49. Nico
Dropping out of the Olympic race didn't miraculously cure my insomnia.
I was lying on the pullout in my parents' hotel suite, staring at the ceiling the way I'd stared at a hundred ceilings before.
Margaux was asleep in the adjoining room.
My mother had checked on me three times before finally going to bed herself, each time lingering in the doorway a beat too long, eyes searching for something she was afraid to find.
My father had cried. Dominic Fontaine—the man who watched my competitions with stoic composure, who expressed pride through quiet nods and firm hugs—had sat on the edge of the pullout and wept.
“We love you, son,” he'd said, voice breaking on the last word.
“Your health and happiness are our top priorities.
I feel like I've failed you. Like I should have seen it sooner. Should have stepped in. Should have told your uncle—” He stopped.
Pressed his fist against his mouth. “I trusted him to take care of you and I should have been paying closer attention.”
My mother had been quieter. She'd sat beside him, gripping his hand, and when she finally spoke her voice was barely a whisper.
“We thought you wanted to go back,” she said.
“We thought skating was the thing you loved above all else.
That getting back on the ice was what would make you whole again.
You seemed so determined to get back. We didn't—” Her voice cracked.
“We didn't know it was hurting you this much. Why didn't you tell us?”
I didn't have an answer. Not one that wouldn’t have broken her further.
Because the truth was ugly and complicated and it implicated everyone in this room, including me.
Because telling them would have meant admitting I wasn't getting better.
Because my mother's face when she'd found me on the bathroom floor was seared into my memory like a brand and I would have done anything—anything—to never be the reason she looked like that again.
Because my parents had come to visit me every week at rehab and sat in family therapy and took away time from Margaux so they could focus on me.
How do you repay that kind of devotion by saying it didn't work, I'm still broken, I'm sorry?
Because I was Nicolas Fontaine and I protected people from my pain. That was the thing I did best.
“It's complicated,” I said instead. “I do love skating.
But everything else that comes with it—the expectations, the pressure, the feeling like the whole country is watching and waiting for me to either be perfect or fall apart—I haven't been handling that well for a while.
Therapy and meds help but they're not magic.
I didn't want to let anyone down.” I paused. “I didn't want to let myself down.”
She was quiet for a long time. Then she reached out and smoothed my hair back from my forehead the way she'd done when I was small.
“My brother only ever had one thing,” she said softly.
“Skating. It was all he ever wanted, all he ever built his life around. And I watched it make him brilliant and I watched it make him hard and I watched him pour that same single-mindedness into you like it was a gift.” She paused.
Her hand stilled on my forehead. “It wasn't a gift, Nico. It was all he knew. And I should have seen it sooner. I should have said something sooner.”
“Maman—”
“No. Let me say this.” Her voice was steady now, the way it got when she'd made a decision. “I love my brother. But I love my son more. And I don't want you to have one thing that defines you. I want you to have more than one thing that makes you happy.”
I thought about Adrian.
Probably worrying about me in our suite right now instead of celebrating his first place ranking. Adrian, who had walked up to Renaud and said the truth nobody else had the guts to say. Adrian, who had wrapped his jacket around my shoulders like keeping me safe was instinct.
Adrian had never once asked me to be the golden prince. He’d spent months picking at the composure and the politeness until he found the real person underneath.
And somehow, he liked that version better.
The one who was a little uptight and a lot stubborn.
Who nagged him about his eating habits and confiscated his vape during training hours.
Who planned itineraries down to the half hour, read reviews before picking a restaurant, and got quietly competitive about everything—from jump height to who could hold a plank longer.
Far from perfect. Just Nicky. And somehow that was enough.
More than one thing that makes you happy. He was that. He was so much of that it scared me.
“I think I have that now,” I said quietly. “Something that isn’t skating. That’s why I can finally walk away. Not because I'm giving up. Because for the first time in my life, I'm not terrified of what's left when the ice is gone.”
She studied my face. Whatever she saw there made her eyes soften.
“Good,” she said. Then she kissed my forehead and smoothed my hair one last time. “You should get some rest, mon chou. You've had a long day and tomorrow will be longer still.”
