45. Nico
I woke up in a cold sweat.
We had stayed up late catching up with Bash, who was a character.
Loud and warm and completely without pretence—the kind of person who said exactly what he meant and laughed at his own jokes before anyone else could.
He and Adrian teased each other mercilessly, finished each other's sentences, and bickered like brothers.
I had a genuine blast.
Bash had finally headed back to his own room around midnight and Adrian had pulled me into our bedroom with intent written all over his face.
Something had shifted since the fight. The sex was different now. Before, we'd been all urgency—grabbing, pulling, trying to consume each other like we were running out of time.
Tonight, he'd undressed me slowly, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered like he was memorizing it.
His hands had been reverent, almost worshipful, tracing the lines of my body like I was something precious.
When he'd finally pushed inside me, he'd held my face in his hands and kissed me through it—deep, consuming kisses that felt less like sex and more like a confession he didn't have words for.
Afterward, he'd cleaned us both up with a warm washcloth, pressed kisses to my shoulder, my neck, my temple. I'd fallen asleep with his arms around me, feeling safe and wanted and terrifyingly, overwhelmingly happy.
Now he was wrapped around me and my heart was racing.
My chest was tight. That familiar constriction wrapping around my ribs, making each breath feel shallow and insufficient. The room was dark and quiet but my mind was loud—too loud, spiraling through everything waiting for us on the other side of sleep.
The short program. Tomorrow. No, later today. Less than twelve hours away.
Adrian's arm was heavy across my waist, his breathing slow and even against the back of my neck. Warm. Solid. Real.
And I couldn't breathe properly.
My hands were trembling where they rested on top of the duvet. I could feel sweat trickling down my neck. My heart was hammering so hard I was surprised the frantic rhythm against my sternum hadn’t woken him.
The weight of everything that was going to unravel over the next few days pressed down on me. The Olympic team would be decided by Sunday. Three spots. Three Canadian men going to the Games.
Adrian would almost certainly be one of them, barring a major disaster. That wasn't in question—he'd been too consistent, too good, too undeniable all season.
I could probably be another. Probably. The reigning national champion, which sounded impressive until you remembered that the reigning national champion had fallen in his last two competitions. Had failed to medal on international ice not once but twice. Had spent a month off ice “resting.”
I had the title but I didn't have the season to back it up and titles only carried you so far when the selection committee was looking at trajectory, not history.
And then there was Théo.
Théo, who was somewhere in this same building, probably sleeping peacefully because Théo had always been better at compartmentalizing than I ever was.
He was the prodigy who had trained with Renaud for most of his senior career.
The one the press was calling the comeback kid this season—clean programs, rising scores, the narrative of a man who had hit rock bottom and rebuilt himself into something stronger. Meanwhile I was the question mark.
Add in two other contenders—both older, both hungry for a spot.
Evan Caldwell, 28, who'd missed medalling at the last Games and had spent four years rebuilding his jumps from the ground up after a hip injury.
The skating forums loved him—the comeback narrative, the perseverance, the fact that he'd stuck around when most skaters his age had already retired.
And Oliver Toussaint, 26, charismatic and gorgeous, as much an influencer as he was a figure skater, who'd been devastated when he'd missed the team by one spot and had documented his entire comeback season for his socials, his follower count climbing into the millions.
He had the artistry judges loved and a quad combination that could compete with anyone's technical content.
Five men. Three spots. And the entire country watching to see who would represent Canada at the Olympics.
And I was sleeping with one of them.
What was wrong with me?
I had done this before. Fallen for someone I was competing against. Let my personal life tangle up with my professional one until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. It had ended badly with Théo and I had promised myself I wouldn't do it again.
And yet here I was—in bed with Adrian Zhao, wearing his bracelet, while he carried the key around his neck like some kind of claim.
Chasing gold while falling for someone who was chasing the same thing.
My breathing had gone ragged. Short, quick gasps that weren't getting enough air where it needed to go. The edges of my vision were starting to blur.
Adrian shifted behind me, his arm tightening reflexively around my waist.
I needed to calm down. Needed to breathe. Five things I could see—except I couldn't see anything in the dark and my thoughts were racing too fast to count anything.
What if I fell tomorrow? What if I choked? What if Adrian skated the performance of his life and I bombed and everyone saw exactly what I was—a fraud held together by therapy and sheer stubborn refusal to quit?
What if loving him cost me everything I'd worked for?
The thought crystallized in my mind with the clarity of a clean landing.
Loving him.
Oh God.
I loved him.
Not falling for him. Not caught up in the chemistry or the sex or the way he made me laugh. I loved him.
I loved the way he called me Nicky. I loved that he pushed until I said the truthful thing instead of the easy thing. I loved that he'd given me a bracelet that locked and kept the only key. I loved that after sex he'd held me like I was something worth keeping.
I loved him. Not the breathless, unstable kind I'd felt for Théo. Something deeper and steadier. Something that felt less like drowning and more like finally learning to breathe.
And I was going to lose him.
Not tomorrow. Maybe not even at the Olympics. But eventually—because we were both chasing the same dream and only one of us could have it. When the medals were handed out and the placements were final, someone would be on the podium and someone would be below it.
What if winning cost me him?
My breathing was coming in sharp, painful gasps now. The room felt too small. Adrian's arm felt too heavy. I needed air. I needed space. I needed—
“Nicky, are you okay?”
Adrian's voice cut through the spiral, low and rough with sleep. His arm tightened around my waist and suddenly he was moving, sitting up, pulling me with him until I was tucked against his chest.
