Chapter 5 Stefan
Stefan
Amoment later, Evan glances to our right, then back at me. "Isn't that your dad?"
And so it is. Speak of the devil, I suppose.
While Evan and I were standing around debating what to do next, Dad, along with a few others, has found me.
I recognize most of them. Two of the three American national team coaches, obvious in their suits, and another man who has to be another coach. They have a look.
Dad gives me a small nod of acknowledgement, raising his voice to cover the thirty or so feet between us.
“Stefan, syn. I have been looking for you.” Dad's Ukrainian accent is on high, as usual at international competitions.
I've never decided whether it's because he talks to other Ukrainians and picks it back up or if he pushes into it to remind people of his birth country.
“I was at the training session,” I reply, doing my best to keep from sounding sarcastic.
It's not as if I was hard to find. He knows my schedule, could've been a normal coach and showed up.
I don't mind he didn't, because I know what I need to do, but what's he trying to prove?
I look back over at Evan, hovering at my side.
“I guess I'd better go talk to him. See you later?”
"Should I hope not?”
When I turn my head to flash him a last look, he's smiling back at me, all sunshine and warmth. As usual. "Maybe it wouldn't be the end of the world." Not that I'm going to admit it to Dad.
When I get to the group, now waiting for me, I offer everyone a nod. “Hi.” I'm doing my best to be at least somewhat respectful. No need to piss off the national coaches. “What's up? And Dad, remind me that I need to talk to you about my room.”
“Your room?” His eyes narrow, locking on to mine, an ice blue that can go as cold as the color implies, but melts just as easily. He’s a man of contradictions, is my dad. “Is there something the matter with your room?”
I guess we're talking about it now. “They put me in a double. With Evan,” I reply, nodding toward the man in question. His back, anyway, since he’s walking away from us.
“Oh. That is not correct.” Dad's frowning, heavy brows drawn over his eyes. The ice comes out. Someone's in some deep shit. “I will sort it.”
“Thanks.” I widen my stance, opening to the rest of the small group. “How are you all today?” Small talk definitely isn’t my strong suit, and talking first is harder. The national coaches aren't quite the most intimidating people I've met, but they have a habit of expecting the world from me.
A few murmurs and nods. The usual questions about how my training has been going, how I’m feeling.
How prepared I am.
“Any surprises up your sleeve this year?” Because I’m their favorite trained pony.
Through gritted teeth, I try to smile. It’s bad enough when it's media, fans. But this woman? She’s been by our rink a few times, checking up on me, all eighties hair and dark pant suits.
She's aware of what I’m working on. They’ve seen my programs so many times.
And they still want more. Always. “Do I need a surprise?”
Sure, I’m planning one. But if I decide not to go for it, I don’t want to be hounded over the decision. Which means nobody, and I mean nobody, gets to know about it ahead of time. Except some of the people who work at our rink, I suppose.
“Just skate clean, buddy.” Buddy? Seriously? The other one, a shock of white hair and long white eyebrows over blue eyes, winks. The other coach’s ex partner, if I remember correctly. He pats my arm condescendingly. “Keep an eye on that Max Sennhauser. He’s creeping up on your scores.”
As if I didn’t know. Max Sennhauser, one of only a couple others in the world who’ve landed a quad axel in competition. Who came close to beating me in the Circuit Championships final a couple months ago. The seventeen year old phenom from Switzerland.
“We’re counting on you,” the woman adds. Yes; thank you for stating the obvious. “We need those three spots at the Olympics next year.”
“Yeah, got it.” My teeth emit a faint squeak, and I force my jaw to relax. Deep breath in. Destroying my teeth isn't going to help me.
Dad takes my arm, leading me a couple steps away from the group, recognizing the signs. “I’ll fix room, syn. Where are rink bags?"
"Oh, they're in the warm-up room. I should grab them,” I answer.
"Very good. I meet you in front lobby of hotel. Will know where we go then." He’s not speaking in full Ukrainian, at least, but he’s pissed off. About the room situation? Or did something else happen before I got here?
"Thanks, Dad. I still have a few hours before my next session, but I would like to get in a workout at some point."
"Tak, tak." He pats my shoulder brusquely, then lets me go. "I will get new room assignments and move things. I'll text. No meeting. Do what you need."
"Thanks."
He gives me a last nod. "Pobachymos, syn."
