Chapter 25 Stefan
Stefan
In a more rational state of mind, I might have had a little sympathy for Alexandre.
What he did was horrific, obviously. I’m the one who’s going to pay the price for it.
I’m the one who’s already paying the price for it.
But seeing him with eggs and French toast mashed into his hair, maple syrup running down his face in thick rivulets...
For a second, I'm caught between laughter and surprise.
Then his expression darkens, he starts to stand, his fist bunching, and it's all over.
The first time I punched Alexandre Boudreaux was because he told me I was a one-trick pony and a failure. Things I've told myself more than a few times. But he said it at the worst possible moment, given I was already in the middle of an alcohol-fueled rage.
This time when I punch Alexandre Boudreaux, it's because he's looking at my boyfriend with murder in his eyes. And because he made Evan so upset that he cursed. I've never once heard Evan say anything stronger than 'hell'.
I don't even think about it. Don't have time to practice any of the many, many techniques that I usually use. Don't remember that ten seconds ago I was the one restraining Evan from doing this exact thing. I’m as surprised as everyone else when it happens.
I just pop him, out of nowhere. Straight in that annoying, overly chiseled jaw.
At least this time he can’t accuse me of breaking his nose.
Alexandre's perfect jaw all but crumples under my fist. He goes straight down, falling to the floor with a whoosh of expelled air.
Which is good because now he's not going to hit Evan.
Not so good because I've just punched Alexandre again.
Which is really bad for my skating career.
Maybe even my freedom. If he presses charges again, will I go to jail?
Fuck.
Evan's the one holding my arm now, as if he's worried that he has to hold me back. But he doesn't need to. I've come to my senses. About two seconds too late, but here they are.
I back up one step and then a second. Will Alexandre come up swinging? If so, I don't want to be even more involved in a fight. He doesn't. He just lies on the floor looking pitiful. Covered in breakfast foods, his jaw already starting to redden where I punched him. Is he whimpering?
Knowing Alexandre, it's a ploy for sympathy. Just the thought makes me want to move in, punch him a second time. If even I had a flash of sympathy for him for a moment, how's everyone else going to feel? I'm going to be the bad guy here, no matter what he did.
Evan seems to sense my intention, and his arms tighten. He's holding me around the waist now. When did that happen? Even in the middle of this absolute disaster of a mess, having him at my back is comfortable, settling. But it's too little, too late.
Out of nowhere, my mom and dad are flanking me as well, glaring down at Alexandre alongside Evan and me. Which should be enough to quell anyone, but Alexandre has never been famous for his self-awareness.
Fuck, maybe I should thank him for being such an asshole. Dad hasn't so much as looked at me since news of the post broke, and now he's standing at my side.
On the other hand, he's the reason Dad's pissed at me in the first place, so maybe not so much.
"Coach!" Alexandre's voice is still wavering, and now it's blatantly obvious he's acting. "Coach, help! He punched me!"
What are we? Fucking five? Running to daddy for help?
Never mind that my actual father is standing next to me. "Oh, get over yourself, Alexandre," I seethe, just loud enough for him to hear. "You were asking for that."
Dad places his hand on my shoulder, not gently. "Don't say anything, son. Not another word."
Well, at least he's calling me son again. It's not quite 'syn', but it's close. Whether he's trying to protect me as his son or his student, though, is another question altogether. If I'm pulled from another big competition for fighting, it's not going to look good for him, either.
The National Team coaches that were in the room are surrounding us now, and Alexandre's coach is running from the other side of the room.
Of course all of this had to go down with the maximum possible number of witnesses.
And none of them will have seen anything but Evan throw his plate on Alexandre and then me punch him in the face, seemingly unprovoked.
Because nobody was yelling. We were all being so fucking civilized. Fuck.
Anyone in the know will have figured out what was going on, but will any of it play well for the International Competitive Skating board? Shit, for court? Probably not. If Alexandre decides to press charges again, I am so very, very screwed.
All of the adrenaline, all of the tension that has kept me going since I woke up to the pictures, drains out of me in a rush, and I sag against Evan's chest. A single word starts repeating itself in my mind: fuck, fuck, fuck.
The only thing holding me up is Evan's arms. So much for keeping him anonymous.
