Page 44 of Back Outside Edge

"Yeah, but your body, how do you manage? How do you not fall into a thousand million pieces?" My eyes are still closed, too tired to consider opening, but he’s definitely shrugging. How is he moving?

He says, "I'm very, very careful. I don't want to get injured, so I do everything I can to avoid it."

"Including working yourself into the ground? I don't believe it."

"I don't, though. I only work myself as hard as I can. I have it down to a science. Literally. I use all the trackers and everything." There's something strange about his voice, but I can't quite put my finger on it. Am I delving into territory he doesn't want to go to?

It’s obvious he puts a ridiculous amount of pressure on himself, but… I’m not his coach. I’m not responsible for his training schedule. Maybe I should stop bringing it up.

If this is a normal day for him, though, he’s going to either burn out or injure himself, no matter how many trackers he uses. It doesn't matter how in shape he is; bodies are not meant to go this far daily.

So I’ll take a tangential approach. "So what's the ultimate goal? The Olympics, I assume."

"Yeah. I'm not sure beyond that. If I have to redeem myself again—well, I don't know if I can do four more years of this, honestly." At least he's paying attention to something, living in some form of reality. Except...

"Redeem yourself for what?"

Stefan shifts, and then his face hovers over mine, brow furrowed. "What do you mean for what? For my screw-up at the last Olympics."

"What do you mean?" I frown up at him, and he frowns back at me.

"You know what happened."

"Yeah." Is there anyone in the world who doesn't know what happened? How Stefan, the undisputed favorite, the media darling, the god among figure skaters, every person in America’s—in the world’s—wet dream, crumbled under the pressure of the Olympics. How he had a mediocre short program, then fell twice during his free skate, popped two other jumps.

I wait for him to continue; he doesn't. Our standoff lasts until the ice starts to get cold, but I’m still not sure my legs can hold me up, so I don’t move, just sigh. "Stefan, you came in... What, tenth? That's not a fuckup. That’s incredible. Most people couldn’t dream of doing so well, especially after everything that happened in that skate."

"Yeah, well, most people aren't me. I was supposed to win, not come in tenth." His voice is suddenly so woebegone, his eyes so sad. It makes my heart hurt for him.

I force myself into movement, sitting up and pulling him into a tight hug. "Stefan, you've got to forgive yourself. You're only human. Humans mess up. It's part of life."

Stefan's body is stiff against mine, and I burrow my head into his neck, hugging him even harder. He needs this, I can tell, but it's not something he'd ever dream of asking for. I've learned Stefan doesn't ask for help, not when it counts. Oh, sure, he was willing to ask me for help with his skating, but that's different. That's not him, not his core.

Not the inner Stefan, who’s so much more of a mess than the public knows, with the calm, cool, conceited persona he puts on for the cameras.

He's not answering, maybe not willing to acknowledge my last statement.

"What counts as redemption? When do you stop pushing yourself so hard?" I mumble into his neck. Will Stefan ever be happy if he doesn’t bring home Olympic gold? I don’t know how to convince him, ease the ridiculous amount of stress that’s written all over him.

Skating isn't supposed to be this hard, this stressful. For me, it's fun, an art form. I still smile every time I step out onto the rink, feel the ice gliding beneath me. Does Stefan ever have that?

If he’s been in skates since he could walk, has he ever had the opportunity to decide for himself this is something he wants to do?

He lets out a sigh, and with it, a hint of the tension leaves his body. "When I win."

I hate that answer. What happens if he never wins? If Max manages to overtake him? If he injures himself?

Does he keep treating himself like this for the next four years? And again, and again? At what point does he break down completely?

"You know," I say, carefully, choosing my words. "You've won at Worlds. Multiple times. Circuit Championships, too. Aren't those basically the same thing?"

His head shakes, pressing into my face. "Nobody cares about those."

"Everyone in our world does."

"It's not the same." He's got his stubborn voice now, the one I'm not going to win against. I've learned something, though. He's letting the expectations get to him. The media, his fans. It matters to him what they think, so much more than he lets on.

I pull away from him, not a lot, just enough to see his face, look into his eyes. His eyes are brimming with a complex mix of emotions, and I haven't learned him well enough yet to be sure what they are. I can guess. Frustration, sadness, disappointment. Some self-loathing thrown in, because it's Stefan, and he never does anything by halves.