanically—muscle memory doing the work while the rest of me stayed somewhere on the fourth floor, under rumpled sheets, pressed against a warm body.
Renaud watched from the boards with that particular stillness he had—the one that meant he was cataloguing every flaw, every hesitation, every moment where I fell short of whatever standard existed inside his head.
“The Salchow timing is late,” he said when I came off the ice. “You’re rushing the three-turn, then trying to save it off the back inside edge.”
“I know.”
“Then do something about it before the competition.”
That was all. No encouragement. No acknowledgment that the rest of the program had been clean. Just the flaw, identified and filed away for future reference.
Across the rink, Adrian was finishing his own practice. He'd stripped off his jacket and was skating in just a fitted black sleeveless shirt, pink hair bright under the arena lights. His quad-triple combos were powerful and he landed them effortlessly.
He caught me watching and winked.
I looked away before Renaud could notice.
◆◆◆
The press conference was at 2 p.m.
The top six men's skaters crammed behind a long table with microphones and water bottles and the particular studio lighting that made everyone look slightly ill. I was seated between Müller and—of course—Théo, for maximum drama. Then it was Shimizu, Reynolds, and Adrian at the end.
Adrian and Reynolds were deep in conversation, heads tilted toward each other, Reynolds leaning into Adrian's space like he’d never heard of personal boundaries.
Adrian said something I couldn't hear and Reynolds laughed loudly and let his hand land on Adrian's bicep, squeezing once before leaving it there.
Adrian didn't move it. Just grinned and kept talking, one hand gesturing lazily while Reynolds hung on to every word.
Which. Fine. Whatever.
I tried not to let it bother me. Tried not to notice the way my jaw had started to ache from clenching. Tried to focus on the moderator shuffling her papers and not on Reynolds's hand, which was still on Adrian’s arm.
A water bottle slid into my peripheral vision. I looked down, then sideways.
Théo gave me a small smile. The hollows were softer under his cheeks. His eyes had lost that bruised quality they'd had in Toronto. Chicago was agreeing with him.
“Hey, you good?” he asked quietly.
“Fine. It’s just… you know.”
He nodded in understanding. We both hated these press events for different reasons—me because I performed too well at them, him because he refused to perform at all.
The distance between us felt vast and impossibly small at the same time. Osaka had been a disaster. I was hoping Paris would turn out differently.
The moderator called for our attention and the chatter died down. The questions were predictable. What were our goals for this event? How did we feel about the competitive field? What had we been working on since the last competition?
Shimizu went first—soft spoken, gracious, his English careful and precise.
He thanked his coaching team and said he was honoured to compete alongside such talented skaters.
Müller followed with an answer so technical it could have been a presentation at a physics conference.
Reynolds flashed that all American grin and said something effortlessly charming about chasing personal bests and letting the scores take care of themselves.
The journalists loved him. They always did.
Théo gave answers like he was being charged by the word. “Feeling good. Working hard. Focused on the free skate.” Full stop. Next question.
Adrian, predictably, treated the microphone like a stage.
“The goal is always gold. I’ve been working on making my programs more devastating, which my coach keeps telling me is not a technical term but I disagree.
” He winked at the dozens of cameras that were trained on his face.
“The field is strong—really strong—but I didn't fly to Paris to come second.”
I gave the answers I always gave—measured, professional, a little mechanical. Talked about consistency and preparation and trusting the process. The golden prince reciting his lines. Under the table, my knee was bouncing. I pressed my palm flat against my thigh to still it.
Then a journalist from a Canadian outlet raised her hand.
“This question is for both Nico and Théo. You two trained together for several years in Toronto before Théo's move to Chicago. How does it feel to be competing against each other again and how has your relationship changed since your time as training partners?”
The room went quiet. My heart rate spiked. The studio lights suddenly felt too bright, the air too thick. I reached for my water bottle just to have something to do with my hands.
The skating world was small and gossip travelled fast but this was the first time we'd been on a panel together since he left Toronto.
Théo leaned toward his microphone first.
“Nico and I have a lot of respect for each other,” he said carefully.
“We pushed each other to be better skaters during our time training together and I think that competitive drive is still there.
But we've both grown a lot since then. We're different people now, on different paths.
I'm grateful for what I learned training in Toronto and I wish Nico nothing but success.”
He didn't mention Renaud. It was as diplomatic as Théo got. He usually had a cutting word or two for journalists but he'd obviously anticipated this question.
My turn.
I leaned toward my microphone. My mouth was dry. The water I'd just drunk sat heavy in my stomach.
“I agree with Théo,” I said. My voice came out steady. Years of practice. “We had an important chapter together and now we're both focused on our own journeys. I would love to see both of us on Team Canada.”
She looked disappointed. She'd wanted drama. We'd given her press release material instead.
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.”