Chapter 24 Evan
Evan
After spending a night dodging Alexandre’s endless questions about where I’d gone and why, I’m relieved to find he’s already left the room by the time I wake up.
Since I don’t have a practice session until after noon, my morning is free. Maybe I can talk Stefan into doing some sight-seeing for a few hours. It’s neither of our first time in New York, even in this hotel, right next to the Olympic Center rink we’ll be competing at, but it’s a big city.
Entering the room is like running into a brick wall. Too many people, too much noise, too many competing scents. Not the most conducive place to hang out with Stefan, but that’s New York, I guess. Just overall too much for a country boy like me.
I fight through the crowd and grab a plate, managing to snag the last of the Belgian waffle batter.
While I wait for it to cook, I keep an eye on the room.
Something feels off, though I can’t put my finger on what.
The room is buzzing with conversation, which is normal, but there's an edge to it.
Nothing I could describe or point out, exactly, but something…
People are looking around a bit too often, nudging each other and showing newcomers their phones.
It’s weird. Did some big news drop? If so, it’ll wait. I’m not going to let anything derail my day with Stefan.
Waffle done, I make my way around the rest of the buffet, picking out some rubbery eggs and limp bacon, then drench the whole plate in fake syrup and pick up a yogurt cup, balancing it precariously on the edge of my plate.
I’ll come back for coffee, once I’ve got a table.
Which is going to be harder than it ought to be, because no empty ones exist. There are very few empty seats. A few people from my team are sitting around one, but Alexandre is in the group. After last night, I don't want to sit with him, and I'm sure Stefan won't either.
Stefan’s parents are at another table. I could join them, but as much as I think his parents have come to like me, this is supposed to be a date. Of sorts. They’re also sitting with some of the American team coaches and they all look downright grim. I don’t want to interrupt whatever that is.
Maybe Stefan and I can sneak our plates out and up to his room, but I have to wait for him. While I wait, I edge into a corner, watching for anyone leaving so I can snag their table.
My fork is about halfway to my mouth when the room goes, almost in a heartbeat, from raucous to dead silent. The clunk of my fork hitting the fake china plate rings through the entire room when, startled, I drop it.
Everyone in the room is staring at the entrance, way too quiet, barely breathing. I’m in the wrong damned corner; I can’t see whatever it is they’re looking at. Which goes to show picking a corner for sentimental reasons is a bad idea.
I’m starting to inch my way forward through the silence so I can see whatever it is when a few of the Canadian skaters’ heads swivel toward me. Then back to the door, and to me again. I wasn’t that loud; nobody else has noticed me moving. Something else is going on. Something involving me?
What the hell is it?
I still can’t see, so I look back at the table full of my teammates. Alexandre’s face looks satisfied, the way it does every time he beats me at Nationals. A smile plays over his mouth as he stares toward the entrance.
The rest of my team, though, look back at me, with something very different in their eyes. I can’t put my finger on what their faces are telling me, though. "What?" I mouth at Luc, glad he's here as well, hoping somebody will give me some idea of what's happening.
His eyes dart over to Alexandre before he looks back at me and shakes his head. What the hell? I am so confused. What does Alexandre have to do with anything?
After basically forever, whoever it is that's got everybody's attention at the door walks further into the room.
Stefan. He’s as devastatingly handsome as always, in a pair of those designer jeans he knows make me drool and what looks like a black t-shirt under his usual black hoodie. His head is held high, the arrogant tilt he puts on in public.
Other than that, though, he looks totally unlike my Stefan, or even his public version. The face that can be so expressive, so open, is completely still, even stiff. He sees me, but he doesn't meet my eyes. Doesn't do more than glance in my direction as he makes a quick sweep of the room.
Without a word, without acknowledging a single person, he works his way through the buffet. He doesn’t pick up his usual breakfast foods, just tosses a few things on his plate, almost at random. The crowded room makes way for him, and a few people turn back to their friends or their food.
Jacques stands up, going to him and squeezing his arm. How did I miss Jacques earlier? In my mind, he's a legendary figure, another idol who I'd never dream of approaching, but he would’ve been a good person to sit with, since he and Stefan are so tight. Not important. What the hell is going on?