"Bye!" We split up, me to pick up my bags. Him to, I assume, sort out my room.
The gym isn't quiet, but it's also not packed. It’s also not stifling hot, even after the relative coolness of the rink and hallways, which is nice. It does smell like sweaty athletes, but that’s the smell of home.
It doesn't take me long to find a treadmill, put in my ear buds, and start my run.
Tuning out the world while I run is such a habit by now I can shut out the people around me without any problem.
It's quiet in my own head. The pounding rhythm of my music keeps my feet going.
It's not quite the same as the peace of being on the ice, but it's close.
For an hour, I don't have to think about the expectations. I don't have to worry about the future. I can clear my mind and run.
I'm finishing my cool down when my attention is snagged by movement to my left.
Someone on the treadmill next to me. They've probably been there all along.
I've been so caught up in my own world I didn't notice.
When I look over, I catch Jacques' eye. He gives a subtle nod of his head further to his own left. “Your boyfriend's hot.”
As usual, he’s speaking in French. Since we grew up spending so much time together, I speak it almost as well as English, so he doesn’t bother trying to translate when he’s around me.
But wait. My what now?
Stepping off the treadmill, I move forward so I can see beyond Jacques.
Evan’s on a nearby machine doing butterflies, damp black curls plastered to his forehead.
His skin shining with sweat. For about two seconds, I'm swept up in the sight, unable to tear my eyes away.
Even on a weight machine, his grace is evident.
Each movement flowing into the next as if it were choreographed. In a way, I suppose it is.
I remember what Jacques said and pull my eyes away, snapping back to Jacques, who's still jogging. “He's not my boyfriend,” I respond, about twenty seconds too late.
A snort and then a snicker. "Are you sure about that? You were awfully excited to see him earlier."
"Of course, I'm sure about that. I'd know if I had a boyfriend. I mean, fuck man, I'm straight and I don't even have a girlfriend."
Jacques looks me up and down as if he's seeing me for the first time. "You're straight?"
"Yes?" The question throws me off. “Have I ever given any indication that I'm not?” Jacques, of all people, is conforming to stereotypes?
Jacques shrugs, and how he manages to look so elegant doing it while running on a treadmill is beyond me. "All right. Not your boyfriend then. Does that mean I can give it a shot?"
"I mean, sure? If you want to, he's not my property."
Jacques tilts his head, studying Evan as he continues his workout. "Maybe I will."
Shaking my head at his antics, I step away from his treadmill. "You're such an asshole."
"Yes. But why in this case? He's hot."
"He's also your competition."
Another Gallic sort of shrug. "Of course, but who isn't?"
"Anyone you don't meet at Worlds, maybe?"
Jacques starts pressing a button on his treadmill, slowing it down. After a few seconds of walking, it comes to a stop, and he steps off next to me. "My sweet, innocent baby boy. Do you truly believe that we don't all hook up at these events?"
What the fuck? "No. You don't. You can't. That's like incestuous or something."
Jacques's laughter booms through the workout room, and about half the people in it look up at him.
Evan included, I notice out of the corner of my eye.
Jacques points toward a pair standing by one of the weight machines.
"I have had both of them." His finger moves over to someone else rowing steadily.
"And him. And..." His finger wavers for a minute, then settles on the guy behind the counter.
"And him. But he isn't a skater, so he doesn't count. "
"Yeah, don't tell him that. I knew you were a player, but… Fuck, dude."
Jacques slings a sweaty arm around my shoulders, hauling me toward the showers. "One day, baby boy, we are going to play. And you will understand."
I roll my eyes, laughing. "Asshole." I'm not sure what he’s implying, not really. Is he hitting on me? I don’t think so, but would I know it if I saw it?
I am aware I'm behind the curve, developmentally speaking. That by age twenty-two, I should have at least had some sort of romantic relationship in my life. I'm not a virgin, but relationships have never been in the cards.
I have skating and that's all that matters.
All I have time for. Getting to and winning the next Olympics.
Proving I can do it. That I'm not a complete fuck up.
And nothing, absolutely nothing, is going to get in the way of completing that goal.
Not pressure, not nerves. And certainly not a relationship.
I can't even manage friendships more complicated than running into each other at competitions or going to training camps together.
No time for roommates either, no matter how sweet. I pull my phone out of my pocket, turning off the music while I’m at it. Nothing from Dad. Strange. It's been almost two hours.