44. Adrian
I was in the lobby of the Saint Clément, scrolling through my feed when a familiar voice had me looking up.
“God, I can't believe you got me to step foot in Ottawa in January. I almost fell asleep when I got off the plane.”
I hopped off the couch and jumped into my best friend's open arms, clinging onto him like a baby koala.
His dark curly hair was sticking out from a bright red beanie—a stark contrast against his warm brown skin—and his smile was wide, showing off perfect white teeth.
Bash was six feet two inches of Danish Jamaican chaos with the kind of effortless cool that made people turn their heads when he walked into a room.
It had been six months since I'd seen him in person. A record for us.
“You're such a whiny little shit.”
He laughed, thudding my back hard enough to rattle my teeth. “You're welcome. I missed you too. The flight from Calgary got delayed three times because of all the fucking ice.”
“Thank you for coming, Bash.”
“Like I'd miss your Olympic qualifier.” He dumped me back onto my feet and pulled back, holding me at arm's length to give me a once over. Those hazel eyes—more green than brown today—narrowed as he studied my face. “You look different.”
“I changed my hair.”
“Nah.” He squinted. “You’re smiling all weird. It's freaking me out.”
“I’m always happy to see my bestie.” I grabbed his duffel bag before he could pick me apart further. “Come on. We're on the eighth floor. Nicky and I have a two bedroom suite but we're—”
“Whoa, slow the fuck down. Nicky?” Bash stopped walking, grabbing my sleeve to make me stop too. “As in Nicolas Fontaine?”
“It’s a long story.” I sighed. Bash had a tendency to talk too loudly and the lobby was starting to fill up. “Can we do this upstairs?”
◆◆◆
The suite was nice. One of the perks of being a medal contender—the federation sprang for the good rooms. Glossy hardwood floors, marble topped coffee table, two ensuite bathrooms with heated tiles.
Velvet chairs in a deep forest green flanking a tufted leather couch the color of caramel.
A brass and crystal chandelier hung overhead, catching the late afternoon light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city.
Nicky was out at his afternoon practice slot, which gave me approximately 20 minutes to explain the situation before he got back.
Bash dropped onto the couch and fixed me with a look. The one that said start talking.
“So,” I said. “I wanted to tell you in person.”
“Tell me what?”
“Nicky and I are dating.”
Silence.
Bash blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Hold up.” He held up a hand. “I think that edible I took before the plane ride hasn’t fully worn off. It sounded like you said you and Nicolas Fontaine are dating.”
“That's what I said.”
“Dating. As in, boyfriend and boyfriend. As in, a relationship.”
“Yes.”
“You. Adrian Zhao. The guy who once told me—and I'm quoting—that relationships were 'a scam invented by greeting card companies and divorce lawyers.' That Adrian Zhao.”
“People change.”
“Since when?!”
“Since Nicky, apparently.”
Bash stared at me for a long moment. Then he stood up, walked to the minibar, pulled out a tiny bottle of whisky, and downed it in one go.
“I've known you since we were fourteen,” he said slowly. “I've seen you hook up, have one night stands, even that weird situationship with the guy in Japan. 'I don't do feelings, Bash' and 'commitment is for people who lack imagination, Bash.' And now you're telling me you have a boyfriend?”
“To be fair, he was really amazing in bed and I wasn't thinking with my right head.”
“Nicky?”
“I mean, yes, the sex is amazing but I was talking about Ren. Both you and Cam like to bring him up a lot.”
“Yeah, ‘cause it highlights your not-so-great judgement.”
“Well this time's different.”
“Different? This is alternate universe shit. This is—” He grabbed another tiny bottle.
“This is like if I suddenly announced I was taking up figure skating. Or joining a monastery. Or moving to Ottawa.” He pointed at me.
“And it's not just a boyfriend. It's a figure skater.
You—the guy who said and I quote, 'never shit where you skate'—are dating a competitor. In your sport. Who trains at your rink. Under your coach.”
“How do you even remember all this? I thought all that weed was supposed to kill your brain cells.”
“Some things are worth remembering. Like my best friend's hypocrisy.”
“When you put it like that, it sounds insane.”
“It sounds insane because it is insane.”
“You're being dramatic.”
“I'm being appropriately shocked.” He drained the second bottle. “How long?”
“Officially? Since Paris. But it started before that.”
“Started how?”
I hesitated. “We hooked up in Osaka.”
“Of course you did.”
“And then we kept... not being able to stay away from each other. And then I invited him to my room in Paris and one thing led to another. A few times. Then I told him I wanted more than just hooking up in hotel rooms and he said okay and now—” I gestured vaguely. “Now we're here.”
Bash sat back down, processing. “And it's serious?”
“Yeah.” I touched the chain around my neck—the one holding the cherry blossom pendant and the key to Nicky's bracelet. “It's serious.”
“Holy shit.” A slow grin spread across his face. “Adrian Zhao has a boyfriend. An actual, real, committed boyfriend.”
“Don't make it weird.”
