Page 5 of Back Outside Edge

"Going to finish your meditation at the rink?" His voice startles me in the silence of the hotel. We're walking down the hallway toward the elevator that doesn't work—and why is the hotel so quiet? Evan's in the first practice session, but he's not the only one.

"Yeah, we'll see. It's usually too busy there."

"Sorry if I disturbed you."

He did, but I can't blame him. After a night of sleep, I'm less irritated with him, even without my full morning meditation. His breath was oddly soothing while I was doing it, enough that I didn't think I'd be able to focus once he left. My frustration is directed less at him than it should be. Maybe his smile is getting to me.

Though—he did know who I was, and I’m far from shy about telling people my rooming preferences. Why did he let this happen? Alexandre might be his teammate, but I've never done anything to Evan. “How come you agreed to room with me?”

He shoots me a look, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he looked surprised. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“When they called to confirm,” I respond. “Didn’t they tell you it was with me? The receptionist said you accepted the change.”

When he looks over at me again, he shakes his head. “Nope, not me. I mean, I assumed I’d have a roommate, but nobody called me.”

Strange. More strange, I believe him. He seems so guileless. Too guileless?

“Weird.”

Dad will fix it. Somehow. He has to. Fixing things is what he does.

When I sneak a glance over at him, he's doing that sunshine smile again. No cameras, no audience. Is he truly this happy? “So what's your schedule? After the first session?” he asks.

It takes me a moment to switch my brain over. To picture my schedule. “I think I have an hour session early this afternoon.” It’s not long either, but ice time is limited at competitions like this.

“Same,” he says, with yet another smile. Does he ever stop smiling? “Maybe we’ll see each other there.” Our bags clatter loudly as we run them down the stairwell. Evan lets out a huff. “No wonder I go through so many bags.”

“Is it even legal for them to not have a working elevator? I thought Germany was supposed to be all efficient and shit.” He laughs, sounding almost breathless. Which is definitely not because we're walking down two—nope, three, flights of stairs. Because Europe does its numbering differently.

Must be the way he laughs, although I don't remember him sounding so out of breath in interviews. “Is anyone else here from Canada?” I should remember how they placed last year, but... I don't.

“Not in men’s, no. Alexandre came in thirteenth last year."

“Is that why he's not here this year?” At least if I'm stuck rooming with a Canadian, it's not Alexandre. I'd rather sleep in the hallway than with him. The man is loud, and irritating, and the reason I was suspended from Worlds two years ago. He's a great figure skater, but in his personal life, he's a mess. And he hates me. For good reason, but it's been years.

“No, he fell a few weeks ago, busted his knee, so I'm the alternate.”

“That sucks. I mean, not for you, obviously, but…” I let the sentence trail off. He knows.

“Yeah.”

We fall back into silence as I replay our last conversation. Alexandre was supposed to be here until a few weeks ago. Would Alexandre have been my roommate if he hadn’t hurt himself?

Fuck me. He’s the one who agreed to the change.

And there is no reason Alexandre would have confirmed me as his roommate if it wasn’t to sabotage me. He’d want to be stuck in a room with me less than I would him.

It has to have been malicious. The fucking asshole.

As it turns out, the hotel is quiet because every single person here is already getting breakfast. What is it about this hotel and being crowded?

There are too many people for the small room, even along the buffet line. The scent of cooked eggs, fresh-baked bread, and coffee is overwhelming, and the noise is pure chaos in dozens of languages. Plus, it's all too warm, verging on hot. Too many people and hot foods crammed in here, I guess.

It takes me a minute to adjust. After I do, at least to some degree, I scan the room, finding the table with my teammates. Evan's still standing beside me, so I nod in their direction. “You want to eat with us?”

His smile is blinding. Fuck, this guy and his smile. How is it more charming every time he flashes it? One of his canines is a little crooked, and it's—something. Cute?

It doesn't take either of us long to fill our plates despite the line, and we move to the table full of Americans. I give my teammates fist bumps and hellos, and Evan follows suit. Since everybody else recognizes Evan on sight. And likes him, if the greetings are any indication.