My parents went to their bedroom but I could hear my mother's soft cries through the wall and my father's low murmur as he comforted her. Their love had weathered a lot over the years and it was still standing. Quiet and steady and real. The kind I wanted for myself.
The suite eventually fell quiet and I was alone with my thoughts.
I wanted to check in with Adrian but my phone was shut off and stuffed in my backpack.
Shortly after I'd arrived at my parents' hotel, Bash had shown up with my things. My phone had started blowing up the moment the withdrawal was announced. Well meaning teammates. Texts from skaters I barely knew. Google alert notifications I should have deleted months ago. I’m sure the forums would already be dissecting it—theories and speculation and anonymous opinions run amok.
I'd powered it off and hadn't touched it since.
It felt shameful. That was the word I kept circling back to.
I had everything—the best training, the elite coaching, a family who loved me, a body built for this sport.
And I still couldn't handle the pressure.
I was supposed to be the heir apparent, the golden prince, the next Canadian gold medallist.
And now I was just… Nico. Lying on a pullout bed in my parents' hotel room. Feeling overwhelmed. And very lost.
I wished I could call Adrian. Hear his voice. That low, steady tone he used when the world was too loud and I needed someone to quiet it. I’m here, Nicky. Breathe. I've got you.
But he needed to sleep. Tomorrow was the free skate—the most important performance of his career. I couldn't show up at his door at 1 a.m. and dump my mess onto him the night before his Olympic qualifier.
I lay there for another twenty minutes, arguing with myself. Losing.
Then I quietly slipped out of the pullout. Found a pen on the desk and wrote a note on the back of a room service menu—Couldn't sleep. I'm with Adrian. Don't worry. Love, Nico—and stuck it to the coffee machine where my mother would see it first thing.
My parents' hotel was a five minute walk from the athletes' village. I made it in three, hood up, head down, praying I wouldn't run into anyone that would recognize me. The night air was cold and sharp and helped clear my head a little.
The athletes' village was quiet at this hour. I took the stairs to avoid running into anyone and stood outside our suite for a full minute, keycard in my hand, arguing with myself about whether I was being too selfish by showing up in the middle of the night.
Then I pressed the card to the lock before I could talk myself out of it.
There was a quiet beep. I eased the door shut behind me, wincing at the click.
The suite was dark. Quiet. Adrian's shoes were by the door—kicked off at angles, because he'd never lined up a pair of shoes in his life. His jacket was draped over the arm of the couch. A half empty bottle of water on the coffee table. I slipped off my own shoes and coat, moving carefully so I wouldn’t wake Bash.
I nudged open the bedroom door as gently as I could.
The bedside lamp clicked on two seconds later.
“Nicky?”
He was sitting up in bed, hair flattened on one side, eyes squinting against the light. Not groggy. Not disoriented. I guessed he couldn’t sleep either.
“Hey,” I said. My voice came out small.
“Hey.” He was already moving, pulling back the covers, making room. “Come here.”
I crossed the room and crawled into bed beside him and he pulled me against his chest before I'd even settled. His arms wrapped around me—tight, secure, and I sank into that feeling.
“I couldn't sleep,” I whispered.
“I know. I've been staring at the door for two hours hoping you'd walk through it.” His lips pressed against my hair. “I almost came to find you but I didn't want to wake Margaux.”
“I left a note for my parents so they might show up here later since I had to turn my phone off. Everyone I've ever met is trying to reach me.”
“They have my number. I've been texting your mom for a few weeks now.”
I pulled back to look at him. “About what?”
“None of your business.”
“You've been secretly texting my mother.”
“Geneviève and I have a very special bond.”
“Since when?”
“Since Christmas.”
“You're a menace.”
“Never pretended otherwise.”
We lay there for a moment, breathing each other in. His hand moved slowly up and down my back. My face was pressed into the warm hollow of his throat and I could feel his pulse—steady, grounding, real.
“I'm scared,” I said.
“Of what?”
“Of everything. Of not knowing who I am without skating. Of disappointing everyone. Of—” My voice cracked. “I've spent my whole life planning every minute. Every practice, every competition, every meal. And now I've just blown up the plan entirely and I don't know what comes next.”
