Chapter 32 Evan
Evan
Three weeks after the fall
Outside Calgary, Canada
Stefan never leaves my side, through my last few days at the hospital in New York, the agonizing plane ride home. He helps set me up with my new physical therapists and doctors.
I argue with him and my parents about where I’ll stay during my recovery. I want to go home to my apartment in Calgary, where the commute between me and my doctors would only be a few minutes. They want me to come home where they can take care of me.
Since my apartment's on the second floor, and there's no elevator, they win.
A week into having five people hovering around me nonstop, I'm one "Do you need anything?" away from murdering the lot of them.
Through Herculean efforts, I manage to get Stefan alone in my makeshift living room bedroom after dinner when he's been at home with me for ten days.
My family's still in the kitchen, chatting over the table, and I can only hope they'll stay away long enough for me to have a much needed conversation with him.
Stefan, at least, picks up on my serious expression.
After I'm settled on the couch with the bright, warm afghan my mother knitted over my lap, he fidgets in the chair across from me.
"You've got to go home, baby," I say, without preamble, because I don't have time to ease into it.
"I know you're not getting in enough practice here.
" It took hours of cajoling to convince him to do a few hours at the university rink when I go in for my physical therapy appointments and check-ups; this is going to be an uphill battle.
As expected, he shakes his head. "It's not important. What's important is you."
My heart does a weird combination of swelling and breaking at the words, so I squeeze his hand in gratitude. "I appreciate that. I do, but it's not true. Skating is everything to you, and I understand that."
"Not anymore." He looks stubborn. A stubborn Stefan, I've learned, is a difficult one to get through to. "I don't even know if I'll be allowed to compete again this season anyway."
He still hasn't heard back from TAFS, and, brave words aside, it’s a constant and continual ache.
"You will. They made a point of not talking to the ICS. That means they want you back for the big events.” We’ve been over this so many times, but fear wins out for Stefan every time he thinks about it.
I can’t blame him. “What if they call tomorrow and say you'll be at the next Circuit Championships event?
If you miss it or lose a medal because you're not in shape, I don't think either of us will ever forgive ourselves. "
He shakes his head, still unyielding, but worry dims the eyes I adore so much. "I want to be here to help you with your recovery."
"I know." I reach over with my free hand to cup his cheek. "Right now I don't need help, though. I can't do much, but I've got the whole family. I can’t get rid of the whole family.” He smiles a bit, and I squeeze his hand again. “I'll need you more when I don't, and when I'm doing real rehab."
"But I can be here for that too," he pouts.
"I love you." The words are out before I realize it.
Crap, crap, crap, crap. We haven't talked about our relationship once, not since Alexandre posted the pictures. Between that, the suspension, the fall, him ghosting me, me ghosting him, and now my recovery, so much has happened. We need to have that talk, but—
Well, I think I trumped it. Crap.
Should I add something? Take it back? I think he’s in it with me, if staying with me is any indication, but saying ‘I love you’ takes it to a whole new level. Too much, too fast.
His mouth opens before I can decide, so I shut my own.
It’s not how I wanted to tell him, but it is true.
It’s been true for so much longer than I was willing to admit, to even see through the fear.
Given the look in his eyes, he's not as terrified as I have been, though.
His demons are different, but are they going to keep him from being with me the way I want him? "You do?" he whispers.
Way to not give me any indication of how to answer, Stefan.
Thanks. Should I blame the drugs? I'm not on any that would impair my thinking anymore.
Maybe he isn't aware of the fact that I am one hundred percent sober, though.
No. He's been handling my meds; he knows.
I could blame it on the heat of the moment.
After all, he offered to help me for an indeterminate amount of time, for what they say will be a very long, very difficult recovery.
For some reason, he's fighting to stay with me rather than following his dreams.
Then again… He's fighting to stay with me rather than following his dreams. Why the hell would I take it back?
"Yes," I state, decision made, any hesitation evaporated in the heat of the truth. "I do. It wasn't exactly the moment I meant to tell you, but I do."
Stefan's eyes light up, his face following suit, until he has the biggest, brightest grin I've ever seen on him. Well, maybe not ever; I think him winning Worlds with his almost quint matched it. That me telling him I love him gives him the same grin says more than words could.
"I didn’t want to bring it up, to make you feel like you had to say it too, but I’m so glad you did. I love you too," he says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. That straightforward.
Did we have a relationship conversation I've forgotten? I'm as lost as he is confident. “Did I miss something? Did we already talk about this?”
Stefan looks as confused as I feel for a moment, then blushes, his hand, still wrapped around mine, tightening its hold. “You never read all my messages, did you? Probably for the best.”
Oops. Didn’t I? Maybe not. There are so many messages to catch up on, and only so much energy. He’s here, with me; I haven’t needed to go back to them. Not to mention every time I see our text string, and the sheer volume of unanswered pleas for news, guilt rushes back in. “I’m sorry.”
“No.” He picks up my hand and kisses it. Like some medieval knight. “But that explains why you haven’t brought it up. So just… forget it. I love you. You're the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Evan."
I can't stand up, move over, and straddle him. I can't even pull him over into my lap. God, these injuries are the worst. Although, if I hadn't fallen, would I ever have gotten up the nerve to tell him? To admit it to myself? To face my past and move forward?
Maybe injuring myself has a silver lining. Sure, I'll miss the Olympics. There's a good chance I'll retire. If everything leads to Stefan being with me, though? It’s worth it, no question.
