Page 13 of Back Outside Edge

It's far from the worst fall I've ever taken, but it's not an easy one. My foot catches on the toe pick, wrenching my ankle, and I land hard enough the air whooshes out of my lungs, leaving me stunned. If I were in competition, I’d push it, force myself up, and keep going. Since I’m not, I allow myself a moment to lie, panting, sprawled out on the ice.

A scraping of blades nearby, and a dusting of ice skims over my face. “Are you all right?” It's Stefan's voice, and when I open my eyes, I look straight into those wells of bright blue. A faint line appears between his brows as he stares down at me.

“I'm fine; I'm just stupid.”

His hand reaches down, and I grasp it, letting him help me up. My ankle twinges, but I ignore it. “I thought you said you took the quad loop out of your routine.” His voice is chiding, if gentle, and for a moment, I have to grit my teeth over the surge of irritation. I might not be as good at it as him, not close to, but that does not mean I'm incapable.

Even if all signs currently point in that direction. “I did.”

“Then why'd you try it?” His eyes are still impossible to resist, and he hasn't let go of my hand. Is it intentional, or did he forget we were holding hands? “I mean, I'm all for practice, but maybe not on crowded ice two days before Worlds?”

The irritation melts. He's still being condescending, but he's right. And my hand is still in his. Taking over as irritation disappears, butterflies run rampant through my stomach. “Blame yourself.” I try to smile at him, but it wavers. Tingles spark through my palm where our hands touch. Should I let go? Wait until he notices? Will it be weirder if I wait? I don't want to freak him out. Maybe I can pretend I didn't notice either.

“Me? What did I do?” His mouth moves into that little one-sided quirk he makes. The not-quite-smile I'm not sure how to read.

“You make it look so easy.” It might not be the whole story, but it's far from a lie. “I was watching your technique, thought I'd try to emulate it.”

“With a quad.” His face has gone a bit pale, which is fair. “Who tries new technique with a quad?”

Me, it seems. "Like I said, stupid. I figured—a loop’s a loop, right? It’s not like I was doing anything completely new."

The concern hasn't left his face, and he's still holding my hand. “I guess. I could work on it with you if you want.”

“No, no, it’s fine. You need your own practice time. No need to waste it on me.”

He doesn't look convinced, but he finally notices our hands and drops mine, following it up with a quick glance around. Oh, right, the media. The fans.

I just fell, then stood here holding Stefan's hand for who knows how long in front of everyone. Great.

“I didn't mean right now.” He blushes a little, embarrassed, or the cold is getting to him now that he’s standing still.

“Right, of course not. I don't know what I was thinking.” My cheeks warm as well.

When his eyes meet mine again, though, they're still smiling. “Maybe we could pull some rink time after the competition?”

"Oh, I'll be gone by then." I hate to say it. Stefan Petryk is offering to train with me. But I can't afford to stay longer. “I'm flying out Friday evening.”

The crease between his eyebrows deepens. "That sucks."

“Yeah, well.” I shrug, trying to pull off nonchalant. "That's life."

Another smile, halfway between quirk and full sunshine, and a new pack of butterflies in my stomach. How many variations of smile does Stefan have? And what do they mean? This one makes me tingle. "I'd better get back out there. Dad'll eat me alive if he realizes how much time I've spent talking."

“Yeah, of course.” He pushes off the boards and he's back on the rink, flying. Three steps and he's at full speed. It's astonishing, the power he's holding in those legs. What would it feel like to have them wrapped around me?

Nope. Bad thoughts.

I'm tying my shoes, when Stefan starts to curse from a few rows up. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

I crane my neck to look, and he's alone, staring at his phone. Turning in my seat, I rest my forearms on the back of it. A few other skaters are still in the area, some coaches milling about watching as their skaters take their turn on the ice, but nobody else appears to be paying attention. “What's wrong?”

He's glaring at his phone like it's somehow managed to personally offend him. For a second, it looks like he’s about to throw it, but instead, he clenches his jaw harder and sets it down, firmly, on the seat beside him. “You're stuck with me for the week.” From three rows away, I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Stuck with—” Oh. Oh, crap. “Your dad couldn't find another room.”

“Apparently every fucking hotel in Frankfurt is sold out.”

“How is that even possible?”