Chapter 4 Evan
Evan
Stefan steps onto the ice as I leave it, and for a second, all I see is blue as our eyes meet. I should follow Gabby back to the warm-up room, see if she has any instructions for me, but I can’t tear my eyes off Stefan, much less walk away from him.
He's so powerful. Mastery evident in his every move.
The group circles the rink, pace easy, for a minute.
They're just getting their legs under them, but Stefan is the star.
No matter how basic the movement, his intention, his mastery, is impressive.
His form is perfect, so different than mine, which has frustrated coaches since I was twelve.
When the group begins to split away from the boards to move into element practice, Stefan has the run of the rink. I’m not the only one watching him; when he begins to speed up, moves into the rink, every other skater gets out of his way.
After a few minutes, I settle onto the seat where I left my shoes, but my eyes continue to follow him.
I can't look away, not even to take the few minutes necessary to unlace my boots.
His strokes pick up speed, and a moment later, he's on his back outside edge for a moment before he leaps into the air, using nothing but form and the power of his right leg. Then he’s flying, position flawless, perfect height, perfect rotations.
He's superhuman. My dreaded quad loop, as if it's nothing.
His warm-up jump is the one I've been working on for over a year without success.
Another cycle, and he takes off into another quad. A Lutz, this time, because of course it is. When he turns the jump that only a handful of people can do into a combination, I sigh. Jealous, all over again.
He seems to be in the mood to show off, because after another rotation around the rink, Stefan leaps into a quad Salchow and follows it up immediately with a quad toe loop.
Can anyone else on Earth do that, stack two quads together?
I didn’t know he could do it, but there it is, smooth as silk.
Then a quad Lutz, triple loop, triple toe.
Another combination that shouldn’t exist.
He's polite about his ownership of the rink, gives the rest their time to practice, but he is the undisputed king of it. As he moves further and further away from the possible, the rest of the skaters give him more and more space.
I'm certain we're all thinking the same thing. Wishing the same thing. To be able to jump like Stefan. Every takeoff is textbook-perfect. Every landing a deep, smooth glide. He rotates so quickly in the air.
Rumors of a quint have been spreading for years. Seeing him do what he's doing in person, I can understand why. He flies so high; he's got time for another rotation if he wanted it. He's already doing the impossible. What's one more jump that defies physics?
He's not going to do one this morning, though.
Even if he was thinking about it, the session is too short, and he's already starting to wind down.
A single quad Sal, which must be as easy as breathing to him.
Then a triple-triple combination before he moves into a sit spin that grows into an upright.
Of course, because he's apparently a god, he rotates faster than anyone I've ever seen. He's a blur against the boards, yet when he pulls out, he's laughing. Laughing. How many G's was he holding? Now he's laughing, as if it was nothing. He is superhuman.
Someone draws up next to him, says something, and they're both laughing. Light, easy, neither of them even breathing hard. Stefan is close enough for me to see his face, and it’s glowing, eyes dancing, a light sheen of sweat highlighting the perfect planes of his face under the too-bright lights.
It's not fair. Nobody should be this good and this pretty. How are the rest of us mere mortals supposed to compete?
To add insult to injury, my cock is stirring again. What is wrong with me? I'm not supposed to react like this to a skater, to my competition. Didn't I learn my lesson about lusting over people in this world? Skaters are fickle and self-absorbed. We have to be to get to these levels.
But despite all that, I don't think I've reacted like this to anyone, ever. Something is very wrong with me.
Can professional adoration be mistaken for lust? Is that what this is? Because God knows, I admire the crap out of the man.
If it's old-fashioned lust, though, it's stupid, because regardless of whether he's straight, Stefan Petryk is the reigning god of figure skating.
The man who makes the rest of us look like we never graduated out of Juniors.
He's so far out of my league it's a joke.
I don't think he even likes me, despite breakfast.
He still looks far too approachable, laughing with—is that Jacques Benoit?
Yes, definitely, Jacques Benoit. And there’s another ridiculously handsome man—as though they've been best friends since birth.
Hell, for all I know they have been. Stefan was raised in this world.
Maybe they went to skating day care together.
