Page 72 of Back Outside Edge

Oh God. “So at least two surgeries. Maybe more,” I clarify, wanting to be sure I’ve gotten it right.

“Yep.” His smile is consoling again. “And you’re looking at a lot of rehab afterward.”

I don’t want to ask. I so don’t want to ask. I can’t ask.

Mama glances over at me and meets my eyes. Hers soften more, new tears welling up. “How long before he can get back on the ice? Will he be back?” she asks, saving me.

I haven't talked to her about this, my greatest fear, but she knows me. Knows what I don't want to think about because it's too terrifying to contemplate.

The doctor hesitates. "There's no way to be certain, of course."

"We understand," Mama interrupts, her voice suddenly crisp. "But you will tell us your best guess. The odds. Whatever."

God, I love her.

A nod from the doctor. "All right. I can't make any guarantees, considering the level Evan skates at, but I can say that, bone-wise, if he does everything right, I am reasonably confident he'll be able to get back to where he was. But, and I can't stress this enough, that will require a great deal of time and effort, and assumes there are no complications with his pelvis. If the fracture does shift, the chances of a full recovery will go down substantially. And as I said, I’m not the soft tissue guy, so I can’t speak for the knee.”

He didn’t give me a when. What does that mean? I'm maybe hyperventilating, a bit, by the time he's finished, and Mama's hand squeezes mine again. "What can we do to ensure that it remains where it needs to be?"

"Rest," the doctor answers, bluntly. "I want you to keep it as immobilized as possible for the first week or so, and once I see indication the bones are knitting, I'll put you on very limited movement. No weight bearing, but since it's the same leg as your tibia and knee, that shouldn't be an issue. If it were just the bone injuries, we'd get you on crutches or a walker, where you'd stay for about ten weeks. The pelvis will take more time than your leg to heal up, so we'll do some juggling with the physical therapy."

Mama and I nod solemnly, but my heart is in my throat. Ten weeks of non-weight-bearing. That's so long. Too long. "When can I be on skates again?" I croak out, needing the whole story.

He gives me a tight smile. He can’t talk around it this time. "Again, I can't be certain. We'll see how physical therapy goes. But with pelvic injuries, the recovery does take a great deal of time, I'm afraid. Even after your fracture is healed, the muscles around it can take up to a year to heal fully."

A year? My heart stops. "The Olympics."

"Aren't going to happen this year.” It’s blunt, unequivocal. “I don't foresee any circumstance where you'll be jumping on that leg again within the next few months. Not if you don't want to cripple yourself for life."

I can't breathe, and the tears I've managed to push back so far force their way out. Deep, gut-wrenching sobs, every one of which shoots pain through my body. The doctor is holding me down, isolating my pelvis, and Mama's arms are around me as best she can manage. It doesn't matter. Everything I've spent my life working towards, everything I've ever wanted, wrenched away from me because of one stupid, stupid moment.

I've lost everything.

"There's always another cycle, Mijo." Mama's voice is soft, soothing, but all I can do is shake my head, still crying. She knows as well as I do that it was one thing to comfort myself with those words at twenty. It's another entirely at twenty-four.

No way I can keep up the intensity for another four years on the off chance I'll still be among the top skaters in the world by then. Twenty-eight isn't unprecedented for an Olympic single's skater, but it's not common. Our bodies break down.

Mine broke about four months too early.

Chapter 29

Stefan

24 hours after the fall

Outside Oakland, CA

“Anything?” Dad’s voice is clipped. As it has been every time we’ve talked in the last couple of days.

At least he’s talking to me. I wasn’t sure he ever would again.

Apparently, nonstraight sons are different from gay students. He can handle the latter, treat them the same. Not so much the former. He hasn’t actually lectured me about it. No ridiculous appeal to a religion that he only nominally follows. No pleas for me to think about what it means for my career. He knows I didn’t come out of my own volition, and he’s at least somewhat sensitive to that.

But he’s made it very, very clear that he’s not happy with me.

Or Evan, of course.

But at least he’s not the evil boy that seduced me anymore. He’s the skater who’s gone through the worst possible nightmare. Which is enough to grant him a reprieve.