Page 14 of Back Outside Edge

“Fuck if I know. Some big convention, or some shit. Someone fucked up and scheduled Worlds at the same time.” The words are a growl; he's definitely not happy about this. Am I back to the pissed off version of my roommate?

“I'm sorry,” I answer. It’s time to soothe the beast again. Maybe I only partially succeeded last night, but I can do better this time. Well, I can try, anyway. He's got a more chiseled jawline than I'd noticed, now his teeth are grinding. Why the hell am I noticing his jawline when he looks ready to punch someone? Hopefully not me.

His hands clench, unclench, and after his eyes dart to mine, he sucks in a deep breath, before letting it out. His head shakes, the movement stiff, almost curt. “It's not your fault.” I guess there's that.

“Still, I know how important a single is to you.” My voice is still soft, soothing, like he's a tiger stalking outside his cage looking for his next meal. That's what he reminds me of. Sleek athleticism, burning eyes, ready to pounce on the unwary.

“He's such a fucking asshole.” It comes out as a hiss, as if he’s talking to himself more than me. Hopefully he's not talking about me, either.

I can't ignore it, though; if he is, I need to know why and try to fix it before we're alone in a room together again. “Who?”

His eyes come back to mine, and they’re shooting sparks. If looks could kill, and so forth. Crap. Does he mean me? What did I do that was so bad? “Fucking Alexandre. He knows. He knows exactly why I need my own room. He's just trying to make me miserable. And fuck over my team while he's at it." Stefan is growing the words by the end, but I'm no less confused.

"Alexandre? Like, Alexandre Boudreaux?" What on earth does my teammate have to do with any of this?

A curt nod is all the response I get.

"Um... Did I miss something?" I'm approaching the tiger, carefully, hand outstretched. Nice kitty.

"The woman at the front desk said they called to confirm the room assignment changed, and my roommate approved it." Sparks shoot straight at me, and I'm lifting my hands before I realize what I'm doing. I'd be backing away if I weren't sitting.

"Not me."

"I know," he growls. "You already told me. Which means it was Alexandre. Who I'm certain is aware that having my own space is necessary for me. That I need it to perform well. He was obviously trying to sabotage me. Wants me to mess up and lose a spot at the Olympics, probably."

Oh. Well, crap. If he's right, that's all kinds of messed up. "But you always podium at Worlds," I argue. "The only time anything like that has ever happened was..." My voice trails off. It might be a sensitive subject.

"The Olympics, yeah. It's also the last time I had a roommate. The U.S. section of the Village was too full." Almost out of nowhere, the anger breaks, and his face falls. "Fuck." It's a desolated murmur this time, not the outraged growl of moments earlier.

I'm not as superstitious as many, so I can’t claim to empathize with his problem, but I can at least understand he has one. What's more, superstitions can turn into self-fulfilling prophecies—all the more so when they're broken. If he's this upset by the time he goes onto the ice tomorrow, he'll do the precise thing he's so afraid of.

The sound of skates scraping across the ice, the yelling of coaches, is the sound of home. We're in a little pocket of stillness, midway through the practice time, and the background noise spells comfort. It's as good a time as any to work on the problem. So I stand, move up a few steps, and settle into the chair next to him. He doesn't react, head held in one hand. "Ok, so we're stuck together for the week, and that's apparently not going to change. What can we do to make it work for you? Or at least be less difficult?"

The tiger isn't a tiger anymore, or, if it is, it's one that's been caged into a tiny corner of its enclosure and has given up in defeat. He shrugs, and it's a hopeless motion. He doesn't raise his head to look at me, to acknowledge I'm sitting next to him now. His hand moves to the chair on the other side of him, picking up his phone, and he stares down at it, silent. As if he's willing the last text to be a joke, or for it to come to a magical, different conclusion.

Trapped tigers are more dangerous, aren't they? I can't just leave him, though. Hesitantly, making no sudden moves, I reach out and cover his phone with my hand. When he doesn't stop me, I slide it away from him, setting it in my lap. It's not going to help him right now, but maybe I can. Now I'm a handler, trying to urge him out of the corner and into the play area. “Stefan.” I keep my voice light, as coaxing as I can make it. “We'll do whatever we need to do. It'll be all right.”

“No, it won't.” He sounds so defeated, my heart hurts.

"It will." I can't know if what I'm saying is true, but—I have to believe I'm right. I do believe I'm right. Stefan can do anything, including break physics. A stupid room situation isn't going to break him. "When you have your own room, what does your routine look like?"

Another sad shrug. "I don't know, the usual, I guess."

"Ok, but what's your usual?" He still hasn't argued about my taking his phone, so I slip it into my pocket, then glance down at his feet. His shoes are on; one is tied, the other still unlaced. It's ridiculous, maybe a little infantilizing, but I lean down to tie it for him. He doesn't appear to mind, though, just sits, watching me. This might feel like home, but we can't stay here all night, and I'm clearly not going to fix things immediately. "Come on, let's get out of here. It's cold, and both of us need a shower."

Stefan lets me lead him out of the room. He's so completely passive. It's wrong. Stefan is too vibrant, too vital, to look this—this broken. I'd never have thought he could break, but maybe all his strength makes him brittle. Too reliant on routine and custom.

I give him until we’re back in our room. Then I sit him down on his bed and move to my own, across from him. "All right, you're done."

"What?" He blinks up at me, face pinched, then glances around the room. A little frown furrows his brow, but he doesn't say anything else.

"All this sucks, but... You're done." I make my voice as gentle, yet firm, as I can. Like I’m talking to my little brother when he was a toddler. Which is maybe also demeaning, but in this moment, Stefan appears as fragile as one.

"Done with what?" The pinch between his eyebrows deepens.

"Done feeling sorry for yourself. You are Stefan Petryk. Nothing is going to stop you. Not even an annoying Canadian roommate."

"You're not annoying."