Page 17 of Back Outside Edge

Then Max is done and my name is on the screen and being called. I slip out of my jacket, handing it and my blade guards to Dad, and head onto the ice. Circling the rink, I struggle more than usual to ignore the announcement of Max’s final scores. It shouldn’t matter. The only thing that should exist is the rink and the swell of my music. Focus, Stefan.

Chapter 8

Evan

I’m in the middle of a group of my teammates, ankle taped but still aching more than I want it to be, when Stefan is called to the ice. He looks, as always, amazing.

His costume has changed a bit over the season, replaced since his win at the Circuit Championships. The shirt is still gold, sparkling like the sun—and his smile, though he's not yet giving that out. His pants, though, have gone from black to russet, and they’ve gained some sparkle as well. They highlight his narrow waist and exceptional ass too much for my comfort. No wonder everyone in the world is in love with him.

The camera pans in on his face, tight with determination, the blue of his eyes caught by the lenses, staring straight into my soul. How does he manage it, even through a camera? Who starts their program looking into the camera? Stefan, I guess. How does he know which one to pick?

His intense gaze is a dare to every single person watching. Keep up with me, if you can. But you'd better not blink, because if you do, you'll miss the incredible.

I've seen this program before, dozens of times. Gabby and I watched it together, analyzing his technique. I watched it on my own, drooling over his sheer perfection. I watched it again this morning, before he woke up, amping myself with a taste of aspiration. Unable to process the fact that the man snoring in the next bed and the one on my screen are the same. His presence in my room is something so far removed from what should be reality it feels like a dream. Like a god has come to earth and deigned to sleep near me.

I've memorized every dip of his shoulder, every edge change, every rotation, both on ice and in the air. Watching it in person still sets my soul ablaze. He soars toward his first jump like he's flying, but he spirals into it instead of taking the straight line. A change. Why? It means he'll have to change his sequence as well.

Despite the change, he’s skating a perfect program, and I’m on the edge of my seat as he starts to spiral toward his final sequence. He can't be doing another flip. A loop? I don't think I've ever seen him do a spiral entrance into a loop. Too high a likelihood of going out of control for him? At the last minute, he evens out into a straight line for his final jump sequence, though. Ok, the Lutz I've expected since the early switch.

It would be an impeccable, unexpected transition in, but he wobbles as he lifts off the ice into a not quite perfect jump, and everyone around me sucks in a breath. What is happening? Stefan does not wobble. He manages the rotations, but the messed-up entrance doesn't resolve itself. His angle is off, too far to the side, and when he lands, it’s uneven.

He's wavering on his skate, unable to find his balance on the rocker. We're all holding our extra breath, willing him through the moment. A split second later, both his hands are on the ice, catching him as he falls forward.

Oh crap. Crap, crap, crap. He doesn't have any speed left, no way for him to complete his combination. He lost the biggest point scoring element of his routine.

This is all my fault.

I tried so hard to accommodate him, but I was still a roommate he knew he couldn't have. Whether it was superstition coming to life, a self-fulfilling prophecy, or simply him giving up too much of his routine, my presence caused this. God, what else should I have done?

Also, why did he switch elements? Was this always the plan? Was it a last minute change that messed up his concentration even more?

He's back on track immediately afterward, and I have to give him credit. If I hadn’t seen the fall, I wouldn’t know it happened. He keeps his energy up through the second half of his program, but when he finishes, and his face falls, it’s almost enough to destroy me.

The audience, as stunned as I am, is split between silence and encouraging applause. The camera pans out, catching his whole body as he folds in on himself, head down. His chest is rising and falling too quickly for Stefan after the short. Is he crying?

No. When he lifts his head, moving to the middle of the rink for his bows, he looks furious. I guess it’s better than devastated, but it’s still awful.

After a moment, he recovers, his face going blank, then switching to his interview smile as he takes his bows. They’re a little curt, and if I hadn’t seen his real smile, I might not recognize the difference. It’s not a terrible act.

When his scores come up, my heart stops again. I beat him in the short program.

Me, Evan Marquez, the man who can't jump for shit, beat Stefan Petryk in the short.

However, even after losing an entire element, he's only a little over ten points from the lead and a couple below me. It's nowhere close to an insurmountable point difference for someone like Stefan, who has been known to win by over thirty. If he pulls off his long, he'll be fine, assuming Max doesn't have any more tricks up his sleeve.

But for the moment, he's in sixth place.

I'm willing to bet Stefan hasn't been in sixth place since the Olympics.

Everyone around me is quiet, still processing, I assume, the same as me. My team sits, stunned, as the crowds began to disperse. Eventually, someone speaks up. “What do you think happened?”

I wince. It wasn't directed at me, but it hits me like it was. “I think it might be my fault.”

“What do you mean?” She looks over at me, her famously golden eyes curious. They match the medal she won at Nationals this year.

“Well, you know how he's famous for having a set-in-stone routine, right?" I start.

“Yeah.”