16. Adrian
Oh fuck, I really did forget that I'd latched the hotel door.
From his pissed off expression, Nicky obviously thought I'd done it on purpose.
And the mess on both beds? Only child syndrome.
Well, not technically, but basically. I'd promised Cam I'd try to play nice and I was already screwing it up.
Nicky practically fled into the bathroom the second he had his bearings.
Sighing, I finished towelling off and pulled on a clean pair of boxers.
I should get dressed properly, but I was wrecked after flying in this morning and skating all afternoon.
I just wanted to rot in bed for an hour.
I wondered why Nicky hadn't flown with the rest of us but didn't want to seem too eager.
I flopped onto the bed and grabbed the room service menu. The bathroom door clicked open, steam rolling out.
Nicky emerged in actual pajamas, buttoned all the way up like someone's grandpa.
The golden hair was damp and pushed back off his face, softer without product in it.
No glasses—I wondered if he brought them.
He settled onto his bed wordlessly, stiff as a board, like sharing a room with me was a hardship he was nobly enduring.
Awkward.
“You hungry, Nicky? I was going to order room service.” I held out the menu like an olive branch. He looked at it for a second like it might be a trick.
He took it, scanned it, handed it back. “Cobb salad, extra chicken, no bacon, vinaigrette on the side. Thank you.”
“They have poutine. And pizza. Oh—make your own sundae option.”
“You do know we're skating tomorrow?”
“Ever heard of carb loading?”
“You're going to make yourself sick.”
“Nah. Only tequila makes me vomit.”
I picked up the phone and placed the order. “Hot fudge on the side,” I added, because I didn't want my ice cream melting before I finished my pizza. “And two Coke Zeros.”
When I turned back, Nicky had slid his glasses on and had a book open on his lap. Jesus. Was he 21 or 71?
I pulled up Instagram. Before I'd found out we were rooming together, I'd thought about finding someone to hook up with—an app or one of the guys who slid into my DMs daily.
Hotel hookups were the cleanest option. No feelings, no repeats, no strings, no awkward run-ins at your local coffee shop.
But alas. Tonight I'd be settling for scrolling thirst traps while Nicky quietly turned the pages of his book in the bed next to mine.
An hour later, a knock at the door. Shit, I was still in my boxers. I stood to grab a shirt and Nicky waved me off. “I'll get it.” He pulled his wallet off the nightstand and came back wheeling a cart full of food.
I was fucking starving now. I started shovelling poutine while Nicky was still carefully unrolling his cutlery from the cloth napkin, lining up his fork and knife like he was setting a formal table.
“Chew, then swallow.”
“Ha ha. I'm starving. Some of us had ice time today.”
“Well, I was stuck with Claire from SkateWorld.” He cut his chicken into precise, even pieces. Everything he did was like that—controlled, deliberate, like he was being graded on it.
“Ooh, she's a good one. Tough but fair. She interviewed me during the Maple Leaf Classic.”
He shrugged, dipping a piece of chicken into the dressing on the side. One dip. Light coat. “I hate giving interviews. You probably love talking about yourself.”
“Well, can you blame me?” I winked and tore off a slice of pepperoni. “Did she give you a hard time?”
“No, it's not that. I just have a tendency to overthink all my answers.” He took a small, measured bite. Chewed slowly.
“They've been writing articles about you since you were a pre-teen. You must be used to the attention by now.”
“It's a lot. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.”
“Being called 'the best skater in a generation' is a lot.” I folded half a slice into my mouth and watched him wince.
“You're just as good.”
I chugged my Coke Zero. “Maybe. But no one's expecting me to hit gold next year.”
“Wait.” He paused, fork suspended halfway to his mouth. “Is Adrian Zhao doubting his ability to medal? Has hell frozen over?”
“A guy can dream. But no one's calling me the golden prince of men's figure skating.”
“Some days I'd rather be the pink haired rebel.”
“What's stopping you?”
He speared a piece of lettuce with more force than necessary. “It's not as easy as you make it seem. I can't just shirk all my responsibilities.”
“You don't owe it to anybody but yourself. You know that, right?”
“Easy for you to say. I have endorsement deals and sponsors and kids who look up to me.” He set his fork down, salad half finished, and I noticed he'd eaten exactly the protein and the greens and left most everything else.
“I don't mean to be a nosy asshole but—are you okay, Nicky? You missed ice time. You were gone all those weeks. You don't have to tell me what happened but if you're having a hard time, you don't have to keep shoving past it like it isn't there.”
He stiffened, the careful composure slamming back into place like a door. “I took a later flight because my sister had a school concert. I'm fine. It's just been a long day.”
We finished eating in silence. He picked at the rest of his salad before clearing his plate to the cart, placing the cutlery on top, and going back to his book.
I finished my pizza and when I cracked open the ice cream they'd nestled in a little container of dry ice, it was somehow still perfectly frozen.
Nice touch. Five stars. I'd be leaving a glowing review.
I finished my sundae while scrolling on my phone with my free hand. Nicky read. The only sounds were the clink of my spoon, the soft turn of his pages, and the hum of the heater under the window.
Two rivals stuck in one room, the leftover tension from earlier still hanging around. I guess this was our quiet if awkward truce. I wish he would just be real with me.
I'd gotten a glimpse of the real Nicky over dinner. For about thirty seconds he'd been honest with me and then the shutters came down and Prince Nicky was back, perfectly composed, perfectly polite, perfectly full of shit.
That version bored me. The real one—the one who got pissed off and said things he meant and let the cracks show—that was the one I wanted to talk to.
It was like listening to a song that was technically perfect but sterile and then hearing the vocalist's voice break on a note and suddenly the whole thing had a pulse.
The best music lived in the imperfections.
The catch in the throat. Raw emotion bleeding through.
Nicky could deliver a flawless PR answer in his sleep. But hearing the weariness underneath, the frustration he couldn't quite swallow, the honesty that slipped out before he could catch it—that was what brought him to life. That was the version of him I wanted to hear again.
I finished the ice cream and wheeled the whole cart out into the hallway so it wouldn't stink up the room overnight. When I came back, Nicky had a bookmark in one hand, easing it carefully between the pages.
“You can keep the light on if you want,” I said, dropping back onto my bed. “I can sleep through anything.”
“I'm done for the night.” He set the book on the nightstand, perfectly squared to the edge. Neurotic much?
The light clicked off.