The fact that he holds some humanity behind the robotic perfection only makes him more appealing.
Plus, Jacques is out publicly, one of the few skaters confident enough to risk judge, sponsor, and fan disapproval to be themselves. He got away with it, since charisma practically oozes out of him and he's ridiculously popular, but it was still a risk.
So Stefan is at least accepting of queer people. Which is another mark in his favor, and enough to give me a kernel of painful hope. Might some part of Stefan maybe, possibly, be interested in me?
No; I know better. Being friends with a gay man doesn't mean anything about his sexuality. Just means he's not always an asshole.
The pair are still laughing when they make their way off the rink, ceding the space to the next group.
As they start up the aisle, Stefan's head turns in my direction. Crap. I duck, staring at my boots, head down as I begin to untie the laces. Will he notice me? Realize I’ve been sitting here watching him?
I'm not the only one. Most of my group stopped to watch Stefan’s practice, skaters and coaches alike. It shouldn't feel weird, or like I'm any different than the rest.
It does, though, when I add in our sharing a room last night. Not to mention I jacked off while picturing him in the shower this morning.
Ok, I'm officially creepy. Something like a stalker, sitting here watching him with my tongue hanging out.
Now that I'm not distracted—enchanted, even—by what's happening on the ice, the cold is seeping in. Flowing in, making up for lost time. Where did I leave my jacket? I forgoe my laces to dig through my bag.
Stefan's voice says something, far too close. A few rows away from me, at most. Whatever he says, it’s in French.
That's a surprise. I'm the Canadian, the one who's supposed to at least understand my country’s second language, but he's the one who speaks it.
Fluently, given the way the words flow out of him.
Because of course he does. He's perfect, amazing at everything he touches.
Jacques responds, laughter still in his voice.
I keep my head down, still hoping, against all odds, Stefan hasn't noticed me sitting here.
Because the odds hate me, the next time Stefan's voice reaches my ears, it's directly above me. “You looked great this morning.”
I jerk, newly acquired jacket tightening in my grip. “What?”
When I look up, Stefan is settling into the chair next to mine. Oh, God. Are those shoes his? How, of all the chairs in this area, did he choose the one next to mine to change into his boots on? He’s rapidly untying them, so he must have—impossible as it seems.
Since I got off the ice half an hour ago and only one of my boots is untied, I feel all the more pathetic. I must look like one of his millions of screaming fans. Not that I'm not, but I'd rather he didn't know it.
I shrug into my jacket, then duck my head back to my boots and return to my laces, trying to cover up how flustered I am. When Stefan answers me, his voice makes me jump, though it sounds friendlier than I've heard it yet. “Your practice session. Looked good.”
“Uh, thanks. Yours did too.” He watched me? Seriously? Stefan Petryk watched me train this morning? After watching my free skate at Nationals over breakfast. Is he making up for lost time since he couldn't remember who I was? “I can't believe you landed that combination.”
“Which one?” he drawls, lazily, with an amused overtone. It's arrogant, but in a teasing way. Like we're friends or something.
Without thinking, I shake my head and respond as if we were. “Jeez, cocky much?”
He laughs, and my heart squeezes at the sound.
It's the same open, unaffected laugh he had with Jacques.
It's incredible, and I hate how it makes me feel.
His elbow bumps mine, and when I look up again, he's grinning at me.
His eyes are sparkling, and it's—I can't begin to name what it is.
Heart-stopping, that grin. Me and every teenage girl in America, falling for Stefan's smile.
"Oh, come on, you know I did more than one good one. "
"Oh, so you are as arrogant as they say."
It gets me another laugh. "And then some. So, which one?"
“If you're that arrogant, how come you're fishing for compliments?” I’m doing everything I can to sound unaffected, keep teasing him, not let on how much his grin is destroying me.
This time his nudge is a little less gentle. "Come on." His voice has shifted to wheedling. “Tell me.”
"Oh, for Christ's sake," I grumble, but without heat. How could there be, when he’s this damned cute?
He's not supposed to be cute, on top of everything else.
Hanging out with Jacques must have done wonders for his mood.
Or being on the ice. It has that effect on me.