I reach for my phone to see what I can find. Nothing. Damn it. I forgot it on the charger.
Jacques murmurs something in Stefan’s ear, but Stefan shakes his head, pulling his arm away. Jacques nods, going back to his own table, but his eyes stay on Stefan, shadowed. Worried?
Stefan moves in a different direction, still far too stiff.
He goes to his parents’ table, where he sits next to his mother.
She reaches over, taking his hand and squeezing it, but his father doesn’t meet his eyes.
A couple of the other coaches give him little nods, but some look away, their own faces tight.
With disapproval? I’ve seen my fair share of disapproving coaches before, and that’s what it looks like, but… What the hell could Stefan have done to cause it? If he's gotten in another fight, he would have told me. Right?
I saw him last night. We were texting less than eight hours ago.
He was himself—open, sweet, with that appealing bit of added desperation.
No way he was hiding something big enough to provoke this reaction from the entire skating community.
Did something happen in the last eight hours? What could have happened?
I try to catch his eye again, but it's useless; he's facing away from me. When I look at them instead, my teammates are still watching me, little darts of their heads, like they’re trying to be inconspicuous.
I try again to get Luc to give me something more, but he shakes his head.
What the hell? Alexandre hates Stefan, but this is ridiculous.
I jerk my head toward the entrance, trying to beg with my eyes, and after a few seconds, Luc nods. He leans over to whisper something to his partner before rising, then leaves the room. I follow, still carrying a full plate of food, not bothering to be subtle about it.
Once we're out of earshot of the room, I reach out and grab Luc's arm, pulling him to me. "What is going on?"
He grimaces. "Haven't been on social media yet this morning, I gather." For once, his lovely, melodic Québécois accent does nothing for me. My stomach's in knots.
"No, I never check it when I'm out of town for a competition."
"You didn't get notifications? I've gotten dozens."
"I have them turned off. Why? What happened?"
What did Stefan do? He couldn't have done anything. He would have told me. Wouldn’t he have? Why is he avoiding my eyes?
Another grimace before Luc pulls out his phone. It doesn't take him much navigating before he’s pulling up a picture and turning his phone toward me.
The world goes still as my heart stops.
"Ay, dios mío."
I don't slip into Spanish often. It's rare enough that my parents don't think I speak it anymore. But if ever a moment called for it, this is it.
Because taking up the screen of Luc's phone is a picture taken about thirty feet from where we’re standing.
A picture showing Stefan's face clearly, his expression filled with—well, even if someone hadn't been lucky enough to see that expression as many times as I have, there’s no question it’s lust. His head's thrown back, eyes closed, and a dark, curly-haired man has his face pressed against Stefan's neck.
I swallow, hard, trying to force down the impossibly huge lump that's strangling me. Luc's arm wraps around my shoulder and squeezes. "There's more," he says, voice soft.
There doesn't need to be more. This is enough.
I swallow again, though, trying to nod, and reach up to pan through the pictures.
A picture of Stefan and me in front of my room, hugging, bodies too close for mere friends.
Another of our backs as we're walking down the hall, heads tipped toward each other.
We're not holding hands, but it's obvious we want to be, our fingers and shoulders angling in.
One more taken in the breakfast nook of the two of us kissing.
"Fuck." The word’s barely a breath, but I can't stop it.
Luc squeezes me tighter. "Most people won't know that it's you. Just those of us who see you a lot, probably."
"What?" I flip through the pictures again, this time noting that every single one is taken from behind my back. My face doesn't show anywhere. Why? Did the photographer think I’d be more likely to notice them? "Who posted these?"
Luc shrugs. "Nobody knows. It was a burner account. It’s got to be someone here at the hotel, though. Maybe staff?"
The pieces click into place. The view from the hallway photos is all too familiar, because less than twelve hours ago, I was in that precise place, looking out at Stefan. Those pictures came from the doorway of my room.
It wasn’t staff. It was Alexandre. It has to have been Alexandre.
He must have followed us when we left and snuck into the breakfast area to get those shots. How did he hide when Stefan checked around the corner?
Oh God. He knew what I was doing all along, all through the endless grilling last night, keeping me up too late with his annoying questions. He was messing with me, trying to get under my skin, make me paranoid.
