Chapter 3 Stefan
Stefan
"No, of course not. You're done meditating?" Evan's voice is a little breathy. A lot surprised.
"Yeah, it was a lost cause." I have to move into a single tonight. I can't do this again. Can't focus with Evan in the room. My morning routine is shot to hell. And when my morning routine is shot, so is my skating.
And I’m not letting gold slip out of my hands this year just because the hotel fucked up.
He waits while I finish stuffing my mat into my duffel. When I stand back up and run a hand through my hair to loosen it, he smiles again.
That smile. It's a surprise. It shouldn't be. It's the grin he gives the camera every time it pans over him during competitions. Maybe I'd assumed it was reserved for the cameras, that it wasn't something he gave out in real life. But there it is, live and in person, just for me.
Is he as cheerful as he presents? Nobody could live in the world we live in and be that cheerful. Especially two days before Worlds. It's got to be an act.
"Going to finish your meditation at the rink?" His voice startles me in the silence of the hotel. We're walking down the hallway toward the elevator that doesn't work—and why is the hotel so quiet? Evan's in the first practice session, but he's not the only one.
"Yeah, we'll see. It's usually too busy there."
"Sorry if I disturbed you."
He did, but I can't blame him. After a night of sleep, I'm less irritated with him, even without my full morning meditation.
His breath was oddly soothing while I was doing it, enough that I didn't think I'd be able to focus once he left.
My frustration is directed less at him than it should be. Maybe his smile is getting to me.
Though—he did know who I was, and I’m far from shy about telling people my rooming preferences. Why did he let this happen? Alexandre might be his teammate, but I've never done anything to Evan. “How come you agreed to room with me?”
He shoots me a look, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he looked surprised. “What do you mean?” he asks.
“When they called to confirm,” I respond. “Didn’t they tell you it was with me? The receptionist said you accepted the change.”
When he looks over at me again, he shakes his head. “Nope, not me. I mean, I assumed I’d have a roommate, but nobody called me.”
Strange. More strange, I believe him. He seems so guileless. Too guileless?
“Weird.”
Dad will fix it. Somehow. He has to. Fixing things is what he does.
When I sneak a glance over at him, he's doing that sunshine smile again. No cameras, no audience. Is he truly this happy? “So what's your schedule? After the first session?” he asks.
It takes me a moment to switch my brain over. To picture my schedule. “I think I have an hour session early this afternoon.” It’s not long either, but ice time is limited at competitions like this.
“Same,” he says, with yet another smile. Does he ever stop smiling? “Maybe we’ll see each other there.” Our bags clatter loudly as we run them down the stairwell. Evan lets out a huff. “No wonder I go through so many bags.”
“Is it even legal for them to not have a working elevator? I thought Germany was supposed to be all efficient and shit.” He laughs, sounding almost breathless. Which is definitely not because we're walking down two—nope, three, flights of stairs. Because Europe does its numbering differently.
Must be the way he laughs, although I don't remember him sounding so out of breath in interviews. “Is anyone else here from Canada?” I should remember how they placed last year, but... I don't.
“Not in men’s, no. Alexandre came in thirteenth last year."
“Is that why he's not here this year?” At least if I'm stuck rooming with a Canadian, it's not Alexandre.
I'd rather sleep in the hallway than with him.
The man is loud, and irritating, and the reason I was suspended from Worlds two years ago.
He's a great figure skater, but in his personal life, he's a mess.
And he hates me. For good reason, but it's been years.
“No, he fell a few weeks ago, busted his knee, so I'm the alternate.”
“That sucks. I mean, not for you, obviously, but…” I let the sentence trail off. He knows.
“Yeah.”
We fall back into silence as I replay our last conversation. Alexandre was supposed to be here until a few weeks ago. Would Alexandre have been my roommate if he hadn’t hurt himself?
Fuck me. He’s the one who agreed to the change.
And there is no reason Alexandre would have confirmed me as his roommate if it wasn’t to sabotage me. He’d want to be stuck in a room with me less than I would him.
It has to have been malicious. The fucking asshole.
As it turns out, the hotel is quiet because every single person here is already getting breakfast. What is it about this hotel and being crowded?
There are too many people for the small room, even along the buffet line. The scent of cooked eggs, fresh-baked bread, and coffee is overwhelming, and the noise is pure chaos in dozens of languages. Plus, it's all too warm, verging on hot. Too many people and hot foods crammed in here, I guess.
