48. Adrian
I found Renaud in the coaches’ area, standing near the monitors with his clipboard and his reading glasses and the particular stillness of a man who was already planning tomorrow’s free skate layout.
“We need to talk,” I said.
He looked up. Assessed me. The crushed feathers on my costume, the set of my jaw, the fact that I was standing in front of him instead of cooling down like I should have been.
“If this is about your component scores, we can discuss—”
“Nicolas is withdrawing from the free skate.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s done. He’s in a cooldown room right now having a breakdown. He can’t skate tomorrow.”
Renaud removed his glasses slowly. Folded them. Set them on top of his clipboard with the deliberate precision of a man buying himself time.
“Nicolas is the reigning national champion. He has a realistic path to the Olympic team. He is not withdrawing.”
“He had a panic attack after his short program. He’s not skating tomorrow.”
“Athletes experience performance anxiety. It’s manageable. I will speak with him and—”
“You will not speak with him.” I took a step closer, drawing myself up to my full height.
“You will not pull him aside and deliver one of your measured little talks about focus and dedication and legacy. You will not make him feel like he’s failing you by being a human being who has reached his limit. ”
Renaud’s eyes went cold. “You are overstepping, Adrian.”
“Probably. I don’t care.”
“Nicolas is my nephew—”
“Then act like it.” The words came out louder than I intended.
I steadied myself and lowered my voice. “Your nephew almost died a few months ago. He took a bottle of sleeping pills because the pressure of being your golden boy crushed him so completely that he couldn’t find any other way to rest. And your first call wasn’t to ask if he was okay—it was to the federation communications team. ”
Something shifted in Renaud’s face. A crack in the granite.
“He told you.”
“Yeah. He told me. And I’m telling you—he’s done. Not forever, maybe. But tonight, tomorrow, this competition. He’s done.”
“The selection committee—”
“Can select from the four remaining skaters. Nicky’s health matters more than a spot on a team.”
“You don’t get to make that decision.”
“You’re right. Nicky gets to make that decision. And he’s making it. I’m just the one standing here telling you because he’s too afraid of disappointing you to say it to your face. Which should tell you everything you need to know about what your coaching has done to him.”
Renaud stared at me for a long time. I could see the calculation happening behind his eyes—the reputation management, the press implications, the narrative he’d have to construct, the questions he’d have to answer.
“If he withdraws now, it will raise questions.”
“Then answer them.”
“The federation will want a medical explanation.”
“Then give them one. You’re good at that. Exhaustion and dehydration worked last time.”
The shot landed. I watched it hit—a flinch so small most people would have missed it. I didn’t miss it.
“This is what Nicolas wants?” he asked finally. Quietly.
“This is what he needs. And for once in his life, those two things should be the same.”
“I’ll speak with the federation,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Adrian.” His voice stopped me as I turned to leave. “If you are the reason my nephew is distracted—if this—whatever this is between you—is what’s compromising his performance—”
“With all due respect, Coach, you’ve been compromising his performance for fifteen years. I’m just the first person who noticed.”
I walked out before he could respond.
◆◆◆
I found Nicky’s parents in the stands. They were easy to spot—Dominic in his quiet, measured way, already scanning the tunnel entrances with the alertness of a father who sensed something was wrong.
Geneviève had Margaux on her lap, the little girl clutching a bouquet of yellow roses that was almost as big as she was.
“Adrian.” Geneviève's face tightened the moment she saw me without Nicky. “Where is he?”
“He's okay,” I said quickly. “He's with Kat. He's safe. He just—” I chose my words carefully, aware of Margaux's wide eyes fixed on my face. “He needs a little time. The skate took a lot out of him and he's resting.”
Geneviève's composure held but only just. “What happened? We saw him leave the ice and then nothing—”
“He's withdrawing from the competition.”
Geneviève's hand went to her mouth. Dominic went very still beside her.
“It was his decision,” I said. “He made the right call. But it means the press is going to be all over this within the hour and they'll be swarming the hotel. He can't go back there tonight.”
“He'll come stay with us,” Geneviève said immediately.
“That's what I was thinking. Kat's with him now. If you head back to your hotel, she can bring him to you there. It'll be quieter. No cameras. He just needs—” I exhaled. “He needs his family right now. Not the circus.”
“Should we go to him?” she asked. Her voice was steady but her hands were gripping her purse strap so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
I recognized the fear underneath the composure—the particular terror of a mother who had already found her son on a bathroom floor once and lived every day bracing for the phone call that said it had happened again.
“I think meeting at your hotel is better,” I said gently. “Less chance of running into press in the corridors here. I'll have his things sent over and Kat will text you when they're on their way.”
Dominic nodded. One hand on Geneviève's back, steady, grounding. “We'll be ready.”
I crouched down so I was eye level with Margaux. “Hey, kid. Those are beautiful flowers.”
“They're for Nico,” she said solemnly. “Yellow means friendship and happiness. I picked them myself.”
