Page 79 of Back Outside Edge

In hindsight, I should have known it was never going to work, that the scandal would hit sooner or later. Even though I was an adult, the world would never have accepted a relationship between a coach and her much younger student.

Caro could never have been the woman for me. I was too young, too optimistic, and so desperate to make her love me as much as I loved her.

"Hi, Caro," I say. To my embarrassment, my voice shakes. "How have you been?"

"How have I been?" she answers, her voice sharp. Nope, not changed at all. I’d forgotten how she could tell me, with a simple change of tone, that I'd screwed up.

"Nobody has a clue how you're doing. I'm happy to hear you're still alive, at least."

What? Hasn’t Skate Canada been posting updates? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? Admittedly, I’ve never paid a lot of attention, but someone has to be doing press releases or whatever after such a public fall.

"What do you mean?"

"Nobody has posted since the morning after your fall. Why hasn’t your coach been giving updates, if you couldn't?" Is that how it works? I guess when Gabby dumped me, she also dumped the responsibility of those updates.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize. I haven’t seen her." A few sharp words, and I'm an eighteen-year-old stumbling over myself, trying to reassure her. Wanting her approval so badly it hurts.

"Still social media averse, I take it." It had always been a point of contention between us. She'd wanted me to post more, grow my following, start working on my PR. I'd mostly refused. “Why haven’t you seen your coach?”

It’s a direct hit, and I suck in a breath, punched all over again. “I don’t know. I guess she dumped me.” Another breath, this one more controlled, as I try to reassert myself. To forget about the recent pain and be the man I’ve become in the years since we were together. "Look, do you have time to talk for a minute?"

There's a pause. I used to know her well enough that I'd be able to interpret every pause, breath, flicker of her eyelash. I don't anymore, so I wait through it. It takes a minute, but then, "What do you think we have to talk about, Evan?" Her voice is softer now. Sad, even, which is fair. It's my fault she's been ostracized from the skating community.

"It's just..." It's my turn to pause now, thinking. Why had I needed to call her? "I'm trying to decide if I'm cursed or something, I guess."

"How badly injured are you?" What does that have to do with anything?

Oh, cursed. Right. Yes, I suppose an injury is a type of curse.

"Pretty bad," I admit. "It could be worse, a lot worse, but I'm not going to make it to the Olympics again. It sounds like I'll be lucky if I'm jumping by next year's Worlds."

"Oh, Evan, honey, I'm so sorry." She sounds genuinely sad for me, and my heart breaks a little more. I don't miss her; I've been working on moving on for a long time. I think she'll always be able to get through my defenses, though.

"Why didn't you fight for me, Caro?" I whisper, giving in to the need to know. "There was the scandal and I failed, and it was all horrible, but you gave up. Why do people keep leaving me when I fail?"

"Is that what you've been telling yourself?" Her voice is soft, at least, where it could have been cutting.

"It's what happened. I wasn't good enough, and then I screwed everything up. I understand why you left. I do. I just... It hurt that you didn't at least fight for me a little. I thought you loved me." I can't believe I'm crying over this again, after all this time. Maybe I did need to talk to her.

A long, long pause, my phone so silent I wonder if she's hung up. I know she's weighing her words, though, wanting to get them right. The last time we spoke, there weren’t any pauses, just yelling, berating, blame. When she answers, her voice is a little rough. "It was my fault, Evan. All of it. I never should have let things progress the way they did. I was your coach, and, while you weren't technically a minor, you were in every way that counts. I was taking advantage of you."

"No, you didn't," I argue. "I pursued you, remember?"

"Of course I remember. But I shouldn't have let it happen. You were my student, and so very, very young. In a way, I'm glad that the site got that picture. It was what finally snapped me out of it."

Her words aren't making any sense. She'd been so angry at me for letting the picture be taken.

What is it about me and letting pictures get taken? Why can't I not have my photo taken in compromising situations? How hard is it? Most people manage it, no problem. "It was my fault," I respond. "I know that."

"Evan, honey." Her voice is gentle, almost frustratingly kind. I don't want kindness from her; I don’t deserve it. "I should never have said the things I said. I'm sorry for that. I knew it was the end of my career. I was scared, and I lashed out. And I guess I never got the chance to tell you that, and I'm sorry about that, too. None of it was your fault. I was the adult. I was the coach. I take full responsibility."

"I was an adult."

"You turned eighteen, what, three weeks before we first hooked up? That hardly qualifies, Evan, and you know it." The kindness has turned stern, implacable. She’s not going to budge on that one.

For some reason, that fact alone lets some little piece of my heart glue itself back together after four years.

I don't want to admit it; I've spent so long blaming myself, but—she's right. She's not telling me anything I haven't heard before. I just haven't heard it from her, or allowed myself to hear and understand what others told me. Now I’m older, looking back through clearer eyes, it’s obvious, though. If one of my students turned eighteen and started pursuing me, I'd be horrified. I'd never dream of getting involved with them. They're my students.