Chapter 2 Evan
Evan
Stefan's standing frozen next to the closet, watching me with those blue eyes he's so famous for. Staring straight into my soul. I'm in the dark and he's in the light, so I know he can't see me well, but it still feels like his gaze is burning through me. It’s so intense, so deep, so searching.
So pissed off.
How do I defuse this? He’s upset at having a roommate, but it sounds like we're stuck together. Which, yes, is a bit strange, since I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to have a roommate from another country.
The surreal part of the situation, though, is that my new roommate, staring daggers through me, is Stefan Petryk. I've idolized the man for as long as I can remember. Now here he is, standing in front of me, planning to sleep in the same room, blue eyes boring into me.
When his mouth opens again, I almost don't notice, I'm so busy staring into those eyes. "How did you make it to the World Championships?" he asks, out of nowhere. The words are rough—not quite condescending, but nowhere close to flattering.
Even so, he's ridiculously handsome up close. Thank God he can’t actually see into my soul, because it’s a whimpering mess at how hot he is.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him, but it is the first time I’ve seen him this close, in person.
There’s no camera and TV between us, or hundreds of feet of ice.
Every figure skating fan in the world has a crush on him.
Whenever he competes, the posters with his name and kissy lips painted onto them cover the stands.
Girls scream when they see him. That he's attractive is no surprise to anyone.
That I'm this over the moon about how he looks in my room, even knowing I'm one of millions, is.
He all but glows with charisma. He's stunning, with a mane of wavy blond hair begging for fingers to run through it. He does so himself regularly, trying to push it out of his eyes, and every single time I’ve seen it on video, I’ve envied those fingers.
And now he’s doing it right in front of me, and God, it’s something else.
His mouth turns down further. Right, he's being an ass. I'm trying to defuse the situation, and I don't think it's working. I force out a chuckle, trying to sound like I don't care that he's insulted me. "Same as anyone, I imagine."
He shakes his head, almost like a dog trying to shake off water. Annoyed with my response, maybe? “Sorry,” he says. Ok, maybe just trying to sort himself out after a long day of travel. I understand that.
"No worries." I force out another chuckle.
This time, it's a little more real. "We haven't run into each other for a couple of years, have we?
I've been lucky, not having to compete against you.
" I like competing against skaters better than me; it’s how I challenge myself.
Stefan, however—he's intense, a league of his own.
Everyone's a little bit terrified to go up against him.
And to be honest, he's not wrong. I shouldn't be here. The only reason I'm at Worlds this year is because the Canadian national gold medalist fell and busted his knee three weeks ago.
"How’d you qualify?" He doesn't sound mean, just confused and tired and yes, annoyed, despite my attempts to smooth things over. Why does he care? Did he suddenly become the figure skating inquisition?
I hike myself further up the bed. Having this conversation lying down is starting to feel like it’s putting me at a disadvantage.
Except now I’m bare-chested in front of him, so it might have been a terrible idea.
What is it about being half naked that makes me feel vulnerable? "I got silver at Nationals this year."
I have no doubt that, under his loose, wrinkled travel clothes, his body is sheer perfection.
Nobody can practice as much as he’s rumored to do and not have the build of an angel.
Blue eyes, blond hair, and built like a pencil, with what have to be long, lean, gorgeous muscles doubtless putting my chest to shame.
It's the only way he can manage the insane revolutions he does in his jumps. He’s a figure straight out of mythology.
And I’m lying in bed in front of this paragon of perfection and hotness, stripped down to my boxers.
"Did you make it to the Circuit Championships?" He still sounds abrupt.
I smile yet again, still trying to ease the tension. "One of them. Didn't make the finals, obviously. I saw your performance; it was amazing." Olive branch, olive branch, please take the olive branch. We have to sleep together tonight.
Not together. In the same room. Oh God, why am I thinking of sleeping together with Stefan?