“He's going to love them. How about I bring them to him right now so he can see how beautiful they are?”
She considered this for a moment. “You promise he'll get them?”
“I promise.”
She handed them over carefully. “Tell Nico I love him.”
“I will.”
Geneviève's eyes were glistening when I stood up. She reached out and squeezed my arm—firm, maternal, the same warmth she'd shown me at Christmas.
“Thank you, Adrian,” she said. “For taking care of him.”
“Always.”
Dominic shook my hand. Squeezed it and held on for a beat.
I watched them walk toward the exit—Geneviève's arm around Margaux, Dominic's hand on his wife's back, a family rearranging itself around the shape of whatever was coming next.
Then I turned and walked back through the arena holding a bouquet of yellow roses, still in my feathered costume, getting stares from officials and athletes and volunteers who probably thought I'd lost my mind.
Let them stare.
◆◆◆
First place after the short program.
I should have been elated. Should have been celebrating with Bash, texting Cam, relishing the fact that I was sitting at the top of the leaderboard heading into the most important free skate of my career. One clean program tomorrow and I’d be on the Olympic team.
I couldn’t feel excited about any of it.
I sat on the hotel bed staring at Nicky’s name in my messages. When I had returned to the cooldown room, he was practically asleep against Kat’s shoulder. She had taken him back to his parents’ hotel away from prying eyes. I just wanted to be with him.
My phone rang.
Umma.
The contrast hit me like a slap. Two hours ago, Geneviève Fontaine had looked at me with tears in her eyes and thanked me for taking care of her son.
Dominic had listened to the news about Nicky with quiet concern.
Margaux had entrusted me with her flowers like she was handing over something sacred.
That was what family looked like. That was what love looked like when it wasn't transactional.
I answered because I wanted to put the anger somewhere and my mother had the worst timing of any human being alive.
“Adrian! Congratulations, darling. We watched the stream. Bàba and I are so proud—first place! We always knew—”
“Don't.”
Silence.
“Don't call me to say you're proud when the only time you’ve sat in the stands was at the Olympics.
Don't say 'we always knew' when Bàba can't name a single one of my programs. And don't pretend this matters to you when the only reason you're calling is because first place is something you can brag about at your next dinner party.”
“Adrian, that's not—”
“Bash flew in from Calgary. He’s training for the Games too but he came. Because that’s what family does. They show up. They sit in the stands. They care about the person, not the placement.”
“I don't understand what—”
“I'm dating someone, by the way. Since we’re celebrating my good fortunes.”
A pause. Careful. Recalibrating. “That's wonderful, darling. Who is he?”
“Nicolas Fontaine.”
Nothing. The name meant nothing to her. Of course it didn't. She couldn't name a single skater on the international circuit besides me and even that was generous—she probably had to Google which discipline I competed in before calling.
“He's a figure skater,” I said flatly. “Canadian national champion. The one the press has called my biggest rival for the last seven years. We started training together when I moved to Toronto. We're in love. Any of this registering?”
“Well, I think that's lovely. You know I'm not old fashioned like Bàba. I've always supported—”
“You've always tolerated. There's a difference.”
“That's not fair, Adrian. I told you when you came out that it didn't change anything for us.”
“Yeah. Nothing changed. That was the problem.”
“Your father is a traditional man but he's coming around. Look at your cousin Zachary—he and his roommate have been together for years and your Uncle Brian hasn't cut him off. These things take time in our family.”
“His roommate.” I laughed—bitter, hollow.
“They've been together for eight years, Umma.
They own a house together. And you all still call Ian his roommate because actually acknowledging it would require treating Zachary like a full person instead of a line item on the family balance sheet that hasn't been written off yet.”
“Adrian—”
“That's your benchmark? Not being cut off from the Zhao fortune? That's what acceptance looks like to you?”
“I'm trying—”
“You’re trying? You didn’t even show up today!”
“I didn’t know you wanted me to.”
“It's the fucking Olympics, Umma. If I have to explain it to you, you'll never understand.”
“It's not like you haven't gone before…”
The words hit like a blade landing wrong—that sick, jarring shock that radiated outward from the point of impact. My hand was shaking. My jaw was clenched so hard my teeth ached.
Not like I hadn't gone before. Like the Olympics were a trip to the grocery store. Like the culmination of my entire life's work was a recurring inconvenience she'd already sat through once and couldn't be expected to care about again.
“Good night, Umma.”
I hung up. Threw my phone across the bed hard enough that it bounced off the mattress and hit the carpet. Sat there with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, breathing through the rage until my pulse stopped hammering in my ears.
Tomorrow I had the free skate. Tomorrow I had to be Adrian Zhao—passionate, powerful, the wild card who made the sport uncomfortable by existing in it. Tomorrow I had to land a quad flip and perform the program of my life and earn my spot on the Olympic team.
Tonight I was just a guy who was worried about someone he loved and angry at everyone who had failed him.
I lay back on the bed, still in my costume, feathers crushed beneath me, and closed my eyes.