“The stoner from California is checking you out.”
Derek doesn’t look, doesn’t follow Erica’s gaze to the other side of the room. He’s only here because he’s being forced to socialize—he’d rather be in the gym or back in his room, getting some rest. The flight from New York to Milan wasn’t exactly short, and he’s jet lagged as fuck.
“She’s right,” Boyd chimes in. “What’s his name again?”
“Stilinski,” Isaac helpfully supplies. “He had that viral run in Beijing. Lots of air but came in fourth.”
“Ouch,” Erica sighs. “He’s cute.”
Derek glances at Boyd. “Tell her to stop trying to set me up with athletes.”
“Sorry, man,” Boyd says with a grin. “She doesn’t listen to me.”
“Oh shit, he’s coming over,” Isaac says.
“Because Erica is waving,” Derek hisses, trying to grab her arm.
The Team USA mixer is full of gorgeous athletes in red, white, and blue—everyone here is in peak physical condition and has several days to do nothing but watch sporting events and fuck each other stupid. This isn’t Derek’s first time at the Olympics (he hopes it won’t be his last) and he’s never been one of those people who just fuck with abandon because the excuse is there. (He sort of did, during his first time at the Games, but only one person, one woman. And she was a big fucking mistake.) He’s not interested in some snowboarder from California—the guy doesn’t even have a medal.
Then the guy in question stops right in front of Derek with a goofy half-smile, eyes the color of thick honey, and sticks his hand out. “Hey. I’m Stiles.”
“Derek,” he provides, shaking his hand briefly. (He doesn’t stop to think about the feeling of that hand, how big and strong it seems compared to the man’s slender frame.) “This is Erica, Isaac, Boyd.”
“Nice to meet you all,” he tells them, and then tucks his hands under his arms as he looks at Derek. “I remember you in Beijing. I tried to buy you a drink and you told me to fuck off and win something.”
Derek’s ears heat. “Sorry,” he mutters, not so much for the refusal as for the embarrassment of it. “I was in a bad mood.”
“Because you got silver,” Stiles concludes, still smirking. “That’s okay. Seems like maybe your mood’s improved in the last four years.”
“It has,” Erica says. “He’s not nearly as grumpy as he used to be.”
“We’re gonna go over here,” Isaac says, and both he and Boyd take one of Erica’s arms as they lead her away. “Nice to meet you!” he shouts back over his shoulder, leaving Derek cringing.
“Nice teammates,” Stiles says, nodding after them. “Cool that you guys have a mixed gender team. Always sort of drove me crazy that bobsled teams had to be single-gender.”
“Bobsleigh,” Derek automatically corrects. He winces, shaking his head. “Sorry, it’s—either one.”
The corner of Stiles’ mouth twitches a little higher, amusement clear in his eyes. “How long have you been here?”
“Just landed a couple hours ago.”
“Oh, man, you must be exhausted.”
Derek shrugs. “You know.”
“Well—I just wanted to say hi. I’d offer to buy you a drink in a couple days once your events are over, but you probably wanna see if I win something first.”
It’s a tease, lighthearted, but it still makes Derek’s gut twist. “I was an asshole in Beijing,” Derek tells him. “I take these things pretty seriously.”
“Sure,” Stiles laughs, “it’s the fucking Olympics. It’s also a good opportunity to let off some steam.”
It’s impossible to miss the way Stiles looks at him while he says that, eyes hot, dark, full of interest. And he’s—cute. High cheekbones, nice features, a smile that Derek is rapidly getting used to. And his shoulders—broad, strong. What does a snowboarder need with arms like that?
“I’m sure you have plenty of people to let off steam with,” Derek says.
That only makes Stiles’ smile bigger. “Actually, I’m sorta focused on this one guy. Crazy American who somehow made bobsledding—sorry, bobsleighing—cool. Probably because his whole team look like underwear models.”
Derek can’t help but arch an eyebrow. “That’s pretty myopic of you. I turned you down once and you’re not even gonna bother with the hundreds of other athletes here?”
“I like a challenge,” Stiles tells him. “You’re the hottest guy here, and you haven’t told me to fuck off yet. So I think I’m doing pretty well.”
Jeez. Derek should not find that charming. He also really, really should not fool around with this guy two days before his first event. He needs to focus.
“How long are you here?” Derek asks.
“My last run is the day after your four-man run. Well, three-man-one-woman.” Stiles gestures vaguely between them, the confident look on his face only solidifying. “I have five chances to medal this time. So there’s a chance I leave with more than you do this year.”
It’s true—Derek only had two events. Stiles qualified for all five men’s snowboarding events, a dramatic improvement on his performance in Beijing. (Not that Derek has been paying attention to him specifically; he just wants to support his fellow athletes.)
“Maybe we could make a little wager,” Stiles says. “If I can match or beat your medal count, you let me buy you that drink at the end of the week.”
Everything is free in the village for Olympians, but Stiles must know that. So the “buying” of a drink is more of a gesture—an indication of a non-platonic meeting. Something that might lead to sex. The truth is that Derek doesn’t need the drink.
“If you can beat my medal count,” Derek tells him in a quiet voice, “I’ll let you do more than that.”
The laugh he was trying to provoke startles out of Stiles like a bubbling fountain, bright and delighted. “Holy fuck, dude. You really are in a better mood this year, aren’t you? Or you just have a competency kink.”
Probably both, Derek thinks. “I’d call three Olympic medals more than competent.”
“I’m gonna win five,” Stiles brags.
“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”
(Stiles wins four, but that’s good enough for Derek.)
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