Now the idea has entered my brain, it's stuck. I can't stop picturing those long, long limbs twined around mine. That head of curly hair pressed against my chest. Oh, God. Bad Evan, bad. Down, boy. He's the man who's going to win Worlds this year, and I'm a relative nobody.
Not to mention, I don't even know his sexuality. Impressive, considering the amount of media scrutiny he gets. I can’t remember a single picture of him with a date.
"Thanks." It sounds offhand, like he doesn't register compliments anymore. His eyes narrow more, and maybe it’s more than annoyance. Is he furious at me for some reason?
I've answered all of his questions. I've been as polite as humanly possible. He can't know the thoughts going through my head about his body. Well, assuming he can’t actually see into my soul.
"I guess I didn't catch your performance. Sorry," he adds.
Ok, that's more than I expected. Maybe he is slightly less mad at me than he looks? "No worries."
We stare at each other through another long pause, and I don't rush to fill it. I can practically see the gears whirring in his head as he thinks. "Did you know you were going to be my roommate?"
It's another abrupt question, fired at me, almost accusatory. I'm still doing my best to appease the beast, so I shrug as nonchalantly as I can and give him another little smile. "I knew I'd have a roommate."
"Do you often have roommates from other countries?""
Of course I don't. “No, but I don't think it's unusual when hotels are full or a country only sends one skater." Not that either of our countries are in that position. Not by a long shot.
"Huh." A noncommittal response. He stares at me for another minute, then turns and starts rustling through his bags. I guess I'm dismissed. Fine.
A couple minutes later, he goes into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Nice, Stefan, real nice.
Whatever; not my problem. I slide back down in the bed and turn away, facing the window.
Since I left a crack in the curtains when I drew them, at least I can focus on something other than the near naked, supremely hot man in the next room.
Laying down, I'm too low to see much of Frankfurt, just some rooftops and ambient light hiding the stars, but that’s ok.
What I saw of it from the hotel shuttle was beautiful.
When Stefan leaves the bathroom, he shuts the door softly and is so silent as he walks to his bed he might be tiptoeing. Guess he’s decided to play nice after all, or showers are the key to calming him down.
His breathing evens out seconds after he's down. How did he go to sleep so quickly? And why am I so attuned to him I can tell?
Worse, why can't I stop thinking about him lying a few feet away wearing nothing but a pair of boxers?
Or nothing. What does he wear to bed? Oh God, what does he look like without clothes on?
I can't stop picturing the chest my imagination has conjured up.
The strong thighs he has to have to do what he does.
A long, smooth cock to match his physique. Oh, God.
Why can't I force the pictures out of my head? And damn my body for responding to them so whole-heartedly.
Is it worth sneaking to the bathroom, discreetly working through the inconvenient hard-on I’ve been saddled with since he reappeared at our door? No; I’ll survive. I’m an adult, damn it. I don’t have to succumb to my hormones.
Unfortunately, when my alarm goes off, far too early, those hormones jump right back into the game.
Damn it. What are the things I used to think about to get it down on command?
Cold weather. Blizzards. My quad loop, the jump I can’t do consistently no matter how many times I practice it.
I combine them. Maybe I need more than one turn-off at once.
My quad loop on my home pond during a blizzard. No luck.
Stefan's alarm went off at the same time, and when I glance his way, he’s staring at me. Crap. Please don’t notice the tent in my blankets. I clear my throat before waving toward the bathroom door, trying to be casual about it. "Uh, go ahead. It's all yours."
"Thanks." His voice is rough, gravelly with sleep. A chill skates down my back. This is so bad. I cannot be crushing on Stefan Petryk. I can't. I just can't. It's not an option.
I don't turn away fast enough, and the image of his straight back, muscles rippling as he moves, his ass, tightly encased in a pair of white briefs, thighs every bit as muscular as I'd expected, will be seared into my brain for the rest of my life. No question.
The moment the door shuts behind him, I'm back on my side, facing away from the bathroom.
My hand creeps down under my waistband and brushes against my cock, harder than ever.
