Chapter 9 Stefan
Stefan
When Dad is upset, he doesn't yell. His voice gets quieter and quieter until it's nothing but a hiss. He is about as upset as he gets at the moment, which means I can hardly hear him, even from a few feet away. "The hotel manager will pay."
It's not the first time he's threatened her. I wouldn't be surprised if he's threatened her in person, for that matter. But he means it more than ever now. "I don't think it's her fault, Dad. It's all on me."
"No, we were clear in your need. You should get it. It's not Olympic village where there are only some rooms."
Except it's exactly like that. The hotel only has as many rooms as it has.
"Are you sure it was not your roommate, that he is not—"
Dad's cut off by a throat clearing near us, and both of us whirl around. Evan is standing in front of us, just inside the door, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in this moment.
"It wasn't Evan, Dad,” I say, breaking the sudden silence. “He's been great. It's not his fault. I’m pretty sure it was Alexandre Boudreaux’s fault, actually."
Dad's still eyeing Evan like he'd like to make a punching bag out of his face. "He is asshole, but how?" he growls, glare not leaving Evan.
While I appreciate Dad's found a scapegoat that isn't me, I don't want it to be my roommate. So far, Evan has been the world's most accommodating sweetheart. “He would’ve been my roommate if he hadn’t hurt himself. And the hotel told me that my roommate approved the change. He was probably trying to fuck with me again. And hey, he succeeded. Again.”
I fucked up big-time today, and I’m happy to blame Alexandre, but Evan? Not the problem.
“I will kill him,” Dad says, making me cringe. I know he doesn’t mean it, not really, but…
“Leave him alone, Dad. He’s not worth it.
” Part of me is still vibrating with anger at myself, but the rest of me is tired.
Tired of myself, tired of my screw-ups. Tired that no matter how hard I try, I'll never be perfect. Tired that my dad expects that perfection, and won’t settle for anything less. Tired that the whole world expects it.
I want to go to bed, pull the blankets over my head, and not get up until—I don’t know when. Until my free skate, I guess. Because I’ve got to prove that I can do it, that I’m not the fuck-up I was today.
Evan's still standing awkwardly in the doorway, his bags behind him. “You can come in, Evan. It’s fine.”
Dad’s glare shoots back to me. “We are not finished discussing.” His voice goes from loud to soft in one sentence. “Perhaps come back later, Evan.”
“No, Dad.” Evan’s about to turn around, so I lunge forward, grabbing his arm. “It’s his room too.” Evan’s arm is stiff, but I keep holding it, not letting him leave. As much as I want to be alone right now, I also want Evan around. He’s a calm, steadying presence, and I enjoy his company.
Maybe I just want to be left alone with regard to Dad.
"It's ok," Evan says swiftly. "I can go if you-"
“No, stay. Dad, there's really nothing left to discuss. I fucked up, ok? I get it. I'll do better.”
“But we must understand what happened, why your focus was lost. If it's room, we need better solution,” he announces, like it’s something new.
“Dad, there is no better solution. We've tried, remember?” Many times. Neither of us has found anything. No other options.
“What else changed? You watched Jacques. Bad idea. You know you need routine.”
So, so many things, but I'm not going to tell him. He'll lose his shit. “I don't know, Dad. I did the important things. I think I just fucked up. I lost it. It happens.”
“Not to you, Stefan.” Except it does, doesn't it? When I let the pressure get to me. When I take on the weight of the world's expectations. I fail under pressure. Every time.
I'm still holding Evan's arm, and I realize it when he tries to jerk away.
So I hold him tighter. This has to be uncomfortable.
Even painful to be standing here listening to us argue.
But I don't want him to go. If he goes, there's no stopping my dad.
We'll be here arguing this all day. “Even to me, Dad.
Maybe I was just freaked out that Max did so well.
Or changing my jumps messed me up. Or they're all right and I can't handle the pressure. It's fine.”
It’s not fine. But I can beat myself up over it without my father's added pressure. I will beat myself up over it. It'll be worse if he's here, another voice adding to my own telling me all the ways I fucked up. The way it's been for the last hour.
Dad glares at me again, but then softens a bit. A crack of Dad showing through behind the tough coach exterior. “Are you all right, syn?”
“I will be.” Maybe.
