Chapter 34 Evan
Evan
“Awhat?” I’m baffled by this announcement. “I’m not a choreographer. That’s your thing.”
“Which is why he doesn’t want to hire you as a choreographer,” Stefan answers, and something about his voice makes me suspicious.
He’s trying too hard to sound nonchalant.
It’s always a bad sign when Stefan is trying to be nonchalant.
“But he does want to hire you to help him refine his choreography, give it that special Evan Marquez twist.”
Interesting. I’m not sure what the twist is supposed to be, but after days spent working with Stefan and his father, and months with my university team, I have an idea.
It’s ostensibly why I’m part of Stefan’s coaching team, the only way I could come to the Olympics as anything but a spectator. Certainly the only way I could spend the two weeks in Stefan’s room, and even that’s not official.
Stefan’s silent, letting me think, his finger running in little circles through my chest hair, around a nipple. He’s not trying to seduce me again, just occupying himself. He does best when he’s moving. “I didn’t know that was a thing,” I answer eventually.
The finger pauses for a moment, then continues, and his muscles bunch in a small shrug beneath my arm. “I don’t know if it is, but if not, he wants to make it one.”
With anyone else, I’d understand, a bit.
But Jacques? He’s got amazing artistry all on his own; what would he need me for?
With Stefan, we had clear goals, places where we could up his component scores.
Jacques doesn’t need help with those. “Jacques’s component scores are always great, though. He doesn’t need me,” I argue.
“Yours are better,” Stefan responds, voice matter-of-fact. As if he’s not stating that one of, if not the, best artistry skaters in the world isn’t as good as I am. “And if he thinks he does, isn’t that what matters? He’s been dying to learn how to skate like you for ages.”
Like me? But why? He’s incredible. It makes no sense
Except… maybe it does, a little. Stefan’s component scores have been climbing all season and most of the members of my university team are improving. Maybe my being here as a coach is more than a technicality.
After a minute, his finger still moving, though it’s playing with the hair lower on my chest now, Stefan continues. “Leanna and Luc do, too. And Teresa.”
At that, I sit up straight, dislodging him. “What?” Stefan is grinning when he meets my eyes, and I search them, trying to determine whether he’s teasing me. “Are you saying we’re having dinner with a group of people who want, for some ridiculous reason, to hire me?”
“As a choreography consultant, yes.” He’s doing his best to sound calm, rational, but his eyes are dancing too much.
He’s enjoying doling this information out to me, watching my reactions.
“It’s not ridiculous, love. We're all aware you’ve got a gift.
And if you can’t use it to skate competitively yourself—“ His eyes darken, sadness touching their blue, blue depths.
“—then maybe you can make a living out of sharing it with others. Helping them. I know how much you like coaching.”
I do. So much. But… I’m a nobody, who may not be able to jump again.
I’ve never even won the Canadian Nationals.
Come in second a few times and third twice, but that’s nothing on the international circuit.
I might be good enough to coach new skaters, kids who probably won’t compete above the Junior level, as long as they have a separate jumping coach, but skaters who are already elite Seniors? I’m not that kind of coach.
I wouldn’t have a clue where to begin; hell, I’d be coaching my own idols. How many times have I watched Jacques skate and wanted to be that good someday?
“Luc and Leanna are ice dancers. And Teresa is women’s. I don’t know anything about any of those.”
“I don’t think you need to.” Stefan reaches forward to stroke my cheek. “We’re talking about artistry training here, not elements. Transitions, expression, whatever that indefinable thing is that gets the audience and the judges eating out of your hand.”
“Not well enough,” I grumble, but I don’t mean it. I’m too busy considering the repercussions of what Stefan is proposing. “I’d be the Canadian National Champion, if it was.”
Stefan laughs, replacing his finger with his lips, a quick kiss to my cheekbone. “Every little bit helps. And you for sure would have won this year. Hands down.”
My eyes fall, and he bites his lip, sorrow immediately clouding his expression. “Sorry, love,” he adds. “I didn’t mean to—“
“No, it’s fine.” I force a smile for him.
Most days, I can let go of my sorrow and resentment, not push too hard against the constraints that now envelope my life.
I can accept help with a modicum of grace, appreciate it when Stefan knows, sometimes before I do, when I’m pushing my limits.
Every now and then, though, the grief hits.