Has he still not let go of his feud with Stefan, years after the fight? Luc didn’t want to tell me in front of him. God, has he been crowing about it all morning? Not admitting to what he’s done, or Luc would know, but the fact that the photos exist? That someone has outed Stefan?
“I am going to kill him.”
Before Luc can respond, I'm spinning on my heel, marching back into the breakfast room. The noise has picked up again, to almost the level it was when I first arrived, but people are still watching Stefan out of the corners of their eyes; the noise is them gossiping about my boyfriend.
Luc's following close behind me, saying something. Trying to stop me. I couldn’t care less. The only thing I can see is Alexandre. His smug, arrogant, asshole face watching me with a smirk.
My fist is about a foot away from hitting his face when somebody grabs my arm, stopping it cold. I'm doing my best to yank it free and all but spitting at Alexandre at the same time. "You absolute fucking asshole. What the fucking hell? Who do you think you are?"
His smirk widens. Oh, I am going to murder the shit out of him. "Evan." It's Luc's voice. He's trying to be reasonable, trying to make me stop.
Alexandre, the absolute slimy slug of a person, leans back further in his chair. All casual, as if I'm not two feet from punching his lights out. "Careful, Evan, or you'll give away who the mystery man is." His voice is taunting, but quiet. What the hell?
“Why didn’t you just fucking tag me while you were at it?”
“Because you don’t deserve it,” he answers, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable response. As if any of this is reasonable.
"Like he does? Why would you do something like this?
He's paid his dues. He's left you alone for years. Why do you have to keep making him miserable?" I’m still spitting angry, but I have to understand. I have to. If Stefan was right about the room mishap, and if I’m right about these pictures, why?
Why try so hard to make Stefan so miserable?
Alexandre's eyes narrow. I'm getting through to him in some way. Pissing him off, but it's better than him being a smug, self-righteous asshole. "He broke my nose." It’s confirmation, if I needed it.
"He broke your nose. He broke your nose?
And somehow that makes it ok to publicly out him?
To humiliate him? To fucking sabotage him at Worlds?
What the hell, Alexandre? I knew you were an asshole, but this is...
Beyond." My voice is climbing registers, going shrill, but I don't care.
I'm still struggling against Luc, trying to get my hands on the little fucking asshole in front of me.
Another voice says something at my shoulder, hand on my arm. Gentle, not restraining me, but I recognize how that hand feels on me. I'd recognize it anywhere, anytime. "Evan. Calm down."
As if the phrase has ever worked in the history of ever. "No." I whirl around on Stefan, though he's the last person I should be mad at right now. "He doesn't get to do this to you."
"He already did."
The statement, delivered in a cool, unruffled voice that isn't his at all, is enough to make me break down. Tears of anger are blurring my vision, and I shake my head again, but with less violence this time. "He can't just do that. It's wrong."
"I know. But punching him won't help. Trust me on that one." A wry smile tilts his mouth at the last sentence, which does more to calm me down than anything he's said. Because if anybody knows, it's Stefan.
I whirl back around to Alexandre, but the fight has drained out of me. "You will not get away with this."
Alexandre smirks again, but with something different in it. Something a little less sure. "I didn't do anything wrong. Public place. Anyone could take a picture. Maybe you should have been more careful."
It brings the anger flaring back in a heartbeat.
I’m mad at him, but I’m mad at us, too. Stefan could have been more circumspect, I could have sent him away instead of meeting with him.
As soon as I'd seen him last night, though, all I wanted was my hands on him. I all but forgot Stefan isn’t out and we’re keeping our relationship secret as soon as we touched.
We might not have been obvious about it, but we weren’t careful enough. Not nearly.
The worst part is that Stefan is going to be the one who pays for this, even if the rest of the world figures out who the mystery guy is.
Nobody cares what my sexuality is. I'm not exactly out, but I'm not in the closet either. Everyone important to me already knows I’m bi, and I’m not big enough news for the media or skating authorities to care.
Somehow, despite everything that's happened in the last few minutes, I'm still holding my plate of breakfast foods.
Nobody is holding on to me anymore, thinking I’ve calmed down.
So I take my syrup drenched plate and flip it. Directly on top of Alexandre's big, egotistical, asshole head.