Since I can move neither myself nor him, I lean toward him, hoping he'll take the hint. He's still smiling when he does, and his lips touch mine. It’s the first time we’ve kissed since our stolen few minutes at the hotel backfired so spectacularly.
The first time, perhaps, either of us has been brave enough to take that step.
I'm pretty sure if I go back and read through his texts after I fell, I'll find one in there that tells me how he feels. Has he been waiting for me to accept or reject his love all along? Yet another thing to feel guilty about. Or not. Maybe it’s all worked out the way it was supposed to. I glide my lips across his again, and he moans a little, deep in his throat, as if we’re doing so much more than the whisper of lips against each other.
These kisses aren’t much more than a breath, but they’re everything.
He lets his lips linger against mine, no attempt to deepen it, to push the moment any further.
Not even the tip of his tongue, just his warm, soft lips.
Tiny movements, the faintest of brushes, back and forth, up and down.
Almost nothing kisses that are more intimate than they have any right to be.
When I fall back, unable to hold myself in the twisted, upright position for long, he leans in after me.
Doing all the work, keeping our mouths so close we're sharing air.
His hands have come up to frame my face, as gentle as his lips against mine.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he murmurs.
My lips tremble against his. "Even broken beyond repair?" I mean for it to be a joke, but it comes out quavering. Since I’ve already given away more than I meant to, I let go and continue baring my heart. "I'll never be as successful as I wanted to be. Can you live with that?"
He pulls back a bit, enough that the furrow between his brows is visible. "What do you mean? Why would that matter?"
I tell him. Give him the ins and outs of my relationship with Caro.
How she became my coach when I was seventeen, my desperate crush on her until I turned eighteen and acted on it.
That she'd eventually given in to my attempts to hit on her, and we'd had a secret affair for years.
How she'd convinced me to put off school so I could focus on my career, on the Olympics.
The utter desolation when I came in third at Nationals and Canada only had two spots.
That the day before my free skate at Nationals someone took a picture of the two of us, then released it right after my performance.
Like the picture of Stefan and me, it had shown us kissing, but with both of our faces showing.
A coach and her student, a ten-year age gap, me barely twenty at the time.
How she'd lost it, yelling at me for not being careful, not making it into the Olympics.
That everything we'd done together had been a huge waste. A mistake.
Two days later, she'd left town without a word, leaving everything, including me, behind. I hadn't heard from her again until I called her from the hospital.
He's sitting cross-legged on the couch, facing me, and has both of my hands in his by the time I finish my story. He doesn't interrupt, letting me tell it the way I want to. When I finish, he sits silent for a minute, watching me, still holding my hands. "That's complete bullshit," he says.
It’s not the reaction I expected. "What?"
One side of his mouth quirks up into the almost smile I used to see so often. "Everything she told you before she left. You know that, right?"
"I'm starting to," I admit. "It's not easy to change a pattern of thinking I've had for four years."
"Yeah, I get that. But absolutely nothing that happened was your fault. And she's a bitch. And kind of a pedophile too."
I shake my head. "Not really. I mean, the age of consent in Canada is sixteen, and I was eighteen."
"That's cutting some awfully fine hairs," Stefan rebuts. "But fine. She's ok with some fucked-up power imbalances, then."
Remembering my reaction to thinking about one of my students hitting on me, maybe he's right. "Anyway," I say with a shrug. "It's all just fucked up. Or I am, or something."
He lifts his eyebrow. "Since when do you say 'fucked'?"
"Obviously you're a bad influence on me." I do my best to sound arch, and it must work because he exhales on a laugh.
His hands squeeze mine before he lets go. "So to go back to your original question."
"My original question?"
Another half smile. "The reason you finally told me all of that. Which I appreciate, by the way. Thank you for trusting me."
"That's very formal of you."
"Oh, shut up." He raises a hand to brush my hair back. "It's getting long. Even curlier than I realized."
I nuzzle into his hand a little, letting my head fall back against the couch. "Yeah, well, getting a haircut hasn't been the biggest priority."
My eyes are closed, but the smile in his voice is clear when he replies. "I don't care if you make it to the Olympics," Stefan murmurs. "I'm not going to dump you because you aren't one of the very few athletes in the world who do. That's ridiculous. Would you dump me if I didn't make it?"
"Of course not. I'm offended at the suggestion."
"Exactly." His hand strokes my hair again. "I'm not offended because I understand why you're worried about it, but I could be. I'd be justified if I were. How much of an asshole do you think I am?"
"A pretty big one," I yawn, causing him to laugh.
"Yeah, well, you’d be right. But for once, not this time.
I'll be so sad for you if you never make it onto skates again, because I know how much you love it. But that’s it.
It has nothing to do with me. I want what makes you happy.
The end." My eyes are swimming, stinging.
Damn it. Stefan's fingers reach up to lightly brush away the tears falling from underneath my eyelids.
"I'm here, Evan. I love you. I'm not going anywhere. "
I force my eyes open, tears be damned. "Yes, you are.
You're going home; you're going to fight for your spot.
You're going to kick ass at every competition this season.
Then you're going to go to Stockholm and break your own damn record.
I'm going to be the person cheering the loudest, even if it's from my couch. "
He snorts out another laugh. "You're not going to be on your couch, love. If I make it to the Olympics, you'll be coming with me. No question. You're my good luck charm. How could I win without you as my roommate?"