“Hey. Hey, I've got you. Breathe with me.”
I couldn't. My lungs wouldn't cooperate. Each breath felt like trying to inhale through a straw, insufficient and panicked and wrong.
“Shh, it’s okay. You can do it.” His hand found the back of my neck, warm and grounding. “In through your nose. Come on, Nicky. With me.”
He demonstrated, breathing slow and deliberate, his chest rising and falling against my back.
I tried to match it. Failed. Tried again.
Before we started seeing Dr. Ben, he would have tried to fix this—would have paced, would have spiralled alongside me, would have held on so tight we'd both have drowned in it.
Support the process. Don't try to be the cure.
So he just breathed. Steady and patient.
Giving me something to lean on instead of riding in like a white knight.
“That's it. You're okay. I've got you.”
His other hand found mine, threading our fingers together, bringing my hand up to press against his chest so I could feel his heartbeat.
“Feel that? I'm right here. You're safe.”
The panic was still clawing at my throat but his voice was an anchor. His hands on me, his heartbeat under my palm, the solid warmth of him surrounding me.
“Tell me five things you can see.”
“I can't—it's dark—”
“Okay. Five things you can hear then.”
I forced myself to focus. “Your breathing.”
“Good. What else?”
“The heater.”
“Keep going.”
“Traffic.” My own voice, shaky and thin. “Your heartbeat.”
“That's four. One more.”
“My breathing.” Still too fast, still ragged, but there.
“Perfect.” He pressed his lips to my temple. “You're doing so good, Nicky. Stay with me.”
The tightness in my chest was loosening. Not gone but manageable. Breathable.
“What happened?” His voice was soft, no judgment in it. Just concern.
“I can't—” The words caught in my throat. “The short program. And we're—you and me—and Théo's here and Evan and Oliver and there's only three spots and—”
“Nicky. Stop.” He said it firmly. Not harsh—grounding. “You and me. That's all that matters. We're going to Milan. Both of us. I don't care who else is in this building. If the selection committee wants Canada to win a gold, they’ll choose us. End of story.”
“You don't know that—”
“I know you. And I know me. And I know that nobody in this sport works harder or wants it more than we do.” His arms tightened around me. “The rest of them can fight over the third spot.”
Something cracked open in my chest and suddenly I was sobbing—ugly, broken sounds I couldn't control.
All the fear and pressure and exhaustion I'd been holding back came flooding out.
Adrian turned me in his arms, pulled me fully against his chest, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other wrapped around my waist.
“I've got you,” he murmured into my hair. “Let it out. I've got you.”
I cried into his shoulder, my fingers digging into the back of his neck desperately, my whole body shaking with the force of it. And he just held me. Didn't tell me to calm down or that it would be okay or any of the empty platitudes people usually offered. Just held me and let me fall apart.
“I'm so overwhelmed,” I managed between sobs. “I can't stop the panic attacks and I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel like I'm going to lose my Olympic spot and let everyone down—the fans, my uncle, the whole country—and I don't know how to do any of this and I love you—”
His entire body went still.
Oh God, what had I just done? It was too soon. We'd only been together since Paris.
“I'm sorry,” I gasped, trying to pull back. “That was—I didn’t mean—”
His arms locked around me, keeping me exactly where I was.
“Don't.” His voice had gone rough. “Don't you dare take that back.”
“Adrian—”
“Look at me.”
I lifted my head, tears still streaming down my face, and found him staring at me with an intensity that made my breath catch for an entirely different reason.
“Say it again,” he said.
“It was a—”
“Say it.”
“I love you.” The words came out broken, terrified, honest. “I love you and I'm sorry, I know it's too soon and we're about to—”
He kissed me. Hard and desperate and sure, his hands coming up to frame my face, thumbs brushing away my tears.
When he pulled back, his forehead pressed against mine, his breathing as unsteady as my own.
“I love you too,” he said and it sounded like a vow. “I'm completely gone for you, Nicky. Have been for a while. Maybe since that first day you told me to kiss your ass and actually meant it.”
A laugh bubbled up through my tears, broken and wet and relieved.
“You're serious?”
“Dead serious.” He kissed me again, softer this time. “I love you. The way you challenge me. The way you let me see past all the golden prince bullshit. The way you try so hard to keep everything together even when you're falling apart.” Another kiss. “I love all of it.”
“But the short program is tonight and things are going to—”
“Fuck the short program.” His hands tightened on my face. “Today, right now, I love you. And tomorrow I'll still love you. And the day after that. Whatever happens out there doesn't change this.”
“You can't know that.”
“Yes, I can.” His eyes were fierce, certain in a way I'd never been about anything except skating.
“I've never done this before, Nicky. Never let anyone in like this. Never wanted to. But you—” He broke off, shook his head.
“You made me want to try. And I don't do things halfway. You should know that by now.”
I did know that. Adrian Zhao never half assed anything—his skating, his friendships, his style.
Of course he'd go all in on this too.
On me.
“I love you,” I said again, because I could now. Because he'd said it back. Because the fear was still there but it felt smaller next to the certainty in his eyes.
“I know.” He pulled me back against his chest, wrapping his arms around me like he could shield me from everything waiting outside this room. “I've got you. We're going to be okay.”
I closed my eyes and focused on his breathing, letting it guide mine until they synchronized. The panic was gone, leaving behind only exhaustion and the terrifying, exhilarating certainty that I loved him more than I'd ever loved anything that wasn't skating.
And maybe that was the problem.
Maybe I'd finally found something I wanted as much as gold.