“I'm not making it weird. I'm celebrating.” He pulled me into another hug, tighter this time. “I'm happy for you, man. You deserve this.”
“Thanks, Bash.”
“Even if it is Nicolas Fontaine, golden prince of figure skating.” He leaned back, studying my face. The grin softened into something more serious. “Is it weird?”
“Is what weird?”
“Competing against each other.”
“We’ve been competing against each other much longer than we’ve been dating.”
“Yeah but this is different,” Bash said and his voice dropped a notch. “Because if it goes sideways, it doesn’t just ruin a weekend. It ruins the ice. It ruins the rink. It turns every warm up into a minefield.”
I rolled my eyes but I didn’t interrupt. He and Cam could be such mother hens.
“And you don’t get unlimited chances at this,” he added, quieter now.
“You get a handful of seasons where your body, your timing, your head are all aligned. You’ve been chasing gold your whole life.
I’m not saying don’t do it.” He held my gaze.
“I’m saying be careful. Don’t let a relationship—good or bad—cost you the thing you’ve bled for. ”
Something tight shifted in my chest.
“I won’t,” I said, more firmly than I felt. “I can handle it.”
Bash gave me a look. The kind of best friend look that did not need to be translated. I was fucked but what else was new?
“Okay,” he said. “Then handle it like you handle everything else. With both eyes open. Don’t be an idiot just because it feels good.”
“I’m always an idiot,” I said.
“True,” he agreed pleasantly. “Just… be a strategic idiot.”
The door clicked open and Nicky walked in, gym bag over his shoulder, hair still damp from the shower. He paused when he saw Bash on the couch. He looked almost shy.
“Hi, I'm Nico. You must be Bash. Adrian's told me a lot about you.”
“All lies.” Bash stood, forgoing a handshake and going straight for the kind of hug that lifted Nicky's feet a few inches off the ground.
Nicky let out a surprised laugh and patted Bash's back with the slightly bewildered politeness of someone who hadn't been bear hugged by a stranger before.
“And he's told me absolutely nothing about you, which we're going to discuss at length later.”
Nicky shot me a questioning look. I shrugged.
“He knows,” I said. “I told him.”
“Ah.” Nicky's mouth twitched. “Secret’s out.”
“And apparently I've entered an alternate dimension,” Bash said cheerfully. “But I'm rolling with it. Tell me everything from your side. I don't trust this idiot to give me the whole truth. Leave nothing out.”
We ordered room service and Bash got the PG version of the story. I hadn't gotten to Christmas yet and Bash's eyes went so wide I thought they might roll right out of his head. Especially when Nicky pulled back the sleeve of his fleece and showed Bash the bracelet.
“This is sick,” Bash said, leaning forward to examine the delicate gold cuff.
“It locks,” Nicky said, turning his wrist to show the tiny mechanism. “And he has the only key.”
Bash looked between us, something shifting in his expression. “I didn't peg you for such a romantic, Ade.”
“Cut me some slack, man.”
“No, I love it.” He shook his head like he was trying to clear it. “It's just very… unexpected.”
Nicky laughed and leaned into me on the couch. I shifted to make room for him, arm going around his shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Okay,” Bash said finally, pointing at Nicky. “I've read a lot of impressive things about Nicolas Fontaine the figure skater but wow. Anyone who can make this disaster of a human being settle down is magical in my book.”
“Thank you,” Nicky said solemnly. “I'll do my best not to let him go feral again.”
“Hey—”
“He's already more civilized,” Bash continued, ignoring me. “He hasn't checked his hair in the mirror once since you got here. That's growth.”
“I don't check my hair that much—”
“You checked it at least three times when we were talking earlier.”
“The pink requires maintenance—”
“See, Nico, here's what you need to understand about Adrian—”
“Oh brother,” I muttered.
“—he's incredibly high maintenance but will absolutely die before admitting it.”
Nicky tilted his head to look up at me, eyes bright with amusement. “I've noticed.”
“Traitor,” I said, but I was pulling him closer, fingers playing absently with the ends of his still damp hair.
I thought about not kissing him in front of Bash for about two seconds before closing the distance.
I couldn't resist Nicky. Maybe I never could.
His lips moulded against mine like they belonged there, soft and warm, and I felt him smile into the kiss.
When I pulled back, Bash was watching us with an expression I'd never seen on him before. Something past surprise. Past amusement. He looked almost moved, which was deeply unsettling coming from a man whose emotional range usually topped out at stoked.
Tomorrow was the short program. The Olympic team would be decided by Sunday. Everything I'd worked for—every early morning, every sacrifice, every time I'd chosen skating over my father's expectations—came down to the next three days.
But tonight, I had my best friend and my boyfriend in the same room, and they were already ganging up on me, and despite Bash's warnings still hanging in the air, I couldn't remember the last time I'd been this happy.
I was going to make that Olympic team. I was going to prove that Adrian Zhao was more than the wayward son of a real estate empire. I was going to build something that was mine—my career, my legacy, my name.
And Nicky was going to be there when I did.