Out of nowhere, or with some offhand comment, like just now.
His hand is cupping my cheek, returning my favorite gesture. “It’s ok if it’s not. You’re allowed to miss competitive skating. To grieve your dreams.”
I try to smile again, but it wobbles, and he pulls me in, hugging my head against his chest. “The thing is,” I manage, once I’ve caught my breath.
“I’m not sure if they were ever my dreams. I loved skating; I still love skating.
Nationals, though? The Olympics? Those were Caro’s dreams, and I wanted them for her.
Then, after, I wanted them to prove I could, I wasn’t a failure. ”
“Hm.” The word rumbles against my cheek. “That’s interesting. When did you realize this?”
“I’ve been thinking about it lately.” I haven’t been able to do much but think for a few months.
“I mean, yeah, obviously, I wanted all of that too. They were my life for a long time. I don’t think being forced to quit is all bad, though.
It’s making me realize I was pushing myself for some pretty stupid reasons. ”
“I’m glad it’s not all bad, at least. I know that doesn’t make it easy, though.”
“Not at all.” I hug him back, relieved, as always, to have him by my side. “I’m learning that if I can keep the parts I love, that’s way more important than walking in the opening parade.”
He breathes another huff of laughter, then lets me go. “I love you, Evan. I wish I could’ve brought you.”
Shaking my head, I smile at him, at the gleam in his eyes. “I love you too. You had to take your dad. It’s fine. It would’ve been a lot of walking for my hip anyway.” Angling his head to mine, I kiss him again. “So, about this dinner.”
By the time we leave the pop-up restaurant in the middle of the Olympic Village, my head is spinning.
I have three new contracts burning a hole in my pocket, because Stefan, sneaky asshole that he is, had already printed them out, basing them on the one I signed with him, his own choreographer, and whatever extra language his father had decided might be useful.
I’d read through them, as carefully as I could, putting my sports management degree to the test, and Stefan assured me he’d double checked them with his lawyers.
They are, if anything, skewed in my favor.
Stefan didn't let me back down from that, though. “Nope. No being all noble and shit. Even if you don’t think you need to protect yourself, I will.”
Since the rest of the table was laughing at us by then, I gave in.
Albeit with a little extra grumbling. Even after that conversation, where I'd outright said I was getting the better end of the deal, they all signed. If I were their primary coach, I’d have been slapping all their hands away from those contracts.
What's more, Stefan has something else up his sleeve. I know it. That gleam hasn't left his eyes, even after all of the night's successes. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
We’re back in our room, after another bout of very intense, very amazing sex, when he finally lets it go.
“So, I’ve been thinking.” Once again, he’s doing his very best to sound casual, and I narrow my eyes at him, suspicious. All the more after his ambush this afternoon.
“Let me guess. You’ve got another series of contracts all drawn up and ready for me to sign?”
“Nope.” He grins at me, though, letting go of the charade now I’ve seen through it. “Just a hope.”
“Ok, what’s that?” He’s so beautiful, standing in the bathroom, fresh out of the shower, eyes all the more striking with his hair dampened.
“Well, you know how you graduate in a few months?”
“Yes.” Is he nervous? He’s looking down, shuffling his feet a bit.
He nibbles at his lip. Oh my God, he is. What is he thinking? “Well, I was thinking.”
“So you said.” He raises his eyes and flips me off, so I grin back at him. Mission accomplished. “Come on, out with it already.”
“Well, after you graduate, you won’t have a rink anymore, right? Which makes it hard to be, like, a coach.”
“Choreography assistant, I believe, is the title you engineered. Despite the fact that I haven’t talked to a single actual choreographer about this."
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. It’s like a coach.” He’s better, but still nervous. I didn’t manage to tease him back to calm completely.
I take the couple of steps required to be a hair’s breadth away from his body, so close the heat of his shower radiates off of him.
He catches his breath, and I smile, soaking in his presence.
The smell of the shampoo he never leaves home without now he’s grown his hair out further, the bespoke aftershave a new, queer-friendly line has created with his name on it.
“What were you thinking, baby?” I lower my voice an octave, trying to get under his skin, and when he shivers, I know I’ve succeeded.
His eyes are darkening. After two rounds in the last few hours, he’s already building up another erection. If I’m not careful, I’m going to sex all the energy right out of him.
