Chapter 8 Evan
Evan
I’m in the middle of a group of my teammates, ankle taped but still aching more than I want it to be, when Stefan is called to the ice. He looks, as always, amazing.
His costume has changed a bit over the season, replaced since his win at the Circuit Championships.
The shirt is still gold, sparkling like the sun—and his smile, though he's not yet giving that out. His pants, though, have gone from black to russet, and they’ve gained some sparkle as well.
They highlight his narrow waist and exceptional ass too much for my comfort.
No wonder everyone in the world is in love with him.
The camera pans in on his face, tight with determination, the blue of his eyes caught by the lenses, staring straight into my soul. How does he manage it, even through a camera? Who starts their program looking into the camera? Stefan, I guess. How does he know which one to pick?
His intense gaze is a dare to every single person watching. Keep up with me, if you can. But you'd better not blink, because if you do, you'll miss the incredible.
I've seen this program before, dozens of times.
Gabby and I watched it together, analyzing his technique.
I watched it on my own, drooling over his sheer perfection.
I watched it again this morning, before he woke up, amping myself with a taste of aspiration.
Unable to process the fact that the man snoring in the next bed and the one on my screen are the same.
His presence in my room is something so far removed from what should be reality it feels like a dream.
Like a god has come to earth and deigned to sleep near me.
I've memorized every dip of his shoulder, every edge change, every rotation, both on ice and in the air.
Watching it in person still sets my soul ablaze.
He soars toward his first jump like he's flying, but he spirals into it instead of taking the straight line.
A change. Why? It means he'll have to change his sequence as well.
Despite the change, he’s skating a perfect program, and I’m on the edge of my seat as he starts to spiral toward his final sequence.
He can't be doing another flip. A loop? I don't think I've ever seen him do a spiral entrance into a loop.
Too high a likelihood of going out of control for him?
At the last minute, he evens out into a straight line for his final jump sequence, though.
Ok, the Lutz I've expected since the early switch.
It would be an impeccable, unexpected transition in, but he wobbles as he lifts off the ice into a not quite perfect jump, and everyone around me sucks in a breath.
What is happening? Stefan does not wobble.
He manages the rotations, but the messed-up entrance doesn't resolve itself. His angle is off, too far to the side, and when he lands, it’s uneven.
He's wavering on his skate, unable to find his balance on the rocker. We're all holding our extra breath, willing him through the moment. A split second later, both his hands are on the ice, catching him as he falls forward.
Oh crap. Crap, crap, crap. He doesn't have any speed left, no way for him to complete his combination. He lost the biggest point scoring element of his routine.
This is all my fault.
I tried so hard to accommodate him, but I was still a roommate he knew he couldn't have. Whether it was superstition coming to life, a self-fulfilling prophecy, or simply him giving up too much of his routine, my presence caused this. God, what else should I have done?
Also, why did he switch elements? Was this always the plan? Was it a last minute change that messed up his concentration even more?
He's back on track immediately afterward, and I have to give him credit. If I hadn’t seen the fall, I wouldn’t know it happened. He keeps his energy up through the second half of his program, but when he finishes, and his face falls, it’s almost enough to destroy me.
The audience, as stunned as I am, is split between silence and encouraging applause. The camera pans out, catching his whole body as he folds in on himself, head down. His chest is rising and falling too quickly for Stefan after the short. Is he crying?
No. When he lifts his head, moving to the middle of the rink for his bows, he looks furious. I guess it’s better than devastated, but it’s still awful.
After a moment, he recovers, his face going blank, then switching to his interview smile as he takes his bows. They’re a little curt, and if I hadn’t seen his real smile, I might not recognize the difference. It’s not a terrible act.
When his scores come up, my heart stops again. I beat him in the short program.
Me, Evan Marquez, the man who can't jump for shit, beat Stefan Petryk in the short.
However, even after losing an entire element, he's only a little over ten points from the lead and a couple below me.
It's nowhere close to an insurmountable point difference for someone like Stefan, who has been known to win by over thirty.
If he pulls off his long, he'll be fine, assuming Max doesn't have any more tricks up his sleeve.
But for the moment, he's in sixth place.
I'm willing to bet Stefan hasn't been in sixth place since the Olympics.
Everyone around me is quiet, still processing, I assume, the same as me. My team sits, stunned, as the crowds began to disperse. Eventually, someone speaks up. “What do you think happened?”
I wince. It wasn't directed at me, but it hits me like it was. “I think it might be my fault.”
“What do you mean?” She looks over at me, her famously golden eyes curious. They match the medal she won at Nationals this year.
“Well, you know how he's famous for having a set-in-stone routine, right?" I start.
“Yeah.”
“He kind of got stuck being my roommate. We've been trying to work it, but I think he let it get to his head. He was so freaked out over it."
Her nose wrinkles. “Oh, wow, that's shit. But that's not your fault.”
"Yeah, well, I'm a little worried he'll think it is. He looked pretty pissed off out there."
She reaches over another one of our teammates to pat my arm consolingly. “It'll be all right. He's mature enough to understand.”
Teresa, our women's silver medalist, pipes up. “I don't know. I heard he had to go to anger-management therapy.”
