Chapter 6 Evan
Evan
Training in the same session as Stefan is every bit as exhilarating—and terrifying—as I'd expected. For one thing, the session is open, so the media are here. Plus, fans. So many fans. It’s almost a sold out practice session.
I’m used to people around during practice sessions when I'm at a competition, but this is a whole different world. Nonstop shutter clicks, and the red eyes of video cameras everywhere. Intense bouts of cheering and screaming every time Stefan does anything, throwing me off rhythm.
The audience isn’t the only one scrutinizing his every move; so are all of us skaters. Like the session I watched earlier, we're all keeping half an eye on him at all times, giving him space to do whatever he wants.
I'm also picking apart his movements, trying to find clues.
Little bits of technique I can try to incorporate.
The exact flick off an edge as he rises off the ice into what looks like an almost lazy Salchow.
The precise angle of his legs as he takes off into my dreaded loop, the landing he makes look like nothing special.
I'm not usually a jealous person, when it comes to skating.
I skate my own way, and I'm proud of what I've accomplished.
For someone who didn't start formally training until I was twelve, I've risen far beyond what anyone expected of me.
So what if my jumps aren't perfect? I can manage most of them.
But watching Stefan, the green-eyed monster takes up residence. The whisper of his skates every time he lands, the power in his legs as he moves into a combination, the second jump almost as impossibly high as the first. I'll never be able to do that.
That jealousy drives me to attempt my own quad loop. It's stupid; I know it's stupid. But I want to do it in front of him. I want to show him I can.
So I line myself up for the open ice. Set up, pull one leg across the other, and fly. Except I don't fly.
Of course I don't.
Oh, I do for a moment. I rotate quickly enough, get through most of them, but my angle's all wrong. I'm leaning too far forward. I'm not high enough, the way I am more often than not when I try this jump, and I'm going to land before I finish.
If it weren't for the angle, it would have been a cheat, which would have been fine. I could have accepted that. Maybe a wobble or a step out, no big deal. But because I'm leaning so far out of my axis, I can't stop the fall when my toe pick hits the ice.
It's far from the worst fall I've ever taken, but it's not an easy one. My foot catches on the toe pick, wrenching my ankle, and I land hard enough the air whooshes out of my lungs, leaving me stunned. If I were in competition, I’d push it, force myself up, and keep going. Since I’m not, I allow myself a moment to lie, panting, sprawled out on the ice.
A scraping of blades nearby, and a dusting of ice skims over my face. “Are you all right?” It's Stefan's voice, and when I open my eyes, I look straight into those wells of bright blue. A faint line appears between his brows as he stares down at me.
“I'm fine; I'm just stupid.”
His hand reaches down, and I grasp it, letting him help me up.
My ankle twinges, but I ignore it. “I thought you said you took the quad loop out of your routine.” His voice is chiding, if gentle, and for a moment, I have to grit my teeth over the surge of irritation.
I might not be as good at it as him, not close to, but that does not mean I'm incapable.
Even if all signs currently point in that direction. “I did.”
“Then why'd you try it?” His eyes are still impossible to resist, and he hasn't let go of my hand. Is it intentional, or did he forget we were holding hands? “I mean, I'm all for practice, but maybe not on crowded ice two days before Worlds?”
The irritation melts. He's still being condescending, but he's right.
And my hand is still in his. Taking over as irritation disappears, butterflies run rampant through my stomach.
“Blame yourself.” I try to smile at him, but it wavers.
Tingles spark through my palm where our hands touch.
Should I let go? Wait until he notices? Will it be weirder if I wait?
I don't want to freak him out. Maybe I can pretend I didn't notice either.
“Me? What did I do?” His mouth moves into that little one-sided quirk he makes. The not-quite-smile I'm not sure how to read.
“You make it look so easy.” It might not be the whole story, but it's far from a lie. “I was watching your technique, thought I'd try to emulate it.”
“With a quad.” His face has gone a bit pale, which is fair. “Who tries new technique with a quad?”
Me, it seems. "Like I said, stupid. I figured—a loop’s a loop, right? It’s not like I was doing anything completely new."
The concern hasn't left his face, and he's still holding my hand. “I guess. I could work on it with you if you want.”
“No, no, it’s fine. You need your own practice time. No need to waste it on me.”
He doesn't look convinced, but he finally notices our hands and drops mine, following it up with a quick glance around. Oh, right, the media. The fans.
