The Rival's Outside Edge

Chapter 1 Stefan

Stefan

March

Frankfurt, Germany

The last time I got this angry, this fast, I was banned from competing in the World Championships. Since I have no desire for a repeat two years later, I force myself to take a deep breath. Calm down, Stefan. It's just a mistake. You can fix it.

I take another moment to double check the number on the door.

The scrawled writing on my key card envelope.

They match. I'm in the right place. So why the fuck is a man in my room?

He's smiling at me, all cheerful, brown eyes sparkling.

There's a moment of recognition, but I can't place him. I ignore it. It doesn't matter.

The room is small, just big enough for the two twin beds crammed into it.

A foot of space, give or take a couple of inches, between them.

A desk and armchair against the wall, practically on top of the bed the guy's sitting on.

No way we'd both fit in here without tripping all over each other.

Was it made for twin five-year-olds? Its scent of lemons and bleach presses in on my nose the way the size of the room presses in on my brain.

I won't fit in this room. I definitely won't fit with another person.

The guy, though, is still smiling, like nothing at all is wrong. "Hi!" He chirps it, as if he's some kind of welcoming committee.

"What the fuck are you doing in my room?" It's all too much. I'm either going to start hyperventilating or punch someone. Deep breaths aren't helpful when you can't breathe in the first place. Calm, calm, calm. The chant isn't helping either.

His eyes widen, and the smile fades. "Getting ready for bed?"

"You shouldn’t be here. This is my room."

"It's my room, too." He leans over, picking up his own envelope and flashing it at me. 312. How? Who would make this kind of mistake? My dad's assistant is always so careful.

It must have been the hotel. They're going to be getting an earful in the near future. "Who are you, anyway?" Another skater? Some random ass person?

Another one of those sparkling, too-charming smiles. "What, the great Stefan Petryk doesn't remember me? I'm hurt."

Is it good or bad he knows who I am? Am I dealing with another stalker? "Should I?" That nagging familiarity hits again.

He chuckles, and I can't tell whether it annoys or charms me more. It's a great chuckle. But is he making fun of me? "I'm Evan Marquez. Canada."

Oh. A skater. A Canadian skater. That changes things. It's one thing for a hotel screw-up to land me with an unwanted roommate. It's too much for it to be coincidence if it's a Canadian. Canadian skaters and I have a history. Not a good one.

He’s also my direct competition. Not just some guy who’ll be lucky to make the free skate, but an amazing skater. Because I recognize that name. Evan Marquez. The eternal underdog. The man whose artistry makes the rest of us look like we're floundering on the ice.

He can hardly land a quad, but when he skates, it's magic.

The audience is right there with him, on the ice, feeling every beat of the music.

He's graceful, beautiful. Everything I've aspired to be for as long as I can remember.

My opposite in every way. I should have recognized him right away, that dark curly hair, wide brown eyes, golden skin.

My roommate. Nope. Just nope.

This must be on purpose, a sabotage attempt.

"They made a mistake. I'll go fix it,” I say, stepping back outside the room and closing the door behind me. Slamming it, to be honest. I want to go to bed. I'm exhausted, and I don't want to deal with this shit.

On top of everything else, the elevator is broken. What is wrong with this hotel?

The lobby is full, of course. Endless waves of loud, cheerful figure skaters and coaches.

Screams and squeals of greeting, high-pitched and way too excited for this late at night.

Maybe they all slept on the plane. Or didn’t wake up at fucking two a.m. to get in one last set of run-throughs on home ice.

And because this hotel is the worst one in the world, there's only one receptionist trying to check everyone in.

Almost an hour later, it’s clear fixing this is not an option.

I’m stuck with Evan, likely for the entire week.

Someone, somewhere, fucked up big time, and he didn't stop it. The only good thing about the interaction is that I manage to keep my temper in check. I don’t go off on the poor receptionist. None of this is her fault.

It’s past one, local time, when I make it back to the door of room 312.

And stand in front of it, glaring at the numbers, gold painted metal on dark brown stained wood.

I don't want to go back in there. I don't want to be crammed into that tiny space, too small to breathe in.

I don't want to deal with Evan, no matter how charming his smile might be.

I want silence. Peace. A half hour to chill out, a shower, and bed.

Instead, I’m stuck with a roommate. A chatty roommate, if I'm remembering him right. Who approved this ridiculous arrangement. Did Alexandre talk him into it? Convince him to do it to put me off, screw up my performances? Destroy my self-confidence a year before the Olympics, in hopes I’ll fuck up again?

How long is that asshole going to hold onto his grudge?

Fuck. I'm losing my mind. I work through a couple deep breaths while I press, hard, on my thigh, focusing on the feel of my fingers to ground myself.

I need to get myself under control. I have to sleep next to Evan for the next week.

I have to be polite, even if he did this to me.

I cannot let it escalate. Can't let Alexandre cost me another Worlds.

I slide the keycard into the lock, then open the door, braced for a confrontation.

Except—I don't get one. Evan has used the forever I’ve been gone to tuck himself into bed.

He's curled up, facing the window, curtains still slightly open.

Weird, with all the ambient light, but fine.

He left the light beside my bed on, the rest of the room lit only by the golden glow coming through the window.

All I can see of him is the back of his head, dark curly hair against a white pillow. Is he sleeping?

Trying to be quiet, because I'm not always an asshole, I step into the room and close the door behind me. The lock clicks into place, and I follow it up with the chain. And the deadbolt. It never hurts to be careful.

A fan once showed up in my hotel room, naked, in bed. I don’t need a repeat performance.

My roommate stirs a little, but doesn't say anything. If he’s not asleep, at least he’s giving me space. The room is cool, like he’s turned down the heat to sleep. Good. That’s how I sleep best, too.

I drop my keycard on the bedside table, reaching for my suitcases to grab my toiletry kit.

But they’re not there. Nothing. The floor is clear of anything suitcase shaped, nothing on my bed.

What the fuck? Where is my luggage? I had my suitcases with me when I checked in.

Handed them over to a bellhop and gave him my room number.

I have a faint memory of seeing them sitting next to my bed when I came to the room the first time. So why aren't they here?

Did Evan assume I'd never come back and give them away? Sell my stuff on eBay? Maybe there’s money to be had in selling Stefan Petryk's boots and blades.

Guess I'm going to have to break the silence after all.

"Do you know where my luggage is?" My voice comes out curt. Snappish. If he's asleep, I—well, I don't feel awful. Not if he did something with my stuff. Evan turns over, yawning.

"Hey," he slurs. Shit, maybe he was asleep. "It's in the closet."

It's in the closet. Why is it in the closet? On the other hand, of course it’s in the closet. I should have checked.

And there they are. My two suitcases, carry-on, and backpack, neatly stacked. Zippers facing out for easy opening. Right next to a much more dinged up second set. I turn back to my roommate. "Did you put these here?"

"Yeah." The word is drawn out, as if he's half asleep as he says it. "I kept tripping over them." Another yawn. "Hope you don't mind."

"No, that's fine." It's nice, actually. And utterly unexpected. "Sorry I kind of stormed out of here earlier."

"It’s ok." He closes his eyes again and burrows down into his blankets. "Did you figure things out?"

"Not really. I’m stuck with you for the week."

"Sorry about that." Evan sounds more awake now, maybe annoyed, and—I realize what I just said. Oops. Way to be an asshole.

I'm not about to apologize, though. Not when it’s all his fault.

This is going to be a very long week.