Page 75 of Back Outside Edge

At least tell me where you are? Are you still at the hospital? Have you gone home?

If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow, I’m flying to New York

Fuck, I wish I’d gotten your parents’ numbers. Why didn’t we ever exchange emergency contacts? I’m such a fuck-up

Gabby says when she left you, you could talk and move. Did things get worse after she left?

She also doesn’t know where you are. Isn’t she supposed to be updated with these things?

I’m sorry. Again. Always

Six days. Six days of frantic worry over the man I love. The media firestorm about my being ‘gay’ is starting to quiet down, and I don't regret having missed that, at least. I haven’t left my house. Partially because I’m on a media lockdown and partially because I’m too worried to go anywhere I might not hear my phone.

If there's news about my spot on Team America, I haven’t gotten it. Is that a good sign or a bad sign? No idea, but even that isn’t enough to hold my focus.

All I can think about is Evan.

Every member of Team Canada I’ve talked to has, at some point or other in the week, visited the hospital he was at the first night. None of them have gotten any new information. I’d be impressed with the hospital’s dedication to not leaking news if I weren’t so fucking destroyed by not knowing how Evan is doing.

Why hasn’t anyone provided an updated press release? A statement? Something. Gabby would have done one, Skate Canada would have done one, if any of them had any new information. Dad’s talked to some of the Skate Canada officials—thank fuck he’s on my side, however reluctantly, here—and they have nothing.

And now everyone has left New York. The competition is over, medals have been awarded, and I have no local news source.

I pick up my phone. Again. For the millionth time. Stare at it. Who haven’t I contacted? Who else could be in the loop?

Yet another notification from Insta, some girl heartbroken that I’m never going to fall for her. I’ve gotten too many of those to count. I haven’t corrected anyone, because why bother?

It’s not like I was going to hook up with some random fan even before Evan.

And I’m a one-man kind of guy now.

Even if Evan decides he never wants to speak to me again, I’m not interested in anyone else. I don't think I will be for a very, very long time. Even if he’s paraplegic or something. I don’t care. As long as he’s Evan, I want him. I’ll figure out a way to make it work, if he’ll have me.

Because I can’t not have that smile, those eyes, that kindness, in my life.

Wait.

I click on the notification, the message. Some random girl, but—Evan has siblings, right? His account has been radio silent. I’ve checked it as obsessively as my text messages. But what if they have accounts? If he’s twenty-four, they must be old enough for social media.

Why the fuck didn’t I think of this sooner?

Back on his account, I start scrolling through his contacts. He’s got hundreds of followers—not nearly enough—but hasn’t followed many back, so it doesn’t take long.

The picture of a girl, mid-teens, in a hockey jersey, grinning Evan’s smile at the camera. Same dark hair, but long and curly, bouncing in a frizzy mass over her shoulders. SophMarq17. The number on her jersey.

Has Evan ever told me his sister’s name?

I’m pretty sure he mentioned she was a hockey player at some point, that they’d both grown up skating on their backyard pond, but taken it in different directions.

I click on SophMarq17’s profile. And there it is. Sister of the best figure skater in the world.

I one hundred percent agree with you, SophMarq. Sophie? Sophia? I should know the names of Evan’s siblings. I’m the worst boyfriend.

She hasn’t posted anything about Evan since his fall. She hasn’t posted much of anything at all, actually, which seems unusual for a teenage girl. Maybe she uses something other than Insta. It doesn’t matter.

Because maybe she’ll check her DMs.

Stefan_Petryk_Official