“That's okay.”
“It doesn't feel okay.”
“I know.” He pulled back enough to look at me. His eyes were soft in the lamplight. “But not every minute has to be planned, Nicky. Some of them you're just allowed to live.”
The tears came then. Not the panicked, hyperventilating kind—something quieter. Relief, maybe. Or grief. For the version of myself I was letting go of. For the golden prince who had tried so hard to be everything everyone wanted and had nearly died from the effort.
Adrian held me through it. Kissed the tears off my cheeks, one by one, slow and deliberate, like each one mattered. Kissed my forehead. My eyelids. The bridge of my nose. The corner of my mouth.
“I know everything feels fucked right now,” he murmured against my skin. “But you’re not in this alone, you know that right?”
I kissed him. Soft at first, tasting like salt and exhaustion, and then deeper—the kind of kiss that wasn't asking for anything except stay. Be here. Don't let go.
He kissed me with a tenderness so acute it made my chest ache.
“I love you,” I said against his mouth. “I don't know who I am anymore and I don't know what I'm doing and everything is terrifying but I love you and right now that's the only thing I'm sure of.”
“I love you too, Nicky,” he said. “So much it scares me.”
He was quiet for a moment. His hand found mine and he laced our fingers together and held on tight.
“When you told me about the pills…” he said slowly, “I didn't say this at the time because I didn't want to make it about me. But it scared the shit out of me, Nicky. The idea that you were in that much pain and no one caught it. That if your mom hadn't found you—” His voice broke, just slightly. “I can’t lose you. Not to skating, not to pressure, not to the voice in your head that tells you you’re not enough. I need you here. Alive. Even if you never lace up a skate again.” “
I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.
I pulled back just enough to find his face in the dark. His eyes were wet. Adrian, who deflected everything, who hid behind sarcasm and filthy jokes and swagger—crying. For me.
“Hey.” I took his face in my hands. Held it steady. “Look at me.”
He did.
“I'm here,” I said. “I'm not going anywhere.
That night—I wasn't trying to leave. I was just so fucking exhausted. I know that doesn't make it better but I didn’t want to die.” I brushed my thumb across his cheekbone, catching the tears.
“I'm in therapy. I'm on medication. I have people who support me.
I have you. I'm not that person on the bathroom floor anymore.”
“Nicky—”
He exhaled—shaky, uneven—and pressed his forehead against mine.
“Promise me when you feel like the walls are closing in,” he said, “you'll come find me. Two in the morning, three in the morning, I don't care. You come find me and I will hold you until it passes. Every time. For as long as it takes.”
“I can't promise I'll never have a bad night.
I can't promise the voice won't come back. But I can promise you that I'll never be alone with it again.” I held his gaze. “You taught me it’s okay to take up space and I’m not going to shrink back into myself again. You're not going to lose me, Adrian.”
He pulled me closer, tucking my head under his chin, his arms locked around me like he could hold the whole broken world at bay if he just held tight enough. I pressed my ear against his chest and listened to his heartbeat—steady and grounding.
“You have the free skate tomorrow,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“You should be sleeping.”
“Probably.”
Neither of us moved. His hand was absently tracing slow circles on my back.
The room was quiet except for our breathing and the muffled hum of the city outside.
I thought about his free skate happening later that evening—him on the ice, me watching from my parents’ hotel room along with the rest of the country.
I wished I could be there to support him but the media frenzy would not be dying down anytime soon.
“Will it be weird not to have me there?”
“You’re always with me.” He untucked the chain with the cherry blossom and my key from under his t-shirt.
“I'm sorry for—”
“Nicky.” His arms tightened. “If you apologize for needing me, I swear to God.”
I almost laughed. Almost. “Okay.”
I closed my eyes and let myself melt into him. Let myself want this—being held, being loved, being allowed to exist without conditions or expectations or a scorecard.
Tomorrow, he would compete for his spot on the Olympic team. Tomorrow, everything would be complicated and public and terrifyingly real. Tomorrow, the world would want answers I wasn’t ready to give.
But tonight was ours.
And tonight was enough.