Chapter Twelve

brYAN

L ook, it's not like me and Katya are blood enemies.

Sure, we’re at each other’s throats half the time, and she’s still a crazy person—it’s been two months, not enough time for a miracle—and I may or may not have a role in egging her on. But after we agreed to put aside the fact that we can’t stand each other in order to get us to Helsinki, things became a whole lot easier. We’re not about to make matching friendship bracelets or anything, but you could say we have an understanding.

And that understanding includes that this partnership is business. That definitely doesn’t include her coming over to my family’s house for the sacred Young sibling Friday-night Bachelor night.

“Look, you don’t actually have to come,” I try as we walk out of the center, in a last-ditch attempt to get us out of this. I assume she’s as desperate to as I am. “We can just tell Lee that you did. She doesn’t have to know.”

Katya gives me a look. “She would.”

Crap. She would. Lian can read me like a book, and even if she couldn’t, she has a bullshit detector the CIA would beg on its knees for. “Fine. You don’t have to stay for long, though.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. This is not how I wanted to spend my night either.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

I shrug, plunging my hands deeper into my pockets and kicking a pebble along the sidewalk. “I don’t know, seemed to me like Lee was saying you don’t exactly get out much.”

“I’m focused on training. I don’t have time for getting out. And for some godforsaken reason, I can’t drink here, anyway.” She huffs. “This is the worst. No alcohol, no strawberry cheesecake protein bars. This country is so uncivilized.”

“Oh, man . I’m going to put aside the fact that you clearly are wasting your life for a moment, and just say that you clearly haven’t spent enough time with Oliver if legal age is what’s stopping you.”

“I am not wasting my life. I’m dedicated, there’s a difference.” Katya scowls when I look at her pointedly. “Be quiet. And will you quit walking so fast? This isn’t a race.”

I didn’t even notice she was struggling to keep up, and my first instinct is to slow down, but then I think, yeah, no , and grin down at her. “What? You admitting you’re not as fast as me?”

She gives me an extremely annoyed glare. “Not everything is a competition, mudak .”

I lift my eyebrows. “Pot,” I say, pointing at her, then point at myself. “Kettle.”

Usually I have to explain sayings when I use them, because Katya’s near-flawless English somehow managed to escape even the vaguest understanding of idioms. I guess she gets my meaning, because she rolls her eyes. “Whatever. As for your friend, he doesn’t like me very much. I don’t think he’d help me.”

“He’s like that with everyone,” I lie through my teeth, then seeing the look on her face, I sigh. “Look, he just doesn’t know you that well.”

“And I’m sure you’ve given him such glowing accounts of me.”

“Exactly. Now you’re getting it.”

She almost laughs. Almost. “What about your sister? Have you poisoned her against me, too?”

“Actually, I think she might like you more than she likes me.”

“So she’s smart, then.”

“Hilarious. Seriously, she’s a big fan. When she was younger and I’d go off to competition, she’d tell me to go get your autograph instead of saying ‘good luck.’”

“You’re kidding,” Katya says, not even bothering to disguise how smug this makes her.

“I wish.”

She smiles. “Well, you never did ask me.”

True. I could say it was because she was constantly surrounded by press and/or traveling in a pack with the other Russians and that evil-looking coach of theirs—but it was probably also because I was, and still am, incredibly intimidated by her. Which probably speaks more to my male fragility than I’d like to admit, but I knew full well how good she was. And it was pretty hot. I mean scary. What ?

“I can’t believe I have fans outside of Russia,” she mutters.

“I don’t know if you have an adequate grasp of just how famous you are.”

“I’m not that famous.”

I laugh outright. “Please be serious.”

“I’m not!” she protests.

“Katya. You have, like, a million followers. When you show up at competitions, half the crowd has posters with your name on them.”

“Many people unfollowed me after I transferred,” she mumbles, and I pull out my phone, opening Instagram.

“Let’s see. Ekaterina Andreyeva,” I read aloud as I type into the search bar, tapping the first profile with a verified mark that pops up (which just goes to prove my point further, considering no non-famous athlete spawns that many fan accounts.) My eyes nearly pop out of my head when I see her follower count. “Oh, poor baby, lost a couple hundred thousand followers,” I tease, and she gives me a dirty look.

“I feel sorry for your sister. I’m about to combust just from this long working with you, I can’t imagine what living with you my entire life would be like.”

“Ha, ha,” I say, giving her account a quick follow before shoving my phone back in my jeans pocket. “For your information, she’s not exactly easy to live with, either. You know, she’s broken my nose not once, not twice, but three times?”

True story. The first was the tickle fight incident. Then there was the time she pushed me out of a tree, and finally, last year, when she opened the car door a little too soon after drama with her then-boyfriend and it collided with my face (I, being such a good brother, was standing right there about to open it for her.) Lian had not been pleased when I showed up to Sectionals with tape and an eggplant where my nose should’ve been. It’s a miracle it’s still on more-or-less straight.

“Considering I’ve felt the urge to do so at least a hundred times that amount, I can believe it just fine.”

My partner, ladies and gentlemen. “Well, we’ve still got ten minutes to get to the house. Try not to hit me before then?”

“No promises,” she says darkly.

I stifle a smirk.

“What?” she asks suspiciously, and I finally break into a wide smile.

“Strawberry cheesecake protein bars?”

She huffs. “Oh, shut up.”

T his is really weird.

I’m standing on my parents’ front doorstep next to Katya, and my only reassurance is that she looks just as uncomfortable as I do.

“Her name is Alexandra,” I say, after several moments of awkward silence. “Don’t call her Alex unless you’re me, which you’re not, so don’t.”

“Any other incredible advice?”

“She’s fifteen, she likes hockey and Taylor Swift, and if she tells you anything embarrassing about me, she’s lying.”