It’s a good thing we’ve got two days until his short. Well, about one and a half, now.
“Evan.” His voice has changed, too, gained the pleading edge I love so much.
“Tell me.” I wrap my hand in his hair, keeping our mouths a breath apart, holding his head steady when he starts to melt into me. I’m using unfair tactics against him, I know, but it’s so fun.
“You should move in with me,” he breathes. “Use our rink as your home base. Dad wants to add you to the coaching staff. And you can use it for your own clients too. You’ll have to rent it, like anyone else, but that fee is already part of their contracts.”
Stefan’s father still isn’t the biggest fan of our relationship, so that's a surprise. He’s willing to let us work at the same rink, live in the same city, to have me on staff?
Yet another boost to my ego. Plus, coaching at one of the premier rinks in the world?
It’s so far beyond anything I could have imagined growing up.
The longer I know Stefan, the more upside down the world gets.
I reward him with a kiss. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” It’s a whimper of a response, his mouth trying to chase mine, but I continue to hold him steady, not giving him anything more than I’m ready to. “More than anything.”
“I’ll have to talk to your dad, go over the details and stuff.”
“Ok.” His body is straining toward me, so I take hold of his hip with my spare hand, holding him far enough away that our erections, which are now back to full strength, are millimeters from touching.
He could overpower me here, easily, since I’m far from full strength, but he lets my hand control his movement with a sigh.
“Do you really think you’re ready for me to move in with you? We haven’t had much time together in person.” Most of our relationship has been via text and video chat, after all. He’s too busy for anything else, and I’ve been locked in place with physical therapy appointments.
“Yes.” Another whimper, hardly a word; so I give him another kiss.
“Even if you weren’t incredibly turned on right now?”
“Yes.” This time he breathes it, almost a prayer. “I want you in my life. Forever.”
“What are you going to do after this week?” It’s a topic we’ve avoided so far, I think because Stefan doesn’t want to think about it. He's afraid to consider the possibilities of what might happen at these Olympics and what it might mean.
He shakes his head a little, more the hint of a movement than an actual one, since my hand is still firmly holding his hair in place. “I don’t know.”
“It makes a difference, baby.” I don’t know if it should, but it does.
If he’s going to continue to kill himself with his need for redemption over the next four years, I’m not sure I can live with him, watch him do it.
He’s been lucky so far, but sooner or later, that luck is going to run out. I'm more aware of that than most.
I want him to have his perfect moment, of course I do. I’ve done everything I can to help him achieve it. But if he doesn’t, will he ever be happy? Could I live with it, watching him break himself down in person?
“I’m not going to quit skating.” His eyes are stubborn, through the haze of lust, as if he thinks I’m asking him to give up his greatest love.
“I don’t want you to.” I give him a deeper kiss this time, an apology for letting him believe I’d do something like that.
“Not unless you want to. I’ll never ask for that, but I need you to find a more balanced approach to it.
I’m happy for you to keep skating competitively.
You have a gift, and I’m not selfish enough to ask you to stop giving it to the world.
I just… I need to know you’ll take better care of yourself.
That you can prioritize something other than the pressure the world puts on you. ”
He wiggles, and something about the motion makes it clear this isn’t about sex anymore, so I let him go, and he wraps his arms around me, resting his head on my shoulder. “It’s hard.”
“I know, baby.”
“I’ve been trying not to let the pressure get to me, not to think about how much the U.S. is relying on me. Or how it seems like every single person I run into wants something from me. But it’s hard.”
“I know.” I do. The bright light I love dims every time he’s in an interview where the reporter pushes too far. “I’m here to help, however I can, but if you keep putting the pressure ahead of yourself, you’re going to burn out.” It’s a miracle he hasn’t already flamed up and smothered.
“Ok.” He nods into my shoulder.
“Ok what?”
“I don’t think I’m going to be ready to retire after this season, but I promise I’ll do better. Even if I’m still skating competitively.”
“What if you have another bad day?” I don’t want to ask, don’t want to speak the words into existence, but I have to know. He has to think about it, determine what it will mean if it happens. Learn to recognize that a bad day doesn’t define him.
“Then I have a bad day.” When I don’t answer, he laughs, a little breathlessly, and his arms tighten around me. “Fuck, Evan, that’s all it was, isn’t it? A fucking bad day.”