Page 58 of Back Outside Edge

Entering the room is like running into a brick wall. Too many people, too much noise, too many competing scents. Not the most conducive place to hang out with Stefan, but that’s New York, I guess. Just overall too much for a country boy like me.

I fight through the crowd and grab a plate, managing to snag the last of the Belgian waffle batter. While I wait for it to cook, I keep an eye on the room. Something feels off, though I can’t put my finger on what. The room is buzzing with conversation, which is normal, but there's an edge to it. Nothing I could describe or point out, exactly, but something… People are looking around a bit too often, nudging each other and showing newcomers their phones.

It’s weird. Did some big news drop? If so, it’ll wait. I’m not going to let anything derail my day with Stefan.

Waffle done, I make my way around the rest of the buffet, picking out some rubbery eggs and limp bacon, then drench the whole plate in fake syrup and pick up a yogurt cup, balancing it precariously on the edge of my plate.

I’ll come back for coffee, once I’ve got a table.

Which is going to be harder than it ought to be, because no empty ones exist. There are very few empty seats. A few people from my team are sitting around one, but Alexandre is in the group. After last night, I don't want to sit with him, and I'm sure Stefan won't either.

Stefan’s parents are at another table. I could join them, but as much as I think his parents have come to like me, this is supposed to be a date. Of sorts. They’re also sitting with some of the American team coaches and they all look downright grim. I don’t want to interrupt whatever that is.

Maybe Stefan and I can sneak our plates out and up to his room, but I have to wait for him. While I wait, I edge into a corner, watching for anyone leaving so I can snag their table.

My fork is about halfway to my mouth when the room goes, almost in a heartbeat, from raucous to dead silent. The clunk of my fork hitting the fake china plate rings through the entire room when, startled, I drop it.

Everyone in the room is staring at the entrance, way too quiet, barely breathing. I’m in the wrong damned corner; I can’t see whatever it is they’re looking at. Which goes to show picking a corner for sentimental reasons is a bad idea.

I’m starting to inch my way forward through the silence so I can see whatever it is when a few of the Canadian skaters’ heads swivel toward me. Then back to the door, and to me again. I wasn’t that loud; nobody else has noticed me moving. Something else is going on. Something involving me?

What the hell is it?

I still can’t see, so I look back at the table full of my teammates. Alexandre’s face looks satisfied, the way it does every time he beats me at Nationals. A smile plays over his mouth as he stares toward the entrance.

The rest of my team, though, look back at me, with something very different in their eyes. I can’t put my finger on what their faces are telling me, though. "What?" I mouth at Luc, glad he's here as well, hoping somebody will give me some idea of what's happening.

His eyes dart over to Alexandre before he looks back at me and shakes his head. What the hell? I am so confused. What does Alexandre have to do with anything?

After basically forever, whoever it is that's got everybody's attention at the door walks further into the room.

Stefan. He’s as devastatingly handsome as always, in a pair of those designer jeans he knows make me drool and what looks like a black t-shirt under his usual black hoodie. His head is held high, the arrogant tilt he puts on in public.

Other than that, though, he looks totally unlike my Stefan, or even his public version. The face that can be so expressive, so open, is completely still, even stiff. He sees me, but he doesn't meet my eyes. Doesn't do more than glance in my direction as he makes a quick sweep of the room.

Without a word, without acknowledging a single person, he works his way through the buffet. He doesn’t pick up his usual breakfast foods, just tosses a few things on his plate, almost at random. The crowded room makes way for him, and a few people turn back to their friends or their food.

Jacques stands up, going to him and squeezing his arm. How did I miss Jacques earlier? In my mind, he's a legendary figure, another idol who I'd never dream of approaching, but he would’ve been a good person to sit with, since he and Stefan are so tight. Not important. What the hell is going on?

I reach for my phone to see what I can find. Nothing. Damn it. I forgot it on the charger.

Jacques murmurs something in Stefan’s ear, but Stefan shakes his head, pulling his arm away. Jacques nods, going back to his own table, but his eyes stay on Stefan, shadowed. Worried?

Stefan moves in a different direction, still far too stiff. He goes to his parents’ table, where he sits next to his mother. She reaches over, taking his hand and squeezing it, but his father doesn’t meet his eyes. A couple of the other coaches give him little nods, but some look away, their own faces tight.

With disapproval? I’ve seen my fair share of disapproving coaches before, and that’s what it looks like, but… What the hell could Stefan have done to cause it? If he's gotten in another fight, he would have told me. Right?

I saw him last night. We were texting less than eight hours ago. He was himself—open, sweet, with that appealing bit of added desperation. No way he was hiding something big enough to provoke this reaction from the entire skating community. Did something happen in the last eight hours? What could have happened?

I try to catch his eye again, but it's useless; he's facing away from me. When I look at them instead, my teammates are still watching me, little darts of their heads, like they’re trying to be inconspicuous. I try again to get Luc to give me something more, but he shakes his head. What the hell? Alexandre hates Stefan, but this is ridiculous.

I jerk my head toward the entrance, trying to beg with my eyes, and after a few seconds, Luc nods. He leans over to whisper something to his partner before rising, then leaves the room. I follow, still carrying a full plate of food, not bothering to be subtle about it.

Once we're out of earshot of the room, I reach out and grab Luc's arm, pulling him to me. "What is going on?"

He grimaces. "Haven't been on social media yet this morning, I gather." For once, his lovely, melodic Québécois accent does nothing for me. My stomach's in knots.

"No, I never check it when I'm out of town for a competition."