Page 61 of Back Outside Edge

"Coach!" Alexandre's voice is still wavering, and now it's blatantly obvious he's acting. "Coach, help! He punched me!"

What are we? Fucking five? Running to daddy for help?

Never mind that my actual father is standing next to me. "Oh, get over yourself, Alexandre," I seethe, just loud enough for him to hear. "You were asking for that."

Dad places his hand on my shoulder, not gently. "Don't say anything, son. Not another word."

Well, at least he's calling me son again. It's not quite 'syn', but it's close. Whether he's trying to protect me as his son or his student, though, is another question altogether. If I'm pulled from another big competition for fighting, it's not going to look good for him, either.

The National Team coaches that were in the room are surrounding us now, and Alexandre's coach is running from the other side of the room. Of course all of this had to go down with the maximum possible number of witnesses. And none of them will have seen anything but Evan throw his plate on Alexandre and then me punch him in the face, seemingly unprovoked.

Because nobody was yelling. We were all being so fucking civilized. Fuck.

Anyone in the know will have figured out what was going on, but will any of it play well for the International Competitive Skating board? Shit, for court? Probably not. If Alexandre decides to press charges again, I am so very, very screwed.

All of the adrenaline, all of the tension that has kept me going since I woke up to the pictures, drains out of me in a rush, and I sag against Evan's chest. A single word starts repeating itself in my mind: fuck, fuck, fuck.

The only thing holding me up is Evan's arms. So much for keeping him anonymous. He doesn't seem troubled by the fact that he's holding me in public, though. He just pulls me back a bit further, away from the sniveling man at our feet, his coach now kneeling over him. Trying to see how injured he is, I guess. Not very. I'm not exactly a professional boxer.

I want to go back to bed. For a week. Close my eyes and go to sleep and forget this shit-storm of a morning ever happened.

Evan's voice is soft in my ear, but I can't focus enough to catch what he's saying. Not over the buzz that's permeating everything, wrapping my hearing and sight in something like cotton wool. His hands are running down my arms now, trying to soothe me, but there's no need. I'm already calm. Nothing is left but the buzzing. And the constant, never-ending refrain. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I can't get in trouble again. Not after everything. I've been so careful. Put in so much work. So much training, all in preparation of this Olympic cycle.

And all of it was undone in a matter of moments.

A minute later, Evan's hands are replaced by my mother's, wrapping around me in a cool, Chanel scented hug. "Honey, we're going back up to our room. We'll call our lawyer there." Her voice cuts through the buzz, flowing with the strong Ukrainian accent she never let go, plus the extra that distress brings out in her. I nod, numb, and then she and Dad are shepherding me out of the room.

"Wait. Evan." I half-turn, trying to search for him, but we're in the hallway, and he's not with me anymore. "We need to get Evan."

"He's with his team, honey. They'll take care of him. You need to worry about you right now."

"But-"

Dad's voice, interrupting me, is harsh. A snap of sound that grounds me a bit. "Don't worry about him. You don't want him more involved in this mess."

He's right. It’s enough to bring me back a bit more. Whatever chance Evan has getting out of this without backlash, I need to give him. Pulling him under with me would be the worst possible thing.

In my parents' room, I sit, still mostly numb, on the uncomfortable easy chair by the bed. Dad’s at the desk, scratching out something on the hotel's stationary. A press release? Mom's on the other side of the room, pacing back and forth, five steps in either direction, while she argues with one of our lawyers.

It would be too crowded, especially with the amount of anger spitting around me, if I were capable of feeling anything.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and in a daze, I pull it out. I forgot that I'd put it on silent after the constant alerts of the morning. I have hundreds of notifications, but only the last one matters.

Evan

Are you ok?

I start typing a response, but before I can type more than the first word, my mom is in front of me, pulling my phone from my hands. "No, Stefan. Stay off your phone until this is sorted out."

"It's just Evan."

Her look is the one she reserves for unruly students; I shrink back into my chair. "You shouldn't be talking to him right now."

"But he's—"

"Stefan." Dad's voice, once again that harsh whip of sound. "You need to stay away from that boy."