Page 67 of Back Outside Edge

"Say that to my nose." Alexandre's voice is still soft, though, not quite his usual smug self-righteousness. "He beat the shit out of me last time. Did he tell you that?"

Not in so many words, no. "What did you do to him that time?"

"I didn't do anything!" There's that whiny quality I recognize and hate. "He and Jacques were fighting, and I tried to stop them."

"By what? Throwing down a gauntlet of your own?" Why am I engaging? I can't stop myself when I whirl on him, stopping in the middle of the arena’s back hallway. We're a few hundred feet from the warm-up room and, beyond it, the rink I’m supposed to be competing in any minute.

Alexandre stops as well, facing me, jaw set and eyes flashing, all melodramatic wounded dignity. "No! I might've said something he took offense to, but we were all drunk. I’m just minding my own business, and out of nowhere he's squaring up against Jacques and I grab him to stop him and he turns on me and decks me right in the nose."

It's not inconsistent with what Stefan told me, so I don't think he's lying. About this. "And you just fell to the ground and played dead that time, too?" I'm not proud of the words, but I'm too annoyed to take them back, even if they reek of toxic masculinity.

"Nope. Punched him right back. Then found out that was a terrible idea because he fractured one of my ribs, too. I thought he was going to kill me before they got him off me."

"Yet you managed to compete two days later just fine." The sarcasm is dripping from my voice.

Alexandre sighs, and I want to punch him, yet again, but manage to restrain myself. "You've never competed injured?"

He—has a point. As much as I don't want to admit it. "Ok, yeah, it was a crappy thing to do. I get that,” I concede. “It's been two years, though. Why this now?"

"Because he's still an entitled little shit. I saw an opportunity to take him down a peg and I took it."

"I've watched him train, and he pushes himself further than any of us. He's not just magically able to do what he does."

Alexandre's forehead is getting similar grooves to my father's when he's being stubborn. I wonder if it means the same thing. "He gets everything he wants. It's not right."

I step up into his face, surprising him into dropping my bag. I’m glad I don't have anything fragile in it, and that it missed my toes. "We're not five, Alexandre. The world isn't fair. Grow up and get used to it." Is it a bit harsh? Maybe, but the man is older than me, for Christ's sake. I’m so sick of everything he says sounding juvenile.

"Fine, whatever. You want to be like that? Fine." This time, he looks like he wants to punch me. Well, at least we're even. "If you want to date an asshole who's probably abusive, that's your choice. Not my problem." He starts to step away, but I follow, grabbing his arm to hold him in place.

"What are you even talking about? No way Stefan is abusive." I’m offended at the mere idea, that the thought has even crossed his mind.

"Which is why he beat the shit out of me, right? Because he's some upstanding, nice guy. So sue me for wanting to protect you." We’ve stopped dead again, a few steps from my dropped bag, yelling at each other in the arena hallway.

“Yeah, right. You literally just told me you took advantage of the opportunity to take him down a peg. Is that what happened last year with the room? You sure as hell weren’t protecting me then.”

“It was a prank. Not that big a deal. I was going to switch rooms after he lost his shit.” Alexandre’s eyes go out of focus for a moment as well before they sharpen back on me. “You were his roommate after I got injured, weren’t you?” They sharpen more. “Fuck, is that when you got together?”

Because he appears genuinely horrified at the idea, I narrow my own eyes, holding my head higher. “Yep. So thanks for setting us up, asshole.” I guess Stefan was right all along. Not that I doubted it, but it’s kind of nice to have it confirmed. “Even if you had switched rooms, someone would have been with Stefan. And you knew he’s obsessed with having a single. You really are the worst, you know that?”

“I’m the worst?” He sounds almost hysterical. “Me? I’m not the one who almost kills innocent bystanders.”

“No, just the one who tries to sabotage other skaters, publicly outs them, and then reports it when they - very justifiably - punch you over it.” Normally, I wouldn’t have added the last, because I don’t think violence solves anything, but right now? Right now, I’m about a heartbeat away from beating the shit out of him myself.

His face crumples a bit, surprising me. All the rage that was fueling both of us into practically screaming seems to drain out of him. “Yeah, the picture thing was shitty of me. I know. It wasn’t just to take him down, though. I really didn’t want you to get hurt.”

This is the second time he’s said something along those lines. “Why would I get hurt?”

Alexandre explodes, anger lighting him up again. “Don’t be an idiot, Evan. His first reaction is to punch someone. How long before you’re the one on the receiving end?”

Well, hell. Was part of Alexandre trying to help me? Was he worried about me? It's like I've just realized the sky is green and the grass is blue. The whole world is upside down.

"Alexandre—" What? What do I follow that up with? I don't forgive him. I can't forgive him. But everything is starting to make a little more sense.

"Forget it," he says, turning away again, stomping further into the building.

To my own astonishment, I run after him. "Alexandre, wait. Why didn't you just talk to me?"

After a few steps, he stops and turns around again. "I tried."