Page 12 of Back Outside Edge

Jacques shrugs, and how he manages to look so elegant doing it while running on a treadmill is beyond me. "All right. Not your boyfriend then. Does that mean I can give it a shot?"

"I mean, sure? If you want to, he's not my property."

Jacques tilts his head, studying Evan as he continues his workout. "Maybe I will."

Shaking my head at his antics, I step away from his treadmill. "You're such an asshole."

"Yes. But why in this case? He's hot."

"He's also your competition."

Another Gallic sort of shrug. "Of course, but who isn't?"

"Anyone you don't meet at Worlds, maybe?"

Jacques starts pressing a button on his treadmill, slowing it down. After a few seconds of walking, it comes to a stop, and he steps off next to me. "My sweet, innocent baby boy. Do you truly believe that we don't all hook up at these events?"

What the fuck? "No. You don't. You can't. That's like incestuous or something."

Jacques's laughter booms through the workout room, and about half the people in it look up at him. Evan included, I notice out of the corner of my eye. Jacques points toward a pair standing by one of the weight machines. "I have had both of them." His finger moves over to someone else rowing steadily. "And him. And..." His finger wavers for a minute, then settles on the guy behind the counter. "And him. But he isn't a skater, so he doesn't count."

"Yeah, don't tell him that. I knew you were a player, but… Fuck, dude."

Jacques slings a sweaty arm around my shoulders, hauling me toward the showers. "One day, baby boy, we are going to play. And you will understand."

I roll my eyes, laughing. "Asshole." I'm not sure what he’s implying, not really. Is he hitting on me? I don’t think so, but would I know it if I saw it?

I am aware I'm behind the curve, developmentally speaking. That by age twenty-two, I should have at least had some sort of romantic relationship in my life. I'm not a virgin, but relationships have never been in the cards.

I have skating and that's all that matters. All I have time for. Getting to and winning the next Olympics. Proving I can do it. That I'm not a complete fuck up. And nothing, absolutely nothing, is going to get in the way of completing that goal. Not pressure, not nerves. And certainly not a relationship. I can't even manage friendships more complicated than running into each other at competitions or going to training camps together.

No time for roommates either, no matter how sweet. I pull my phone out of my pocket, turning off the music while I’m at it. Nothing from Dad. Strange. It's been almost two hours.

Chapter 6

Evan

Training in the same session as Stefan is every bit as exhilarating—and terrifying—as I'd expected. For one thing, the session is open, so the media are here. Plus, fans. So many fans. It’s almost a sold out practice session.

I’m used to people around during practice sessions when I'm at a competition, but this is a whole different world. Nonstop shutter clicks, and the red eyes of video cameras everywhere. Intense bouts of cheering and screaming every time Stefan does anything, throwing me off rhythm.

The audience isn’t the only one scrutinizing his every move; so are all of us skaters. Like the session I watched earlier, we're all keeping half an eye on him at all times, giving him space to do whatever he wants.

I'm also picking apart his movements, trying to find clues. Little bits of technique I can try to incorporate. The exact flick off an edge as he rises off the ice into what looks like an almost lazy Salchow. The precise angle of his legs as he takes off into my dreaded loop, the landing he makes look like nothing special.

I'm not usually a jealous person, when it comes to skating. I skate my own way, and I'm proud of what I've accomplished. For someone who didn't start formally training until I was twelve, I've risen far beyond what anyone expected of me. So what if my jumps aren't perfect? I can manage most of them.

But watching Stefan, the green-eyed monster takes up residence. The whisper of his skates every time he lands, the power in his legs as he moves into a combination, the second jump almost as impossibly high as the first. I'll never be able to do that.

That jealousy drives me to attempt my own quad loop. It's stupid; I know it's stupid. But I want to do it in front of him. I want to show him I can.

So I line myself up for the open ice. Set up, pull one leg across the other, and fly. Except I don't fly.

Of course I don't.

Oh, I do for a moment. I rotate quickly enough, get through most of them, but my angle's all wrong. I'm leaning too far forward. I'm not high enough, the way I am more often than not when I try this jump, and I'm going to land before I finish.

If it weren't for the angle, it would have been a cheat, which would have been fine. I could have accepted that. Maybe a wobble or a step out, no big deal. But because I'm leaning so far out of my axis, I can't stop the fall when my toe pick hits the ice.