32. Adrian
I sucked on my vape as I nursed my rapidly cooling mug of coffee. It was freezing on the terrace but I didn't want Cam to lose his security deposit over smoke damage. The city was just starting to lighten at the edges, pale yellow bleeding into indigo that made everything feel brand new.
The terrace door slid open behind me. Cam shuffled out in sweats and a hoodie, hair a disaster, dark circles under his eyes.
“You're up early.”
“I'm just getting in.” He dropped into the chair beside me and stole my coffee, grimacing at the temperature but drinking it anyway.
“Damn. I feel lame. I’m about to shower and then head to training.””
“I don't envy you.”
“Good night?”
“Writing session. Dev had a breakthrough around 2 a.m. and we rode it until the sun came up.” He yawned, scrolling through his phone. “Three new tracks. Rough but the bones are there.”
“Ahh, that’s awesome man. Can’t wait to hear the demo.”
“I haven't seen you in a while.” He squinted at me, that older brother radar kicking in despite his exhaustion. “Everything good?”
“Yeah, fine. Just training a lot. Little competition called the Olympics is coming up.”
“I think I've heard of it.”
“Seriously, the schedule is insane. Renaud has me on the ice four hours a day plus conditioning and PT. My body is basically held together by kinesio tape and spite at this point.”
“They're treating you well though? The other skaters stopped hating you?”
I couldn't bring myself to tell Cam about Nicky.
I didn't want another lecture about being careful around my coach's nephew.
Yes, we had hooked up. Once. Weeks ago. And I had thought about it constantly.
Jerked off to it nightly. Replayed every sound he'd made until the memory was worn smooth from use.
But obviously I had Olympic levels of restraint. We were just training partners now. Competitors who happened to grab coffee together. Two guys who stretched on the same mats and talked about their trauma like it was normal.
“Uhm, yeah, things are good. Just, you know, putting my head down and grinding.”
He studied me for a moment longer, then nodded. Letting it go—for now.
“Alright. But you know where to find me if that changes.”
“In a studio somewhere, covered in coffee stains and wallowing in your angst?”
“Exactly.” He stood, handing back my empty mug. “I’m going to hit the shower and pass out for the rest of the day. Don’t run yourself ragged.”
“Yes, mom.”
He flipped me off on his way inside.
The door slid shut and I was alone again with the city lightening below me and the cold air and the particular silence of early morning Toronto.
I thought about Nicky's voice saying I just wanted to sleep and the way he'd leaned into my shoulder afterward like he was too tired to hold himself up anymore. The way his whole body had relaxed against mine.
I thought about how I wanted to be someone he could trust. Someone who was his safe place. Someone he could lean on.
The problem was I was about as stable as a tower of Jenga blocks. I had my own pile of issues—mommy, daddy, and otherwise. No real relationship experience. A lifelong habit of making impulsive choices.
But I was going to try anyway.
No one ever accused me of making smart decisions.
◆◆◆
We sat side by side on the flight to Paris.
Nicky, being the giver he was, took the middle seat with Sabrina on the aisle and me at the window.
Renaud was up in first class while we slummed it in economy.
I could have sprung for an upgrade—for all three of us—but I'd rather be squeezed between Nicky and a window than sitting in a leather recliner making small talk with Renaud. And I doubted either of them would have accepted an upgrade anyway, no matter how many zeros were in my father’s bank account.
Plus, I didn't mind the way Nicky's leg pressed against mine in the confined space. The warmth of him through two layers of fabric. The way he didn't move away.
Sabrina had on giant noise cancelling headphones and was reading on her Kindle, completely oblivious to us.
I was making him watch Avatar: The Last Airbender. The original animated series, because I had standards. I’d gotten him hooked a week ago during a post training stretch session when I’d made an Iroh reference and he’d stared at me blankly. The cultural education had begun immediately.
We were sharing a pair of earbuds—his left ear, my right—huddled over my iPad like teenagers. On screen, Zuko was in the middle of his redemption arc, struggling with his identity while his uncle tried to guide him toward something better.
“He reminds me of you,” I murmured, low enough that Sabrina wouldn’t hear.
Nicky’s eyes flicked to me. “Zuko?”
“Angry prince who has issues with male authority figures. Trying to figure out who he is outside of everyone’s expectations.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You were snapping at me the other day about the way I was breathing in the gym.”
“You were grunting. Fine, maybe, I’m a bit intense.”
“That’s what Zuko said too. Right before he had a breakdown in the Earth Kingdom.”
Nicky was quiet for a moment, watching Zuko on screen argue with Iroh about honour and destiny. “So who does that make you? Iroh?”
“Please. I’m obviously Toph. Chaotic, devastatingly talented, zero respect for authority.” I nudged his shoulder. “You’re welcome for earthbending some sense into you.”