I just fell, then stood here holding Stefan's hand for who knows how long in front of everyone. Great.
“I didn't mean right now.” He blushes a little, embarrassed, or the cold is getting to him now that he’s standing still.
“Right, of course not. I don't know what I was thinking.” My cheeks warm as well.
When his eyes meet mine again, though, they're still smiling. “Maybe we could pull some rink time after the competition?”
"Oh, I'll be gone by then." I hate to say it. Stefan Petryk is offering to train with me. But I can't afford to stay longer. “I'm flying out Friday evening.”
The crease between his eyebrows deepens. "That sucks."
“Yeah, well.” I shrug, trying to pull off nonchalant. "That's life."
Another smile, halfway between quirk and full sunshine, and a new pack of butterflies in my stomach. How many variations of smile does Stefan have? And what do they mean? This one makes me tingle. "I'd better get back out there. Dad'll eat me alive if he realizes how much time I've spent talking."
“Yeah, of course.” He pushes off the boards and he's back on the rink, flying. Three steps and he's at full speed. It's astonishing, the power he's holding in those legs. What would it feel like to have them wrapped around me?
Nope. Bad thoughts.
I'm tying my shoes, when Stefan starts to curse from a few rows up. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
I crane my neck to look, and he's alone, staring at his phone.
Turning in my seat, I rest my forearms on the back of it.
A few other skaters are still in the area, some coaches milling about watching as their skaters take their turn on the ice, but nobody else appears to be paying attention. “What's wrong?”
He's glaring at his phone like it's somehow managed to personally offend him. For a second, it looks like he’s about to throw it, but instead, he clenches his jaw harder and sets it down, firmly, on the seat beside him.
“You're stuck with me for the week.” From three rows away, I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Stuck with—” Oh. Oh, crap. “Your dad couldn't find another room.”
“Apparently every fucking hotel in Frankfurt is sold out.”
“How is that even possible?”
“Fuck if I know. Some big convention, or some shit. Someone fucked up and scheduled Worlds at the same time.” The words are a growl; he's definitely not happy about this. Am I back to the pissed off version of my roommate?
“I'm sorry,” I answer. It’s time to soothe the beast again.
Maybe I only partially succeeded last night, but I can do better this time.
Well, I can try, anyway. He's got a more chiseled jawline than I'd noticed, now his teeth are grinding.
Why the hell am I noticing his jawline when he looks ready to punch someone? Hopefully not me.
His hands clench, unclench, and after his eyes dart to mine, he sucks in a deep breath, before letting it out. His head shakes, the movement stiff, almost curt. “It's not your fault.” I guess there's that.
“Still, I know how important a single is to you.” My voice is still soft, soothing, like he's a tiger stalking outside his cage looking for his next meal. That's what he reminds me of. Sleek athleticism, burning eyes, ready to pounce on the unwary.
“He's such a fucking asshole.” It comes out as a hiss, as if he’s talking to himself more than me. Hopefully he's not talking about me, either.
I can't ignore it, though; if he is, I need to know why and try to fix it before we're alone in a room together again. “Who?”
His eyes come back to mine, and they’re shooting sparks.
If looks could kill, and so forth. Crap.
Does he mean me? What did I do that was so bad?
“Fucking Alexandre. He knows. He knows exactly why I need my own room.
He's just trying to make me miserable. And fuck over my team while he's at it.
" Stefan is growing the words by the end, but I'm no less confused.
"Alexandre? Like, Alexandre Boudreaux?" What on earth does my teammate have to do with any of this?
A curt nod is all the response I get.
"Um... Did I miss something?" I'm approaching the tiger, carefully, hand outstretched. Nice kitty.
"The woman at the front desk said they called to confirm the room assignment changed, and my roommate approved it." Sparks shoot straight at me, and I'm lifting my hands before I realize what I'm doing. I'd be backing away if I weren't sitting.
"Not me."
"I know," he growls. "You already told me. Which means it was Alexandre. Who I'm certain is aware that having my own space is necessary for me. That I need it to perform well. He was obviously trying to sabotage me. Wants me to mess up and lose a spot at the Olympics, probably."
Oh. Well, crap. If he's right, that's all kinds of messed up. "But you always podium at Worlds," I argue. "The only time anything like that has ever happened was..." My voice trails off. It might be a sensitive subject.