Page 65 of Back Outside Edge

It's been twenty-four hours, and Stefan still hasn't answered me. Calling him didn’t get me anywhere but endless ringing. Not even a voice mail option.

Has he blocked me? Is this what blocking does? How badly must he blame me if he’s blocked me?

Every time I think about him my stomach clenches. I’m beyond worried and it mixes with guilt into a terrible sludge settling somewhere around my abdomen.

There hasn't been much actual news about Stefan. A ton of conjecture, but no interviews with him, no press releases beyond the one initially sent out yesterday afternoon. Even it didn't say much, just acknowledged Team America Figure Skating's decision and something about apologies over the misunderstandings and ‘the incident’. Misunderstandings? Seriously?

A plethora of social media updates has inundated my feeds. Now I've turned on alerts, they're constant. Nothing about me, at least, because I haven't been identified as the mystery man in Alexandre’s photos. My team, and whoever else might have recognized me, have been considerate enough not to tag me. A lot of speculation is going around, and only so many figure skaters with dark curly hair, but I don't see many references to myself, even in the maybe pile. It should be surprising, given our very public friendship, but I'm not a well-enough known figure for anyone to think of me. At least, that's my theory.

Oddly, the prime candidate for the mystery man has become Alexandre. I don't understand how it fits in with Stefan punching him the next morning, but I haven't argued with the rumor. Alexandre has done enough denying for both of us.

Stefan's sexual identity has hit the public hard, though, and Stefan is the new face of queer figure skating, whether he wants to be or not. He's lost and gained followers, had sponsors speak out for and against him. ICS has been conspicuously silent about the entire affair. Not wanting to get their hands dirty, I bet.

I've been staring at my phone, willing it to ring, since Stefan disappeared. I’m still doing precisely that when we’re called to the rink for the morning training session the day of the short program. I stow it in my pocket with a last check for new messages, as if I hadn’t checked three seconds prior.

I shouldn’t keep my phone on me while practicing; I really shouldn’t on competition day. If Stefan calls me, though, I want to be available. Any time.

Since I’m currently ranked far higher in the world than I have any right to be, my competition group for the short includes Jacques Benoit, which means I have morning training with him. I haven’t seen him since everything went down, and as soon as I do, I’m dying to know if he has been in touch with Stefan.

When I glide out into the rink, the ice feels slipperier than usual. The arena colder. The music louder.

I’m too distracted. Distractable. All I can think about is Stefan.

I’m trying to block it all out, focus on warming up my muscles, getting my feet under me, learning to recognize the feel of this arena, but I’m not very successful. Only five other men are on the rink with me, but it feels like dozens.

I almost run straight into Jacques, and he dodges out of my way with a laugh, somehow still holding onto the deep edge he’s on. “Sorry,” I say, wincing, when we pass each other with millimeters to spare.

God, I shouldn’t be out here. No practice is better than practicing like this. I’m not in the right headspace. Jacques calls out, “No worries!” and I continue trying to pay attention to what I’m doing. Why can’t I block everything out? The rink has always been the one place where I can settle in, let go of everything, and just be.

Failing that, it’s the place where I can process my emotions, when they get too big, too unwieldy, to handle in any other way. Maybe that’s the trick; use the ice as an outlet.

After a few more minutes of stumbling around, it's clear that's not working either.

All right, time for yet another approach. I speed up, until I’m skating alongside Jacques as he finishes up the perfect axel he flew through. “Hey, Jacques,” I call out, alerting him to my presence.

His head turns my way, and he slows, coming to skate beside me along the boards. “Hey, Evan. How’re you doing?”

I don’t think we’ve ever spoken, so I’m surprised he knows my name. He’s one of those high level skaters I watch with awe, not someone on my level, calling me by name. And yet, here we are. Has Stefan talked about me with him? “I’ve been better. Have you heard from Stefan?”

No point in beating around the bush. If he knows me well enough to recognize me, I hope it also means he also knows at least a little about Stefan's connection to me. We’ve only got half an hour on the ice. I don’t want him to have to waste it on me.

He shrugs, the movement heavily emphasized; very French. Nobody would ever mistake Jacques for anyone but who he is. “A little. He texted a couple times last night.”

The words are a bolt through my heart. Stefan has his phone, is using his phone, but isn’t answering me. It’s personal.

He does blame me for everything. It makes sense, but I hate it. I hate it so much. “Is he ok?” I ask. It’s the stupidest question.

Jacques shoots me a confused look. “Not really.” The look adds the question; shouldn’t you already know this?

Of course he isn’t, why did I ask? He’s been outed, well before he was ready to do so himself, and suspended again. His world has just crumbled around him.

“Right.” What follow-up is there? I let myself slow down, trail behind him.

Jacques turns around, skating backward, and gives me another confused look. “Hey, are you ok?”

My shrug might match his for Gallic ennui. “Better than Stefan.”

He nods, face a picture of concern now. “Find me later, oui? We’ll talk.”