He laughed—that surprised, genuine sound I was obsessed with—and said, “If you’re Toph, does that mean you’re going to teach me to see with my feet?”
“Baby, Toph's specialty was feeling vibrations. I could show you a thing or two about that.”
Nicky choked on nothing and I patted his back as an excuse to touch him.
At the end of the aisle, Sabrina’s eyebrows shot up through her hairline. She leaned forward, eyes flicking between Nicky and then me, but I was suddenly very interested in the screen.
◆◆◆
The Saint Clément was old Parisian elegance—marble floors, gilded mirrors, the kind of understated luxury that whispered money rather than shouting it.
A far cry from the shared rooms of Québec and Osaka.
This time we had a block of rooms on the fourth floor, each of us with our own room.
Renaud was somewhere on ten, mercifully distant.
Nicky was at the front desk collecting keycards, speaking French to the concierge which was surprisingly hot. I hadn’t known he was fluent. Another piece of the puzzle I was slowly assembling.
“So.”
Sabrina materialized beside me, arms crossed, copper hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun from the flight. Her sharp green eyes narrowed as they scanned my face.
“So,” I echoed.
“What’s going on with you two?”
“There’s nothing going on.”
“You certainly looked cozy on the plane.”
“It’s a tight fit in economy.”
“You were sharing earbuds.”
“It’s called being environmentally conscious. One device, two listeners. Reduces carbon footprint.”
“You made him blush so hard I thought he was going to combust.”
“Nicky blushes easily. It’s a skin tone thing.”
“Adrian.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I’ve known Nico since we were twelve. He’s been through a lot the last—” She stopped. Shook her head. Restarted. “He’s been different the last few weeks. Lighter. The closest to happy I’ve seen him in a while. And you’re the variable that changed.”
“You give me too much credit.”
“Maybe.” She tilted her head, studying me like I was a particularly complicated step sequence. “Or maybe the guy who never trains with anyone is suddenly attached at the hip to one of my closest friends and I want to know why.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re terrifying?”
“Frequently. Answer the question.”
I glanced toward the front desk. Nicky was still talking to the concierge, gesturing at something on his phone.
Probably planning our itinerary for the week.
He did that—made sure everything went smoothly even when no one asked him.
Made reservations. Checked reviews. Built little spreadsheets of cafés ranked by espresso quality and croissant flakiness.
It was neurotic and endearing and I had stopped pretending I didn’t find it adorable.
“We’re friends.”
“And is that all you want to be?”
The question hung there. I could deflect. I was good at deflecting.
“Maybe… I wouldn’t say no to more.”
“But?”
“But I’ve never been in a relationship.” I shrugged. “And Nicky is a relationship hopper. I’m a fuckboy who’s never made it past a third date.”
“You’re 23, dude. That’s not a life sentence.” She crossed her arms tighter. “And he’s had a bad run with guys. If you’re just going to break his heart, leave him alone. Nico collects people who hurt him. It’s his specialty.”
“I don’t want to hurt him.”
“You can mean well and still fuck it up.”
“That’s true,” I said. “But I can promise I'm paying attention. I know what he's been through, Sabrina. Not the press version.”
I watched it land—the slight widening of her eyes, the recalibration happening behind them. She'd been prepared for deflection, for charm, for the Adrian Zhao who treated everything like a bit. She had not been prepared for that.
“He told you,” she said. Not a question.
“He told me.”
She was quiet for a rare moment. Didn't try to fill it with a joke or a shrug or any of the usual shit I pulled when a conversation got too real.
“Just because I haven’t been in a relationship doesn’t mean I don’t want one. Maybe I just hadn’t met anyone worth the effort.” I held her gaze. “Maybe it’s time someone broke the pattern. For both of us.”
I could practically see the calculations running behind her eyes—every way this could blow up, every worst case scenario, every version of the story that ended with Nicky worse off than before.
But underneath all that, something else.
The look of a person who loved someone enough to want them to be happy, even if the source of that happiness came in a package she hadn't expected.
Then, slowly, some of the tension bled out of her shoulders.
“If you fuck this up,” she said pleasantly, “I will make sure something terrible happens to you outside the rink. Nothing career ending. I’m not unreasonable. Just painful enough that you’ll think of your mistake every time it rains.”
“Noted.”
“Good.” She smiled brightly, like she hadn’t threatened bodily harm two seconds ago. “Now let’s go find our rooms. I need a shower and a nap before I can be a real person again.”
Nicky returned with the keycards, handing them out. His fingers brushed mine when he passed me my envelope. The touch was brief but still sent tingles up my arm.
“416,” he said. “I’m in 414. Sabrina’s in 412.”
Right next door.
How convenient.