It takes me a minute to adjust. After I do, at least to some degree, I scan the room, finding the table with my teammates. Evan's still standing beside me, so I nod in their direction. “You want to eat with us?”
His smile is blinding. Fuck, this guy and his smile. How is it more charming every time he flashes it? One of his canines is a little crooked, and it's—something. Cute?
It doesn't take either of us long to fill our plates despite the line, and we move to the table full of Americans. I give my teammates fist bumps and hellos, and Evan follows suit. Since everybody else recognizes Evan on sight. And likes him, if the greetings are any indication.
So, I'm the only asshole. It's fine. I'm used to being the asshole.
The group as a whole is quiet as we stuff our faces, and for the first time, I have to give the hotel some credit.
The food is amazing. The roll I bite into is so fresh it's still warm, and tastes like heaven.
Which is enough to rescue the hotel from my ire single-handedly.
I can handle an oxygen-less, ear-splitting breakfast room if it's got rolls like this.
It's a struggle not to eat too much, but I stop at an almost acceptable amount of full and sit back.
A couple of my teammates are scrolling through their phones, and I glance over Jan's shoulder to see what he's looking at.
A figure skater, in the middle of a glide.
No surprise there. But when I look closer, I realize it's a video of Evan.
Interesting. Is he sizing up the new competition, having expected Alexandre? If anyone would, it's Jan. The man does his homework. Too much, if you ask me, because all it does is stress him out, but he's desperate for golds.
Nonetheless, I can't help continuing to watch.
I'm sucked in immediately. Fuck, Evan is good.
His lines are long, graceful. Even the tips of his fingers are expressive.
In the video, his costume shirt is green, and it makes his tan skin glow.
"When was this?" I murmur to Jan, sneaking a glance over at Evan.
Jan glances up, the hint of surprise giving way to a little nod of acknowledgement. “Canadian Nationals.”
“This year?”
“Yup.” We watch for another minute or two, and the program's over. Evan’s grin, when he stands up, waving to the audience, is the same gleaming brilliance he's been showing me. As far as I'm concerned, it was the perfect short.
“How did he not win gold? He’s so much better than Alexandre.” Not that I saw Alexandre's performance at Nationals, but I’ve seen it on the competition circuit, and it doesn't compare.
Jan shrugs then flips to the next video on the playlist. Evan Marquez Free Skate.
Here we go. He turns the volume up and we both lean over the phone, entranced.
When a lull in conversation across the table allows the music to drift to him, I see Evan look up out of the corner of my eye. “What’re you watching?”
“Your program.” Jan looks up at Evan and that blinding smile turns to him.
"Oh, thank God. For a second, I was afraid someone else was using the same music." A ripple of laughter breaks out around the table. Accidental music duplication is always awkward.
“Not as far as I know.” Jan shrugs and the two of us look back down at his phone.
Evan skates like a cloud. It’s the best I can come up with to describe it.
Like his skates barely touch the ice. And when I’m so enraptured by his program I’ve lost all sense of time, he attempts a quad loop.
The moment his feet lift off the ground, I wince.
It's obvious what's coming. His angle’s off. Not a lot, but enough that—
"Ouch." Yep. There it is. He's on the ground.
Guess that's how he got silver.
When I look up again, his eyes are on me. “Canadian Nationals?”
“Yep.”
“Yeah, loops aren't my strongest.”
“Loops aren't anyone's strongest.” I'm not just being reassuring. It's true. “You didn't have to put it in, did you? Could have done a Salchow.” He can do those. I watched him do it in the short about two minutes ago.
“I do. Later in the program.”
“In combination?” I'm certain he has already gone over all of this with his coach. His choreographer. They all know the numbers.
“Yeah,” he sighs. Then starts to pack up the debris of his breakfast. “Switched it out after Nationals. The loop’s just—you know, the white whale, I guess. I really wanted to pull it off.”
“Even if it cost you a spot at the World Championships? Maybe the Olympics?”
I seem to hit a sore spot. His face closes down, and he shrugs. "Yeah, well, like I said, I switched it out." And he strides away. Not giving me a chance to respond.
Well, fuck; I didn't mean to piss him off. Here I was trying to be friendly. Shows how bad I am at it.
Jan's watching him stride away too. “You know he only missed the Olympics by a hundredth of a point last time, right?”
"Oh shit, really?" I hadn't known. And now I feel worse.