Page 11 of Back Outside Edge

“Thanks.” I widen my stance, opening to the rest of the small group. “How are you all today?” Small talk definitely isn’t my strong suit, and talking first is harder. The national coaches aren't quite the most intimidating people I've met, but they have a habit of expecting the world from me.

A few murmurs and nods. The usual questions about how my training has been going, how I’m feeling.

How prepared I am.

“Any surprises up your sleeve this year?” Because I’m their favorite trained pony.

Through gritted teeth, I try to smile. It’s bad enough when it's media, fans. But this woman? She’s been by our rink a few times, checking up on me, all eighties hair and dark pant suits. She's aware of what I’m working on. They’ve seen my programs so many times. And they still want more. Always. “Do I need a surprise?”

Sure, I’m planning one. But if I decide not to go for it, I don’t want to be hounded over the decision. Which means nobody, and I mean nobody, gets to know about it ahead of time. Except some of the people who work at our rink, I suppose.

“Just skate clean, buddy.” Buddy? Seriously? The other one, a shock of white hair and long white eyebrows over blue eyes, winks. The other coach’s ex partner, if I remember correctly. He pats my arm condescendingly. “Keep an eye on that Max Sennhauser. He’s creeping up on your scores.”

As if I didn’t know. Max Sennhauser, one of only a couple others in the world who’ve landed a quad axel in competition. Who came close to beating me in the Circuit Championships final a couple months ago. The seventeen year old phenom from Switzerland.

“We’re counting on you,” the woman adds. Yes; thank you for stating the obvious. “We need those three spots at the Olympics next year.”

“Yeah, got it.” My teeth emit a faint squeak, and I force my jaw to relax. Deep breath in. Destroying my teeth isn't going to help me.

Dad takes my arm, leading me a couple steps away from the group, recognizing the signs. “I’ll fix room, syn. Where are rink bags?"

"Oh, they're in the warm-up room. I should grab them,” I answer.

"Very good. I meet you in front lobby of hotel. Will know where we go then." He’s not speaking in full Ukrainian, at least, but he’s pissed off. About the room situation? Or did something else happen before I got here?

"Thanks, Dad. I still have a few hours before my next session, but I would like to get in a workout at some point."

"Tak, tak." He pats my shoulder brusquely, then lets me go. "I will get new room assignments and move things. I'll text. No meeting. Do what you need."

"Thanks."

He gives me a last nod. "Pobachymos, syn."

"Bye!" We split up, me to pick up my bags. Him to, I assume, sort out my room.

The gym isn't quiet, but it's also not packed. It’s also not stifling hot, even after the relative coolness of the rink and hallways, which is nice. It does smell like sweaty athletes, but that’s the smell of home.

It doesn't take me long to find a treadmill, put in my ear buds, and start my run. Tuning out the world while I run is such a habit by now I can shut out the people around me without any problem. It's quiet in my own head. The pounding rhythm of my music keeps my feet going. It's not quite the same as the peace of being on the ice, but it's close.

For an hour, I don't have to think about the expectations. I don't have to worry about the future. I can clear my mind and run.

I'm finishing my cool down when my attention is snagged by movement to my left. Someone on the treadmill next to me. They've probably been there all along. I've been so caught up in my own world I didn't notice. When I look over, I catch Jacques' eye. He gives a subtle nod of his head further to his own left. “Your boyfriend's hot.”

As usual, he’s speaking in French. Since we grew up spending so much time together, I speak it almost as well as English, so he doesn’t bother trying to translate when he’s around me.

But wait. My what now?

Stepping off the treadmill, I move forward so I can see beyond Jacques. Evan’s on a nearby machine doing butterflies, damp black curls plastered to his forehead. His skin shining with sweat. For about two seconds, I'm swept up in the sight, unable to tear my eyes away. Even on a weight machine, his grace is evident. Each movement flowing into the next as if it were choreographed. In a way, I suppose it is.

I remember what Jacques said and pull my eyes away, snapping back to Jacques, who's still jogging. “He's not my boyfriend,” I respond, about twenty seconds too late.

A snort and then a snicker. "Are you sure about that? You were awfully excited to see him earlier."

"Of course, I'm sure about that. I'd know if I had a boyfriend. I mean, fuck man, I'm straight and I don't even have a girlfriend."

Jacques looks me up and down as if he's seeing me for the first time. "You're straight?"

"Yes?" The question throws me off. “Have I ever given any indication that I'm not?” Jacques, of all people, is conforming to stereotypes?