Chapter 12 Evan
Evan
The medal ceremony is a sight to behold.
Stefan on top, Max Sennhauser to his right, and Takei Kan to his left.
Stefan glows through the ceremony, cries through the anthem, and cheers as loudly for the other men as they do for him.
They all exchange hugs and slaps on the back.
Nobody seems to begrudge Stefan his place.
Not that I’d have expected them to, not after what he did; we’re all still in shock.
The big surprise of the free skate, for me, anyway, is that I came in eighth.
Somehow, magically, against all odds, I managed to not only break into the top ten, but with a couple slots to spare.
I’ve been doing interviews with Canadian media since the moment my scores were announced and we all knew I’d qualified two for Stockholm, which is surreal.
I’ve done an interview or two in the past, but never like this.
Never with breathless excitement on the part of the interviewer.
I'm walking back toward the hotel, on the phone with my ecstatic parents, when arms come around me from behind, all but tackling me to the ground, then catching me again.
“Omph.” It's a voice I recognize, in one huff. If I hadn't already known who it was by the tingles that shot through me the moment those arms wrapped around me.
“Stefan, what the hell?” I turn around, still in the tight circle of his arms, trying not to laugh.
"I fucking did it," he crows, and I fight the return smile, raising my eyebrows and pointing at my phone with my free hand.
Red streaks up his cheeks, and I give in, grinning into the all-consuming, sparkling blue staring at me from inches away.
"Hey, Mama, Papa, I've got to go. Give everyone hugs. And tell them, 'Thank you.' I appreciate the support." The words are relayed, and in the background, yet another cheer rises from the watch party. My hometown, doing its best to make me cry, filling me with warmth.
When I hang up, Stefan still hasn't let go of me.
He's not quite hugging me, but one of his arms is around my shoulders, and I'm chest to chest with him.
The contact is thrilling, and heat courses through me.
“Shouldn't you be out celebrating with your team or your dad or somebody?” I ask, pushing through the weight that’s settled on my chest, tightening my lungs, at his presence.
He's just so... beautiful. Flushed and proud and so, so happy.
He shrugs, and the arm around me tightens a bit. “Later. I wanted to catch you before you left.”
Oh my God, he remembered I'm leaving. God, get a grip on yourself, Evan. Of course he remembered; I'm sure he’s been counting down the days until he has the room to himself. “Thank you. That's sweet.”
“I don't think ‘sweet’ is the word for it.” He grins at me, full sunshine. “Unless we're talking about you, I guess.”
“Me. What do I have to do with sweet?”
"You have everything to do with sweet. I couldn't have done it without you." The words set my own cheeks flaming, and I duck my head.
“You could have. You can do anything,” I mutter, the weight on my chest growing with every word he utters.
“Honestly, I think I just got lucky. Judges could have gone either way with letting me have that or not.” Ok, that’s easier. We’re veering away from the topic of me. We’re also no longer facing each other, which makes it easier to breathe.
Instead, we're walking again, heading back to our hotel.
His arm is still around me, an anchor keeping me grounded and a balloon setting me soaring all at once.
Focus. I shake my head. “Nah. If they pulled too many points away from you, they would have had a rebellion on their hands, and they knew it.
It wasn't perfect, but it was awfully close.”
“They could’ve scored it as a fall.”
I knock him with my elbow, since he’s all but pressed up against me. Not as gently as I could. “You got in five full rotations, Stefan. And you almost held on to that landing. It was so close. Don't fake humble me.”
He snorts out his little half laugh. “You've never met my dad, have you?”
“Just the once. He's a perfectionist, I take it.”
“He puts me to shame.” His arm falls off my shoulder, and he gives a little shrug. He looks uncomfortable, like he'd rather be talking about anything else. “He's a great coach. I need the push.”
Does he, though? From everything I've ever heard, Stefan is obsessive about his practice.
His unyielding routine, the time he takes every morning for mental work, his results in competition, all point to the same conclusion.
Does he need someone pushing him harder than he already pushes himself? Can it possibly be healthy?
“Well, you seem to be a winning combination.” It's the most diplomatic I can make it.
Another shrug, and he reaches out to push the elevator button. “So what time do you leave? Unless you changed your mind and you're staying the rest of the week?”
The hope in his voice, when four days ago it would have been dread, turns my heart over.