“Do you need anything?”
“I think I just need to be alone for a minute. I'll see you at practice tomorrow, ok?”
His eyes rake over me one last time. Then he nods curtly. "Call if you need to talk. I am right down hall."
"I know, Dad, thanks."
Evan and I breathe out matching sighs of relief when the door closes behind him. His arm is still in my hand. He tugs it free gently. “I'm sorry, I interrupted,” he says, voice muted.
"Oh fuck, don't be. You saved me."
“Well then, I'm sorry about your short program. I wish there was something I could do differently to help.” He sounds so contrite. I hate it.
I shake my head, the last of the anger draining out of me, replaced immediately by guilt. Why do I keep letting everyone down? I should be better than this. “It's really not your fault. I don't think it's the whole roommate thing. I felt good going in.”
“Then what happened? If you want to talk about it," he adds hastily.
I plop down on my bed, leaning back against the uncomfortable, carved wooden headboard, rearranging the pillows so that I can sit up straighter. "I don't even know. I was thrown off when I realized that Max had a higher base value in his short."
Evan sets one of his bags on his bed, riffling through it. He's still stiff. Anxious. “Maybe it's the fact that he's catching up to you?” He darts a glance up at me. “I mean, you're still the best, obviously, but...”
"But yeah, he is catching up. But that's a good thing.
" It is, objectively speaking. I want to have more competition.
I want the skaters coming up to have as many skills as I do, and then some.
It's just that maybe—maybe I don't want them to catch up quite yet.
I want my chance to redeem myself next year.
And if Max keeps showing up the way he did today, it's going to be a harder fight than I've been expecting.
As if everything else weren't already enough.
“Mhm.” Evan doesn't sound very convinced. Or a little convinced. Apparently he can read me too well.
“Ok, fine. Yes, it's a little disconcerting. I knew he was catching up, but I didn't know he was that close."
“That's why you changed your jumps?” Evan's voice is remarkably non-judgmental, considering I failed those jumps.
“Yeah, I needed to pick up a couple extra points. Instead, I lost them. Plus a few more.”
“You didn't need to, though.” Evan looks back up at me, brown eyes wide. “Your GOE was better. Or it would have been. And your components score for sure.”
“But he's still so young. He has so much time to get so much better than me.” And therein lies the rub. “When I was his age, I wasn't doing what he's doing.”
“When you were his age, nobody was. You upped the game for all of us.” His eyes narrow. “If it weren't for you, I could be perfectly content with my good old-fashioned no quads.”
It's enough to pull a snort from me. Not quite a laugh, but it's close. “If it weren't me, it would have been someone else. It's not like I'm the first person to land a quad.”
"No," he agrees, "but you're the first person to land so many so consistently."
Not so much today.
Evan finishes sorting his laundry and steps around his bed until he's beside mine, then sits down beside me.
It's unexpected, but I scoot over, giving him space.
We're not touching, but his body radiates warmth next to mine.
It's—comforting. Surprisingly comforting.
So much so that I realize I'm leaning in, toward him.
The scent of the soap in the dressing room's showers wafts around me.
I sure I reek of flop sweat, since I still haven't showered. I'd just started to cool down when Dad stormed in and we left. My muscles are going to hate me tomorrow. But Evan, gentleman that he is, doesn't mention it. In fact, his hand reaches out, resting on my lower thigh.
Which feels nice. Really nice. Comforting, but something more. Something that sends tiny little zaps of electricity up my thigh. Just my desperation giving me weird reactions. Me needing someone to be here and tell me it's ok.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, and it's nice.
Peaceful. The heater in the room hums to life.
A pair of chattering girls walks by, their bags' wheels squeaking.
I feel Evan turn his head toward me, a disturbance in the air more than anything, but I don't open my eyes.
Don't look into his, so close to me. Something in me wants it too much, and it's terrifying.
Wait, what? Terrifying?
Nothing should be terrifying about this moment. Just Evan comforting me.
Maybe what's terrifying is me reliving, over and over, my short program mistakes.
I still don't open my eyes, even though I can sense Evan watching me. He's so close I think I feel his breath on my cheek. “I can't believe I almost fell,” I admit.
