Page 2 of Back Outside Edge

I slide the keycard into the lock, then open the door, braced for a confrontation. Except—I don't get one. Evan has used the forever I’ve been gone to tuck himself into bed. He's curled up, facing the window, curtains still slightly open. Weird, with all the ambient light, but fine. He left the light beside my bed on, the rest of the room lit only by the golden glow coming through the window.

All I can see of him is the back of his head, dark curly hair against a white pillow. Is he sleeping?

Trying to be quiet, because I'm not always an asshole, I step into the room and close the door behind me. The lock clicks into place, and I follow it up with the chain. And the deadbolt. It never hurts to be careful.

A fan once showed up in my hotel room, naked, in bed. I don’t need a repeat performance.

My roommate stirs a little, but doesn't say anything. If he’s not asleep, at least he’s giving me space. The room is cool, like he’s turned down the heat to sleep. Good. That’s how I sleep best, too.

I drop my keycard on the bedside table, reaching for my suitcases to grab my toiletry kit. But they’re not there. Nothing. The floor is clear of anything suitcase shaped, nothing on my bed. What the fuck? Where is my luggage? I had my suitcases with me when I checked in. Handed them over to a bellhop and gave him my room number. I have a faint memory of seeing them sitting next to my bed when I came to the room the first time. So why aren't they here?

Did Evan assume I'd never come back and give them away? Sell my stuff on eBay? Maybe there’s money to be had in selling Stefan Petryk's boots and blades.

Guess I'm going to have to break the silence after all.

"Do you know where my luggage is?" My voice comes out curt. Snappish. If he's asleep, I—well, I don't feel awful. Not if he did something with my stuff. Evan turns over, yawning.

"Hey," he slurs. Shit, maybe he was asleep. "It's in the closet."

It's in the closet. Why is it in the closet? On the other hand, of course it’s in the closet. I should have checked.

And there they are. My two suitcases, carry-on, and backpack, neatly stacked. Zippers facing out for easy opening. Right next to a much more dinged up second set. I turn back to my roommate. "Did you put these here?"

"Yeah." The word is drawn out, as if he's half asleep as he says it. "I kept tripping over them." Another yawn. "Hope you don't mind."

"No, that's fine." It's nice, actually. And utterly unexpected. "Sorry I kind of stormed out of here earlier."

"It’s ok." He closes his eyes again and burrows down into his blankets. "Did you figure things out?"

"Not really. I’m stuck with you for the week."

"Sorry about that." Evan sounds more awake now, maybe annoyed, and—I realize what I just said. Oops. Way to be an asshole.

I'm not about to apologize, though. Not when it’s all his fault.

This is going to be a very long week.

Chapter 2

Evan

Stefan's standing frozen next to the closet, watching me with those blue eyes he's so famous for. Staring straight into my soul. I'm in the dark and he's in the light, so I know he can't see me well, but it still feels like his gaze is burning through me. It’s so intense, so deep, so searching.

So pissed off.

How do I defuse this? He’s upset at having a roommate, but it sounds like we're stuck together. Which, yes, is a bit strange, since I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to have a roommate from another country.

The surreal part of the situation, though, is that my new roommate, staring daggers through me, is Stefan Petryk. I've idolized the man for as long as I can remember. Now here he is, standing in front of me, planning to sleep in the same room, blue eyes boring into me.

When his mouth opens again, I almost don't notice, I'm so busy staring into those eyes. "How did you make it to the World Championships?" he asks, out of nowhere. The words are rough—not quite condescending, but nowhere close to flattering.

Even so, he's ridiculously handsome up close. Thank God he can’t actually see into my soul, because it’s a whimpering mess at how hot he is. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him, but it is the first time I’ve seen him this close, in person. There’s no camera and TV between us, or hundreds of feet of ice.

Every figure skating fan in the world has a crush on him. Whenever he competes, the posters with his name and kissy lips painted onto them cover the stands. Girls scream when they see him. That he's attractive is no surprise to anyone. That I'm this over the moon about how he looks in my room, even knowing I'm one of millions, is.

He all but glows with charisma. He's stunning, with a mane of wavy blond hair begging for fingers to run through it. He does so himself regularly, trying to push it out of his eyes, and every single time I’ve seen it on video, I’ve envied those fingers. And now he’s doing it right in front of me, and God, it’s something else.

His mouth turns down further. Right, he's being an ass. I'm trying to defuse the situation, and I don't think it's working. I force out a chuckle, trying to sound like I don't care that he's insulted me. "Same as anyone, I imagine."