Working on the Edges

Chapter Six

John went to the hockey house first, because he needed to change out of the stupid costume and get into training clothes. When he walked into the house, he was greeted with a round of applause.

"Yes, yes," he said, and tried not to look embarrassed as he hurried through to his room, where Mike was sitting on one of the beds, scrolling through his phone.

He looked up when John walked in. "Look who decided to show up."

"Yeah," said John, and busied himself finding clothes.

"And did you have a pleasant evening? Leave it to you to find yourself a hot chick. What does that make now, three continents?"

John paused and looked at Mike and considered, but decided there was no reason to lie about it. He didn't think Mike would care. And if Mike did care, then John thought it was important to know that. John liked to think that none of them would care—he trusted his teammates. And John didn't think there was any point to lying about Sherlock. Not if he was moving in with him for the remainder of the Olympics. "Not a chick," he said, and disappeared into the bathroom to change.

"What?" he heard Mike ask.

"This one's not a chick," John called back, turning the shower on. He'd taken a brief, hurried shower at Sherlock's because he'd been too gross not to, but he wanted a better one before he went off to practice.

"Well. That's different," he heard Mike say over the sound of the water. "I didn't know you..."

"Not like I go around advertising my personal life, do I?" said John and stepped into the shower. If he acted like this was no big deal, maybe everyone else would follow his lead.

John showered and shaved and when he was done, Mike was still in the room, and still on his phone.

"What are you doing anyway?" asked John. He didn't think Mike was trying to spy on him, but he'd kind of hoped to get the room to himself for a second, to just gather his thoughts. He'd had a whirlwind couple of days.

"I told one of my endorsements I'd tweet the Games."

"Tweets are short. Have you been composing one for the past half an hour?"

"Shut up," said Mike, good-naturedly. "I've been scheduling some generic ones so I don't have to worry about it. You're not stressed out about the practice, are you?"

Ah. So that's why Mike was hanging around in the room. He didn't actually want to spy on John's sex life, he wanted to treat him like some kind of precious piece of glass that was going to shatter as soon as he put skates on. Well, in fairness to Mike, John had tended to do that before leaving for the Olympics.

"I'm not stressed out about the practice," John said, calmly. "I've been skating better lately."

Mike gave him a look. "You weren't supposed to be skating at all."

John gave him an answering look. "Did you think that was really going to happen?"

"Well. I'm just saying. We're all happy you're here, you're one of the best left wings in the game, and we're going to win gold."

"Are you giving me a pep talk?"

"I'm giving you a pep talk."

"I'm moving out," said John.

"Come on, the pep talk wasn't that bad."

"It wasn't. But I'm serious. You get the room to yourself."

"And where will you be?" asked Mike, sounding genuinely confused.

John took a deep breath. "I will be at the British figure skating house."