11. Adrian
I answered from Cam's couch, where I had been lying in the dark trying not to think about Nicky for the last two hours. I had passed out after my shower and woke up painfully hungover. I hadn’t puked so that was a win.
Bash's face filled the screen—sun lightened hair shoved under a beanie, goggle tan already deepening across his cheekbones, the particular weathered glow of someone who had been living at altitude for a month.
Behind him I could see the bland interior of what looked like a team apartment.
He was eating something out of a bowl with his fingers.
“Bro.” He squinted at me through the screen. “You look like shit.”
“Fuck you.”
“Seriously. Are you sick?”
“Hungover.”
“On a Saturday night? In Toronto?” If anyone was a Vancouver elitist, it was Bash. Unless he was heading to a mountain, he never left the metro area. “What could you possibly have gotten into in Toronto?”
“Whisky.”
“How much whisky?”
“Enough for this lifetime and maybe the next.”
He pointed at me with whatever he was eating—looked like cereal, which tracked for Bash at any hour. “Lightweight. Who were you trying to keep up with?”
“A tiny Irish-Russian figure skater named Sabrina.”
“And you lost.”
“Spectacularly.”
He laughed—the loud, warm Bash laugh I’d been hearing since we were teens. The one that still had the ability to make whatever I was stressed about feel slightly less permanent. “That’s what you get, man. I’d pay good money to see a tiny figure skater drink you under the table.”
“Come to Toronto. We’ll all go drinking and see who needs their stomach pumped first.”
“As if I would willingly step foot in Toronto.” He shoved another handful of cereal in his mouth and talked around it. “Sounds like you’re making friends though. How’s it going by the way?”
“It’s… you know. Fine, I guess.”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. What’s ‘fine’?”
“Renaud is a bit of a dick. The program is very serious. And the other skaters aren’t exactly welcoming me with open arms since I kinda threw off the food chain and all.”
He swallowed. “How’s the prince that was promised?”
I should have expected it.
I had mentioned Nicky in passing in a few text messages, always framed in annoyance. He had listened to me complain about him on and off for years. The golden boy. The nepo baby. The prince on his pedestal.
How was I supposed to tell him that Nicky had brought my drunk ass back to his apartment when I couldn’t remember Cam’s address? That he’d taken care of me? That I’d drunkenly confessed I was attracted to him?
Just thinking about it made me queasy all over again.
“Fontaine is Fontaine,” I said.
“So you still hate him.”
“I never said I hated him.”
“Bro. You told me—and I’m quoting—that he was ‘everything wrong with figure skating.’”
“That’s not hate. That’s an observation.”
“You said his face made you angry.”
“It does make me angry. That’s a different thing.”
Bash chewed slowly, watching me through the screen. “Okay. So you don’t hate him. Beef squashed. You guys cool?”
I pressed the back of my head into the couch cushion, not wanting to see his face when I confessed what had happened.
“I was so wasted last night,” I said. “And Fontaine was the DD. And even though we’re far from friends, he offered me a ride home because that’s how much of a good guy he is. But I was drunk off my ass and couldn’t remember Cam’s address and my phone was dead.”
Bash snickered. “Classic Adrian.”
“So he took me back to his place…”
“Oh no. Did you fuck him?”
I tilted my face back to the screen to glare at him. “I don’t fuck everyone I go home with.”
“Your body count says otherwise.”
I rolled my eyes. “I was way too drunk to fuck anyone.”
“But you wanted to?”
“Did I say that?”
“You didn’t not say it.”
“Fine, he’s objectively attractive and I’m not dead inside.”
“Just horny.”
“Will you let me finish my story, asshole?”
Bash mimed zipping his lips.
“He took care of me. Helped me take off my boots. Gave me ibuprofen. And then...” I exhaled. “I may have told him he was beautiful.
Bash's hand came up to cover his eyes.
“And that I liked looking at him.”
His jaw dropped. “Holy fuck, Adrian.”
“While lying on his couch.”
“Adrian.” Gleeful now. The bastard was enjoying this.
“And then I passed out.”
“Adrian.” Slower this time. Pointed.
He dropped his hand, those hazel eyes lasering in on me. “So the guy you've supposedly hated all these years took care of you like a golden haired Florence Nightingale and you told him he was the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.”
“I didn't say most beautiful—”
“You said you liked looking at him. Same difference.” He shook his head. “And he didn't dump you in an alley—which I’ve dealt with your drunk ass—is what you deserved.”
“He really should've.” I scrubbed my hand across my face. “I've been kinda dickish to him.”
“Kinda dickish is your whole vibe. Giving and receiving.”
“I'm too hungover for this.”
“Hydrate, sleep it off, then wake the fuck up. You're hot for Prince Perfect.”
“Maybe you can knock some sense into me the next time I see you. When are you coming back to Canada?” I asked, because changing the subject was a survival skill I had honed to a fine edge.
Bash let me do it. “December. World Cup event, then Calgary for training camp, then Vancouver for Christmas. You should come. Mom's always asking about you.”
The standing invitation was genuine. Warm. The kind of thing that should have been easy to accept.
“I'll probably stay in Toronto,” I said. “Cam'll be around.”
“Will he though?”
I didn't answer.
“Offer stands,” Bash said. “Anytime. Even if Cam flakes.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“Ok, I’ll let you know if I change my mind. I really feel like shit, I should get some more sleep. Good night, Bash.”
“It's six in the morning here.”
“Have a good day, Bash.”
“Sike, I'm going to bed too. Night.” He grinned and hung up.
I lay on the couch in the dark for a long time after that.
Toronto was quiet outside the windows. Somewhere in this city, Nicky was probably asleep in his immaculate apartment with his tortoiseshell glasses on the nightstand, no idea I was lying here replaying I like looking at you like a song I couldn't get out of my head.