Really? It tickles something in my memory, but I can’t place it. “Why?”
“Um, fighting, I think.” Teresa sits back in her seat; I lean further forward, watching her. "After his breakdown at the Olympics, he lost it. He started getting in fights and stuff."
Stefan? Fighting? I've seen the temper, the tightly coiled frustration, but I can't picture him fighting. Isn't learning not to fight the whole point of anger management therapy, though? “Did his dad make him go to therapy?”
"I don't think so... There was something else." Teresa taps her lips, brow scrunched, trying to remember the story.
Some of our teammates leave, less interested in gossip than the rest of us.
The few of us left circle, consolidating our little group.
“Oh, I remember this,” Luc, one half of our top ice dancing team, exclaims, his Québécois accent as strong as ever.
He’d just as soon never speak English, but we aren’t all Stefan.
“It wasn't right after Innsbruck. It was only a couple of years ago. He went to court and everything. Big deal on all the sports sites.”
“Do you remember what happened?” Teresa asks, which I appreciate, because I can’t bring myself to do so. I can’t decide if I want to know. I shouldn't be gossiping about my roommate, I'm sure. I don’t move, though.
Luc’s brow creases as he thinks. “I don't remember the details. Just that there was a fight, and he got arrested. Maybe at a bar?”
Teresa shakes her head. "I don't think so. I think it was something else. Bigger."
We’re all silent for a minute, Teresa and Luc on their phones. Looking it up, I assume. Suddenly, Teresa sits up straight, her eyes wide. "Oh shit, here it is. It was Alexandre. How the hell did we forget that? And it was Worlds, two years ago. Stefan got suspended and couldn’t compete, remember?”
“Alexandre?” I echo, horrified. “Like, Alexandre Boudreaux?” My biggest competition in Canada, the man I’m in the process of subbing in for. The man who Stefan thinks sabotaged him by putting us together in our room. Well, crap. It makes a lot more sense now.
She nods, face troubled, and we all look at her in horror.
Alexandre can be a jerk, but getting in a fight with a competitor?
The idea is anathema. A little verbal sparring, sure, but the last thing we'd want to do is injure one another.
Our bodies are how we express ourselves, make a living. We don't mess with that lightly.
“What prompted it?” Luc’s voice is almost sad.
Teresa shrugs again. "No idea. This site doesn't say."
I sit back in my own chair, focusing on the empty ice in front of us. The Zambonis are out; their constant roar soothing, a sort of white noise for my thoughts. “Was he badly hurt?” I'm not sure which ‘he’ I'm talking about.
“Not sure. But Alexandre pressed charges, even though he did fine in the short program two days later.” Teresa answers.
“So the anger management was court mandated?” I ask.
“Looks like it.”
We fall into another silence, my little group staring out at the rink, contemplating the story. “Well, plus side, that means he has the training to not beat the crap out of me,” I say, trying to sound light, positive, to bring the mood back up.
It works, and a couple of my teammates laugh.
“Well, at least there's that,” Luc agrees. “If you need a hand, let us know.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll be ok.” Even knowing the story, and that the person Stefan fought with was my teammate, I can’t see Stefan as a risk to me.
It doesn’t fit the guy I’m getting to know.
When he was livid about the room situation, beyond being a little rude, he never took it out on me.
He’s been nothing but polite, friendly, since the first night.
He's also reassured me it's not my fault. He won't forget, right?
After our group whittles down to Teresa and me, the two of us sit in a restaurant, finishing our lunch.
Teresa’s watching the room through half-lidded eyes, slumped back in her chair.
She's always been good about taking her moments of relaxation.
“Going to come to ice dancing with me?” she asks.
“I’ll have to leave midway for my practice session, so I'll miss Luc and Leanna, but I should be able to catch Davis and Shulyova.”
“Yeah.” I bite into an apple slice. Its flavor is a weird combination of apple and my lunch, so I set it back down. “We’ve got a bit, though. I think I’ll head back to my room, drop off my rink bags.” Lie down for a few minutes. “Meet you there?”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right alone with Stefan?” She sits up straighter, eyes intent on my face.
I smile at her, grateful for the support. She’s one of the nicest people I've met, and getting to spend time with her this week is yet another bonus to taking Alexandre’s place. “It’ll be fine. He’s probably off with his dad figuring out plans of attack for Friday or whatever anyway.”
“All right, if you're sure.” She doesn't look at all convinced. “If I don't see you back at the rink in exactly—,” She checks her watch, “one hour and fourteen minutes, I'll send out a search party.”
Laughing, I stand, dropping my napkin on my plate. “Sounds good. See you in a bit.”
By the time I reach my room’s door, the adrenaline crash is starting to hit, and I’m glad I gave myself some time to rest before going back to the arena. The broken elevator doesn’t help. How have they still not fixed it? There must be accessibility laws in Germany.
Yawning, I key open our door.
Before I have a chance to enter the room, I’m brought up short by Stefan and his dad standing in front of me, facing each other over the end of his bed. Both of their faces are tight, postures stiff, hands clenched into fists. Crap.