Makes everything seem, if not easier, better.
Maybe the ice thaws Stefan's attitude. I'll enjoy it while it lasts.
“Both of them, ok? Does that make you happy?
They were both incredible, and I can't believe you managed to land either.”
“I'm pretty sure I did three combos. Or—four, actually.” He has a finger on his chin, playfully confused. And why does that make him even cuter? I'm so screwed.
"Oh, shut up." This time I nudge him in the ribs with my elbow.
"Even I can do a triple Lutz triple toe.
That was a cool down, and I know it. Was the quad loop to start meant to make me jealous?
" I hate that I asked as soon as the words leave my mouth.
It's too insecure, like I'm begging for any kind of attention, even if it's negative.
“Oh.” His voice sobers immediately. “I didn't think about that. Didn't mean to rub it in your face or whatever. It was on my mind, I guess.”
Well, that's fair. He had, after all, watched me fall on one. “No, it's fine. I'm sorry; I shouldn't have taken it so personally. You're free to do any jumps you want in your training session.” Now I'm the one who sounds like an asshole.
"Oh, am I?" his voice is back to teasing. “How very kind of you to give me permission to do any jump.”
Of course he's called me on it. In the best possible way. Since when is Stefan Petryk nice? "Oh, shut up."
He laughs again, as bright and shiny as before, jostling me as we both start to put on our shoes. Seeing him this way is invigorating. He's as far from the sullen, pissed-off man I saw last night as it's possible to be.
"When's your next session?" he asks.
"One," I answer, fighting to keep looking at my shoes, finish tying them. Since when have laces been this difficult to manage?
"So is mine! Guess we'll be skating together."
"Oh, sure, like that's not intimidating," I grumble.
“You're telling me.” When I look over at him, puzzled, he smiles at me. “So what's on the docket until then?”
“I don't know. I need to find my coach. Probably check out the gym, if they’ve got one. Maybe a little sight-seeing, if I have time.”
"Good idea. I should find Dad sometime, too."
His dad? Oh, right. "Your dad is your coach, right?"
"Yeah, he mostly lets me do my own thing, but sometimes he has good suggestions.” He doesn’t even sound arrogant when he says it, as if it’s normal to have a coach who doesn’t need to coach.
Which, I suppose, explains why I didn’t see him talking to anyone on the sidelines during his training session.
“Oh, sure, yeah, that's fair.” And that was way too many affirmatives in one sentence.
I'm so on edge around him; it's ridiculous.
Even now he's being friendly. Maybe more now he's being friendly. “Has he always been your coach?”
“Mhm. Ever since I was old enough to put on my first pair of skates. Or he put them on, I guess.” We’re walking out of the arena now, and he pauses at the first juncture in the hall. "Want to go find the gym together?"
Does Stefan want to hang out with me? Still?
Are we best friends now? I'm not opposed to the idea, not at all.
It's just that his presence does worrisome things to my body, things I have neither the time nor the inclination to follow through on.
Not in reality, as much as I've been fantasizing about it.
“I'd like to, but I do need to find my coach.” I was supposed to follow her out ages ago, so it's even true.
"Oh, sure, yeah, of course." Well, at least I'm not the only one who puts too many affirmations into one sentence. Or he’s copying me, making fun of my breathless agreement. Is today one big prank against Evan? "Good idea. I’ll find Dad. See if we can get the room situation sorted out."
The room situation. Right. Because despite whatever's been happening for the last few minutes, I'm still an unwanted roommate. "Do you think he'll have more luck?"
"Maybe. He's good at red tape."
He jostles me again, still light. Friendly and physical.
Wait. Is Stefan flirting with me?
No. No, it can't be.
“If not, I guess you’re stuck with me for the week?” My heart is thudding again, palms sweaty. Stefan, in my room, for a week? How the hell will I survive that?
Especially if he keeps touching me.
“Guess we'll see.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like his words aren’t threatening my life due to cardiac arrest. I cannot be tempted into something with another skater. “But Dad knows how much I need my routine.”
“Right.” I force my breathing to slow down, trying to calm my heart. It'll be fine. His dad will fix it, save me from self-immolation.