He doesn't seem troubled by the fact that he's holding me in public, though.
He just pulls me back a bit further, away from the sniveling man at our feet, his coach now kneeling over him.
Trying to see how injured he is, I guess.
Not very. I'm not exactly a professional boxer.
I want to go back to bed. For a week. Close my eyes and go to sleep and forget this shit-storm of a morning ever happened.
Evan's voice is soft in my ear, but I can't focus enough to catch what he's saying.
Not over the buzz that's permeating everything, wrapping my hearing and sight in something like cotton wool.
His hands are running down my arms now, trying to soothe me, but there's no need.
I'm already calm. Nothing is left but the buzzing.
And the constant, never-ending refrain. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I can't get in trouble again. Not after everything. I've been so careful. Put in so much work. So much training, all in preparation of this Olympic cycle.
And all of it was undone in a matter of moments.
A minute later, Evan's hands are replaced by my mother's, wrapping around me in a cool, Chanel scented hug.
"Honey, we're going back up to our room.
We'll call our lawyer there." Her voice cuts through the buzz, flowing with the strong Ukrainian accent she never let go, plus the extra that distress brings out in her.
I nod, numb, and then she and Dad are shepherding me out of the room.
"Wait. Evan." I half-turn, trying to search for him, but we're in the hallway, and he's not with me anymore. "We need to get Evan."
"He's with his team, honey. They'll take care of him. You need to worry about you right now."
"But-"
Dad's voice, interrupting me, is harsh. A snap of sound that grounds me a bit. "Don't worry about him. You don't want him more involved in this mess."
He's right. It’s enough to bring me back a bit more. Whatever chance Evan has getting out of this without backlash, I need to give him. Pulling him under with me would be the worst possible thing.
In my parents' room, I sit, still mostly numb, on the uncomfortable easy chair by the bed. Dad’s at the desk, scratching out something on the hotel's stationary.
A press release? Mom's on the other side of the room, pacing back and forth, five steps in either direction, while she argues with one of our lawyers.
It would be too crowded, especially with the amount of anger spitting around me, if I were capable of feeling anything.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and in a daze, I pull it out. I forgot that I'd put it on silent after the constant alerts of the morning. I have hundreds of notifications, but only the last one matters.
Evan
Are you ok?
I start typing a response, but before I can type more than the first word, my mom is in front of me, pulling my phone from my hands. "No, Stefan. Stay off your phone until this is sorted out."
"It's just Evan."
Her look is the one she reserves for unruly students; I shrink back into my chair. "You shouldn't be talking to him right now."
"But he's—"
"Stefan." Dad's voice, once again that harsh whip of sound. "You need to stay away from that boy."
That boy. Is that what Evan is, now that Dad knows? They've gotten along so well, every time Evan visited. I'd never heard his chuckle as frequently as when they were out on the ice together, playing with step sequences, presentations, transitions.
"That boy," I retort back, trying to match his sharpness, "is my boyfriend.
" It's the first time I've said the words out loud, and certainly the first time Dad has heard them.
He flinches, visibly, and the numbness fades further away, back to the welcome warmth of anger.
"He's worried about me. None of this is his fault. "
"If he hadn't seduced you, none of this would have happened."
Is that the story Dad's telling himself?
That Evan seduced me? Am I supposed to be some poor little innocent who was taken advantage of?
"Dad!" It's enough to have me sitting up straight.
"What the fuck?" Normally, I try to keep my cursing in check when I'm around him, but sometimes, he deserves it.
His face closes up even more, the stubborn lines I've long since learned aren't worth arguing with appearing in his forehead. "Tkyhyy, syn. Let us work."
Guess I should've watched what I wished for, because that version of syn wasn’t even close to the one I wanted.
So, as usual, I turn to Mom for help. She's the peace-keeper of the family. The only one who can talk Dad down when he looks like this. And then I just stare at her, stunned. She must be on hold with the lawyer, since she’s scrolling through my phone.
Reading my messages. The ones with Evan?
"Mom!" I manage to get out, horrified. This is an invasion of privacy that she's never done before. Not even in my asshole teenager years.
She holds up a finger, silencing me as easily as Dad's frown lines.