Page 68 of Back Outside Edge

"Not very hard. You could have just told me what you were worried about. You didn’t have to destroy his life in the process."

Alexandre shakes his head, then points to his jaw. "He punched me again, Evan. He hasn't changed. He's not a safe person to be around. He deserves to be behind bars, not getting gold medals."

My head is shaking, matching his. "No, Alexandre, he has changed. I promise you, he is not the man he used to be. I don't think he was that man even then. He just—the pressure was too much. And after what happened at the Olympics…"

"Evan, can you even hear yourself?" He takes my arms, shaking me lightly. "You're making excuses for him. You're acting exactly like..." He trails off, but the unspoken words ring between us. Someone suffering from domestic violence.

Except that's not what's happening. Not what will happen. Everything I said is the absolute truth, but how do you prove a negative? No matter what I say, Alexandre will still believe it just hasn't happened yet. That even if I haven't been in danger so far, it doesn't mean I won't be. Technically, he'd be right; there's no way to be absolutely certain who somebody is, not really.

I would trust Stefan with my life, though, and everything in me is sure I'm correct in my assessment.

I'm opening my mouth, trying to come up with whatever I'm going to say next, when running footsteps skid to a halt near us. "Evan!" This time it is the league coach for Skate Canada, and he looks pissed off. "What the hell are you doing? You're supposed to be in there."

Oh crap. I was already running late, and we've been standing here arguing for who knows how long. "Has my warm-up started yet?" Do I forfeit if I miss it, or just my call to compete?

The coach shakes his head. "No, you have about five minutes. Where the hell have you been? We’re counting on you, and you’re out here…" He’s practically seething at me, waving his arm in some kind of area-encompassing gesture.

Alexandre looks at me, and his eyes are as wide as I'm sure mine are. "Come on. We've got to get you ready." He sprints back to my bag, scooping it up, and both of us race the rest of the way to the warm-up room, where he helps me lace up my boots in record time.

Thank God no laces snap, even with both of us yanking on them like it’s the end of the world.

I make it into line seconds before my name is announced.

I've never been this rushed before a competition, and I never want to be again. On the ice, everything feels off. The audience is loud, appreciative, but a thin murmur over the rushing of my heart. I haven't warmed up properly, mentally prepared myself, visualized my routine at all in the past half hour. My first attempt at a jump goes so awry I end up crashing into the boards.

Afterward, I stop trying to warm up the way I usually do and go back to the basics. I just need to get my feet under me again. A few trips around for my feet to realign with my skates, to the ice underneath them. It should be second nature for me, my skates an extension of my body, almost more like my feet than the real ones. Right now, though, they're like lumps of lead sliding without direction.

I move into an easy step sequence, not even a level one, just enough to get my body moving, halfway stumbling over my crossovers. By the time I'm done with that, they're calling us back in.

I am so screwed.

Chapter 27

Stefan

Outside Oakland, CA

I'm torturing myself. I know it, but I can't stop.

My living room has never felt so empty, so cold, despite the furnace working overtime. I'm on my couch, curled up in front of the TV with a pint of whatever ice cream I dug out of the back of the freezer. The cats are piled on my lap, purring, doing their best to comfort me. My comforter, dragged from my bed, is covering my eyes. I should be overheated. I'm not. If it were any other day, if I were watching anything else, it would be the perfect comfort set-up. I'd be fine. Or as fine as I can be, considering that my life is over.

Since it is, and since I'm watching, or, at the moment, not watching, Circuit America, it's all too much. The event that until yesterday I was supposed to be in. That I was planning to win. Handily.

That the entire world was expecting me to win. Handily.

Now, the whole world has switched to having an opinion about yesterday.

My phone sits next to me, but it’s off. It’s been off since before I got on the plane, and I’m not even close to ready to turn it back on. I'm far too aware of what's waiting. Too many calls, too many texts, too many alerts.

So for now, only the announcers can tell me they're disappointed in me. And they're not holding back. I've learned it's best to turn off the volume as soon as I hear my name. It’s all speculation, and I don’t need their help with that.

Has it been six minutes yet? I take a quick peek, praying I won’t see Evan. Thank fuck, the warm-up is over. Evan and the rest of his group have left the ice, minus the next skater. Since it's safe, I unmute the TV and go back to watching.

Evan's fourth in the group, and the first three skaters seem to take forever. They’re all excellent, and normally I’d enjoy being able to watch them perform, but all I want is Evan. And then, finally, he comes out again.

Fuck. I should have watched his warm-up. Why didn't I watch his warm-up? I was so scared to see him. I should have been reveling in every moment I had a chance to see him.

He's so beautiful. So achingly beautiful. Even though he looks a little tentative when he comes out from backstage. When the cameras zoom in on his face, everything else fades away. The circles under his eyes are prominent under the bright lights.