Page 9 of Back Outside Edge

It does, though, when I add in our sharing a room last night. Not to mention I jacked off while picturing him in the shower this morning.

Ok, I'm officially creepy. Something like a stalker, sitting here watching him with my tongue hanging out.

Now that I'm not distracted—enchanted, even—by what's happening on the ice, the cold is seeping in. Flowing in, making up for lost time. Where did I leave my jacket? I forgoe my laces to dig through my bag.

Stefan's voice says something, far too close. A few rows away from me, at most. Whatever he says, it’s in French. That's a surprise. I'm the Canadian, the one who's supposed to at least understand my country’s second language, but he's the one who speaks it. Fluently, given the way the words flow out of him. Because of course he does. He's perfect, amazing at everything he touches. Jacques responds, laughter still in his voice.

I keep my head down, still hoping, against all odds, Stefan hasn't noticed me sitting here.

Because the odds hate me, the next time Stefan's voice reaches my ears, it's directly above me. “You looked great this morning.”

I jerk, newly acquired jacket tightening in my grip. “What?”

When I look up, Stefan is settling into the chair next to mine. Oh, God. Are those shoes his? How, of all the chairs in this area, did he choose the one next to mine to change into his boots on? He’s rapidly untying them, so he must have—impossible as it seems.

Since I got off the ice half an hour ago and only one of my boots is untied, I feel all the more pathetic. I must look like one of his millions of screaming fans. Not that I'm not, but I'd rather he didn't know it.

I shrug into my jacket, then duck my head back to my boots and return to my laces, trying to cover up how flustered I am. When Stefan answers me, his voice makes me jump, though it sounds friendlier than I've heard it yet. “Your practice session. Looked good.”

“Uh, thanks. Yours did too.” He watched me? Seriously? Stefan Petryk watched me train this morning? After watching my free skate at Nationals over breakfast. Is he making up for lost time since he couldn't remember who I was? “I can't believe you landed that combination.”

“Which one?” he drawls, lazily, with an amused overtone. It's arrogant, but in a teasing way. Like we're friends or something.

Without thinking, I shake my head and respond as if we were. “Jeez, cocky much?”

He laughs, and my heart squeezes at the sound. It's the same open, unaffected laugh he had with Jacques. It's incredible, and I hate how it makes me feel. His elbow bumps mine, and when I look up again, he's grinning at me. His eyes are sparkling, and it's—I can't begin to name what it is. Heart-stopping, that grin. Me and every teenage girl in America, falling for Stefan's smile. "Oh, come on, you know I did more than one good one."

"Oh, so you are as arrogant as they say."

It gets me another laugh. "And then some. So, which one?"

“If you're that arrogant, how come you're fishing for compliments?” I’m doing everything I can to sound unaffected, keep teasing him, not let on how much his grin is destroying me.

This time his nudge is a little less gentle. "Come on." His voice has shifted to wheedling. “Tell me.”

"Oh, for Christ's sake," I grumble, but without heat. How could there be, when he’s this damned cute? He's not supposed to be cute, on top of everything else. Hanging out with Jacques must have done wonders for his mood. Or being on the ice. It has that effect on me. Makes everything seem, if not easier, better. Maybe the ice thaws Stefan's attitude. I'll enjoy it while it lasts. “Both of them, ok? Does that make you happy? They were both incredible, and I can't believe you managed to land either.”

“I'm pretty sure I did three combos. Or—four, actually.” He has a finger on his chin, playfully confused. And why does that make him even cuter? I'm so screwed.

"Oh, shut up." This time I nudge him in the ribs with my elbow. "Even I can do a triple Lutz triple toe. That was a cool down, and I know it. Was the quad loop to start meant to make me jealous?" I hate that I asked as soon as the words leave my mouth. It's too insecure, like I'm begging for any kind of attention, even if it's negative.

“Oh.” His voice sobers immediately. “I didn't think about that. Didn't mean to rub it in your face or whatever. It was on my mind, I guess.”

Well, that's fair. He had, after all, watched me fall on one. “No, it's fine. I'm sorry; I shouldn't have taken it so personally. You're free to do any jumps you want in your training session.” Now I'm the one who sounds like an asshole.

"Oh, am I?" his voice is back to teasing. “How very kind of you to give me permission to do any jump.”

Of course he's called me on it. In the best possible way. Since when is Stefan Petryk nice? "Oh, shut up."

He laughs again, as bright and shiny as before, jostling me as we both start to put on our shoes. Seeing him this way is invigorating. He's as far from the sullen, pissed-off man I saw last night as it's possible to be.

"When's your next session?" he asks.

"One," I answer, fighting to keep looking at my shoes, finish tying them. Since when have laces been this difficult to manage?

"So is mine! Guess we'll be skating together."

"Oh, sure, like that's not intimidating," I grumble.