Evan lets out a gentle huff. And yes, there it is, the warm exhale a light pressure, that makes my skin tingle. "Not someone who's used to falling, are you? You know, the rest of us mere mortals do that sometimes."
"Oh, shut up."
Another huff of suppressed laughter. "Honestly, it's kind of nice to see that you're human."
"I hate you."
"Not just the mechanical robot who can jump endlessly all day, every day without a single mistake."
"You're the worst."
He's all out laughing now, and the direction that laughter comes from changes enough I'm sure his head has moved.
He's not facing me anymore. Which means I'm safe to open my own eyes and peek at him.
His face is bright, cheerful, full of the laughter that I've somehow, magically, created in him.
He's so fucking sunshiny. Something inside me wants him right here, laughing, next to me, all night.
As if his presence can banish the demons that will haunt my dreams. "Hey," I say, as a new thought occurs to me.
“Hey, what?” His voice is still full of that beautiful, ringing laughter.
“You're ahead of me right now.” And somehow, despite my disappointment in myself, I'm so proud of him I could burst.
“Ahead of you?”
“After the short program. You're ahead of me.” This is a first, unless it happened sometime when we were both Junior skaters.
“Ah, so that's why you hate me.” He's trying to make light of it, I can tell, but his voice is also inundated with pride. “Second-rate skater ahead of the great Stefan Petryk, who could have imagined.”
“You are not a second-rate skater.” I lean in just a touch closer. So his heat can wrap around me better. I want to move in further. To let our legs touch. Our arms. To rest my head on his shoulder. Why?
What is this?
“You're one of the best in the world. As evidenced by the fact that you are at Worlds,” I add, smiling at him, even though he can’t see it.
He settles himself in next to me a little more comfortably.
And in the process moves closer. Only a hair's breadth separates us now.
"Yeah, but there's best in the world, and then there's 'I only made it to Worlds because someone better got injured' best in the world.
You're the former. I am definitely the latter. "
“You're still ahead of me after the short program,” I stage whisper into his ear, and he pulls back, laughing again.
“Jesus, what was that?” Evan reaches up to rub at his ear as if my whisper made it itch.
“Me reminding you to quit being so damn modest.”
“By spitting in my ear?”
“I didn't spit.” The word comes out harsher than I intended, and, of course, a droplet spews from my mouth as I say it. Caught in the afternoon sun pouring through our windows. “Well, ok, I did just now.”
Evan's still laughing. And he leans over until our shoulders brush. "You're so much more of a dork than I thought you were."
I don't think he means it as an insult. Not with the way he's laughing, and not when our shoulders are touching the way they are right now, sending little zings of electricity through me. Settling into a churning low in my stomach. A churning that is very similar to nerves. But isn't.
It really, really isn't, and I'm not remotely sure how to deal with this feeling.
Evan's head turns again, and our eyes catch. Inches apart at most. I'm drowning in him. In the depths of his eyes and his clean, fresh scent. In the pressure of his shoulder against mine. Time stops.
His hand is still on my thigh, above my knee. All at once, I notice he is rubbing tiny circles with his thumb. Has he been all along?
The churning in my stomach builds and builds.
And my breath is moving faster. And his eyes are so beautifully brown.
And his fingers, that thumb, his shoulder, are the only things in the entire world I can feel.
The tiny points of connection. My own hand falls on his, stilling it for a moment.
And I can see he is waiting, breath caught, for my reaction.
“Stefan?” His voice is the softest caress. A question and a statement all in one. My name breathed onto my own lips.
I don't know how to answer his question.
This isn't the first time I've ever been this close to somebody. Had this feeling roiling through me. But it is the most intense. And it's never been with a man.
If it were a girl, I would have leaned over and kissed her by now. It's the obvious solution to these butterflies, the electric sparks that won't stop. But it's not.
This is Evan. A man. And not just any man. The man whose skating I idolize. A man who is in direct competition with me. Who is currently beating me in that competition.
I live in the figure skating world. I'm no stranger to man on man action; at least half of my friends are gay, even if most of them aren't out publicly. But at no point in the last however many years since I started thinking about sex has it occurred to me that I might be somewhat like them.
Shouldn't that mean I'm not?
But if I'm not, why are Evan's lips so tempting? Why does every cell in my body want to move in?
What would happen if I did?