I don't want to leave Frankfurt, and not just because I want to stay and celebrate with the rest of my team, supporting the others over the last couple of days of competition.
No, it's because I don't want to leave him, all the more now that he's asked. “I have a few more hours.”
“You're really sure you can't stay until the end?” He's exuding his charming vulnerability again. It draws me in so tightly I’m not certain I’ll ever extricate myself.
“Yeah, Skate Canada—" I'm interrupted by a lurch, and then the lights around us die, the elevator going abruptly silent. A long pause, as Stefan and I wait for something to happen. The doors to open, or the backup lights to come on. Anything.
Instead, the only sound is Stefan's cursing as we're left in the dark, unmoving.
I should have known better than to follow Stefan into this elevator. Not after a week of it being out of service more than in.
A thump startles me, but since it's coming from inside the elevator, I assume it's Stefan, not a repair-person. He's still cursing under his breath, and a moment later, his hand brushes past me, toward the console. "Shouldn't there be an emergency button or something?"
"Probably." Not that he'd find it in the dark. "Here." I fish my phone out of my pocket, and the glow of the screen is enough to light up his face when I glance over at him. His features are drawn, tighter than the situation warrants. "You ok?"
His head shakes, but more in frustration than answer, I think. "Can you turn on the flashlight?"
I do, aiming it at the console, and Stefan picks out what I assume is the emergency alert, jabbing the button repeatedly. Nothing. "Do you know what's supposed to happen?"
"No." He pokes it again. "Is this the right button? I don't speak German."
I shrug, though he's not looking my way. "Me neither, but it's the only one that looks like it might be."
With a grunt, Stefan starts jamming his finger onto all of the buttons, top to bottom. Just in case, I suppose. Still nothing. No lights, no response, no clue whether anyone has any idea we're stuck in here. When he finishes, he sinks down to the floor, covering his face with his hands. "Fuck."
"Seriously, are you ok?" Being stuck in an elevator sucks, sure, but he's not the one who has a plane to catch. Why is he the one freaking out? It's not like we're in any actual danger.
When he doesn't answer immediately, I sit down next to him, propping my phone against the wall, flashlight beaming a bright light in front of us.
The light's reflection is more than enough to see his face when I turn back to him.
He still looks drawn, stressed, maybe pale, though that's hard to determine without shining my light directly into his face.
I lean over, tapping his shoulder with my own. "Stefan?"
He tips his head back, resting it against the wall. "I'm fine. I don't like small spaces, that's all."
Oh. Interesting. "That sucks."
"Yeah." His face flashes with a brief, unhappy smile. "Being stuck in an elevator is basically my worst nightmare."
"Even worse than falling in the short program?" I tease, trying to distract him.
Unsuccessfully, it seems, when Stefan turns to me, the glare obvious even in the diffuse light. The tiger has returned, and he is not amused. "Not funny."
"Sorry." I back down immediately. "They'll get us out soon. We'll be fine."
"I know that," he answers, through gritted teeth. "The problem is getting my body to believe it."
Right. What can I say that might do a better job distracting him? "Do you have any siblings?"
His look is so blank it almost makes me laugh. "Siblings?"
"Yeah, you know. Brothers? Sisters? People with the same parents as you?"
"No." The answer is short, but I think there might be something like a tiny smile forming. "Only child. You?"
"Two. Brother and sister, both younger."
It takes a few minutes of inane conversation, but eventually he looks less pale in the reflected light of my phone flashlight.
At least, until a pounding on the door makes Stefan let out a startled little scream.
He recovers quickly, glancing at me, and I do my best to pretend I didn't hear anything.
"Ist jemand da drin?" The voice is loud, gruff. The repairman?
Stefan and I exchange a look. "Um... Yes?" I answer, half yelling.
"Scheisse," the voice responds, a bit softer. Then, louder again. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"
That one, at least, I've picked up over the past few days. "No. Just English." Well, and French, if you count Stefan, but most people I've run into speak English.
"We're repairing the elevator? Half hour, maybe an hour. Are you ok?"
Stefan lets out a little moan, and I reach over to grip his arm. "You'll be ok, I promise," I say softly, then add to whoever is on the other side of the metal door, "Yeah, we're fine. Thanks for the update. I do have a plane to catch in a few hours, though, so—the sooner the better? If possible?"