Even the light touch sends another shiver up my spine, and I breathe out a sigh of relief.
Ok, I have to make this quick. I'm sure he's perfected the art of a two-minute shower.
My mind's eye is watching Stefan again. The way his biceps flex every time he moves.
The six pack—maybe even an eight pack—he has to be sporting to match the rest. The long, lean, limber lines of him.
His ass, tight and perfect. Those blue, blue eyes.
Water running over his hard, mouth-watering body.
Before I know it, I'm coming hard into yesterday's sock, like I’m fifteen again. This is ridiculous.
But when the bathroom door opens again on a puff of steam and the artificially floral scent of hotel body wash, I'm out of bed, composed as can be. Stefan appears, damp hair smoothed back, dressed in workout gear from one of his many sponsors. Every bit as hot as he is in the ads.
He offers me something approaching a smile as I pass him on my own trip to the bathroom. Ok, Stefan is a morning person. Good to know.
My shower is more rinse than wash, and when I leave the bathroom after only a few minutes, I expect he'll be packing up his things for the day.
Instead, I find him sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat, hands on his knees, eyes closed, posture ramrod straight.
I slow down, trying to be quiet, and close the bathroom door with as soft a click as I can manage.
Getting around him without disturbing him will be a challenge, though.
The room doesn't come with much in the way of floor space, and he's taken up the area between his bed and the door, putting himself in my way.
I must not have moved quietly enough, because his eyes pop open. "Do you mind if I meditate for a bit?" His voice is calmer than it was last night. Still a little rough from sleep, but far less edgy.
"No, of course not. That's fine. I'll try to be quiet."
He doesn't quite smile at me, but the corner of his mouth does tick up again. He’s capable of smiling; I’ve seen it hundreds of times on TV. I’ll take this halfway attempt over snapping at me any day, though.
A moment later he closes his eyes again, dismissing me.
My suitcases are too loud when I pull them out of the closet, and I wince at the jingle of zippers, the thunk when I set everything on my bed.
Sorting through my things to pull out what I need for the rink is also far from quiet, no matter how hard I try.
Almost as soon as I start, Stefan gets up, going to the closet to pull out his backpack, removing a set of ear buds from a side pocket.
"Sorry," I breathe. Probably too quiet for him to hear, now he's got them in. He resettles onto his mat, and I try harder yet to be quiet.
The heater turns off, and our room is so silent my breathing sounds like a bellows.
Even the hotel around us is quiet, which makes no sense.
We can’t be the only people awake. Is my breathing disturbing him?
His is a susurration, and if I can hear his, surely he can hear mine, since it's so stupidly loud.
I drop my roller and wince. The thud of plastic on mattress wouldn't be noticeable at any other time, but it's as loud as a gunshot in the moment.
And I'm ready to leave the room, which means I have to go around him again. Crap. He hasn't moved, but for some reason one of the earbuds is out. Maybe I've been less annoying than I thought.
His eyes are closed when I wheel in front of him, then hesitate.
He doesn't move, so I do my best to maneuver around him without touching him.
"Sorry," I whisper again, when I fail completely and my suitcase bumps his leg.
Two bags is a lot to manage through the small space.
Did I really need everything? It's not like I'm going to be at the rink all day.
He grunts and leans back, folding his knees up to his chest and opening his eyes to watch me go by. "Going to breakfast?"
"Yeah, my first session starts at seven."
"Mm. Seven thirty here. Thirty-minute sessions are pretty tight."
"I guess they’re getting us ready for competition day?" I give him a grin, and his eyes widen a little. Was I too friendly? Too familiar? Smiling at roommates is normal, Stefan. Chill.
He suddenly stands, one graceful, limber movement, before stooping down to pick up his yoga mat.
"Mind if I join?" he asks, rolling the mat and stuffing it into one of his own rink bags.
I stop, watching him, bemused. Heart pounding far more than it should be at the simple question.
Maybe it's the intensity of those eyes meeting mine again.