Émile had to duck through the doorway - fucking architects never planned for guys his size - rolling his Team Canada duffel behind him like the world's most patriotic boulder. The Olympic Village hallway smelled like fresh paint and nerves, all these elite athletes crammed into what basically amounted to a really nice college dorm. He could hear someone blasting music three doors down, people yelling in languages he didn't recognise, the whole place buzzing with that pre-competition energy.
He'd been riding high since getting the call - Team Canada wants you. Him. Kid from a dairy farm outside Quebec City, wearing the maple leaf at the fucking Olympics. His maman cried on the phone for twenty minutes straight.
The weird part? Connor was wearing red, white, and blue. Born in Minnesota, so yeah, Team USA had dibs. They'd chirped each other mercilessly at practice before flying out - "Gonna break your ankles, Beaumont," "Non, mon ami, I break you" - but it felt wrong, you know? Five years of bleeding blue and white together, and now they were on opposite sides of the ice.
Émile fumbled with the keycard, swiped it three times before the door finally clicked green. "Ah, tabarnak, finally..."
He shouldered the door open, expecting to see whichever teammate got stuck with him - probably one of the younger guys, since vets usually pulled rank for single rooms. Instead... Not a teammate. Very much... not a teammate.
Émile froze in the doorway, duffel still in hand, his brain doing that thing where it needed an extra few seconds to process. A woman. Just sitting there, in what was supposed to be his room. Their room?
"Ah... bonjour?" He blinked, glanced back at the door number to make sure he hadn't fucked up. 23B. Yeah, that's what they gave him. He looked back at her, then down at his paper packet, then at her again. "I think... maybe there is a mistake? They tell me this is my..."
His phone buzzed. Text from one of the Team Canada staff: HEADS UP - housing got shuffled at the last minute. You're in mixed accommodations. Two beds, shared bathroom. Deal with it. Focus on hockey.
"Crisse," he muttered, reading it twice to make sure he understood. Mixed accommodations. So... this was actually happening. He'd be rooming with... He looked up again, realising he was just standing there like an idiot, taking up the entire doorway.
"Eh, sorry, I - désolé - I am Émile," he said, that thick Québécois accent rolling over every word. He stepped inside, had to angle his shoulders to fit the duffel through, and gave her an apologetic smile that made him look about twelve years old despite being built like a damn mountain. "I guess... we are roommates? For Olympics?"
He dropped the duffel by the unclaimed bed, rubbed the back of his neck. "Is weird, non? But, ah... is nice to meet you. You are here for compete too, yes? What sport?"