Katya quirks an eyebrow. “I’ll keep that in mind. Anything else?”

I reach into my pocket for my keys, sticking the house key in the lock, the metal jangling noisily. “Actually, yeah. Don’t be mean to her.”

Maybe a little blunt, but I’m not about to let Alex get bullied by anyone, and Katya tends to do that. Not that she even needs my help in the self-defense department, never has—Alex once stopped a mugging at the mall by roasting the guy so badly he ran off without the purse—but old habits die hard. Katya can be mean to me all she likes at the rink, but she’s not going to mess with my baby sister.

I expect her to roll her eyes or whatever, but she looks upset, almost; which makes me second-guess myself.

But it’s not totally unreasonable for me to think she would do something or say something nasty. Right? Katya’s put me through the ringer already. I’m almost impressed at the range of her insults—again, no idioms, but she picked up every curse known to the English language in a matter of weeks.

“I won’t,” she mutters, crossing her arms, and I’m tempted for a second to explain why I’m so overprotective (or so I’m told), but I just push the door open.

We’re standing awkwardly in the middle of the entryway trying not to look at each other when a familiar head of reddish-blonde hair barrels down the stairs.

“Hey, you’re back! How’d things go with the psy—”

I wince, and Alexandra abruptly stops talking, eyes wide. “Oh. Um.”

This is not a good start. “Uh, Alex, this is Katya. My partner.”

My sister, true to form, is barely fazed. “It’s great to meet you. Bryan’s told me nothing about you or your training except that you bully him like the little bitch he is, so I think we’re gonna get along.”

I groan, and Katya, clearly not expecting that, starts laughing. “I think so too.”

Alexandra grins, reaching over to loop an arm through hers. “Come on. Let me introduce to you the wonders of how low the standards for men are. You came on a great night; we’ve got a full red velvet cake in the fridge.”

“Oh my god, she made one?” I start pulling off my hoodie as fast as I can. “Jesus, why didn’t you call me before? I would’ve come earlier!”

Alex’s judgmental look makes Katya laugh again, and I stop halfway, sweater bunched up around my neck so I have to peer over the collar before I can narrow my eyes. “You make fun of me now, but once you try it, you’ll understand.”

Five minutes later, we’re piled on the couch, The Bachelor is on, and I’ve got a gigantic slab of cake on my plate.

“Oh my god,” I moan in delight, licking icing off the fork and kicking off my shoes.

“You can’t take him anywhere,” Alexandra says disgustedly, and I chuckle around a mouthful.

“I’m not even listening to you right now.” The sugar high hasn’t even set in, and I’m already in bliss. “Katya, you’re sure you don’t want any?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she says.

Okay, so ever since that first day, I’ve noticed she doesn’t eat a whole lot. Which…isn’t really surprising. This is one of those sports where it’s way too normal to obsess over weight and calorie intake. It’s not my place to push her or make her feel uncomfortable, though. Plus, I’ve found that turning things into a contest is the best way to get her to do anything.

“Bet you just think you can’t down it faster than me. You’re looking at the four-time Lake Placid Senior High Pie Eating Champion.”

Alex snorts, bouncing her fork in between her fingers so it looks like it’s nodding in agreement. “Year number three, he was at Nationals when they did it, and he went out, found a pie, taped himself scarfing it down, emailed it to the principal, and still won.”

Katya squints at me. “Give me the fork.”

I raise an eyebrow and hand it to her, and she takes it, then dives for my plate.

“Nuh uh—” I try to guard it, but she’s already grabbed a big bite and shoved it in her mouth. “Damn it, you got all the frosting, too!”

“I thought you wanted me to try it,” she says innocently, wiping crumbs from the corner of her mouth. “That is very good, actually.”

See, this is what I get when I try to be a good person. I get my dessert stolen. “I meant for you to get your own, not steal mine,” I grumble. “And I told you so. Mom’s red velvet is legendary.”

“Agreed,” Alexandra garbles around her full mouth.

I get up, taking my plate with me because I don’t trust these vultures. “I’m getting you a slice. Either of you want anything else?”

“Milk, please.”

I turn to my partner. “Katya?”

She thinks for a second. “Do you have tea?”

“I’ll check. Green or black?”

“Black.”

“Milk, sugar?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Black.”

“Why did I even ask?” I joke, and she pretends not to find me funny.

It took a lot of digging through the cabinets, but I finally found a stray packet of Earl Grey. When I come back, the guy’s already given away the rose.

“What? When did that happen?” I protest, standing in the doorway to the living room balancing two plates on my arms while holding two mugs (my waiter skills once again coming in clutch).

“You were gone forever.”

“Okay, I’m never being helpful again.” I lean over to give Alex her milk. “Why’d he pick her, anyway? She’s got the personality of a cardboard box.”

“They’ve all got the personality of a cardboard box.”

“This really is a very bizarre show,” Katya observes, and I snort.

“That’s an understatement.”

“Why do you even watch this trash?”

“Because it’s trash,” I say, “Duh. Here, careful.” I hand her the plate and the steaming mug.

“Thanks,” she says, pale hands snaking out from under the blanket to take it. I turn to sit back down across from her, kicking up my feet on the coffee table.

She’s smiling into her tea. Just a wisp of an absentminded, almost sad smile, but a smile, nonetheless. She tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear, curling up like a cat and cupping the mug like it’s a sacred object. This is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen her. She looks different. She looks…

Right then, she tenses up slightly, her gaze flicking up to mine, grey eyes flashing like metal.

Alex wipes at her milk mustache. “So how was your day, you guys?”

I clear my throat. “Well, Lee’s trying to get us to ‘ bond ,’” I say, air quotes and all, “which is why we’re here, and now I have to give sunshine over here a tour.”

“She did not specifically ask you to give me a tour, you volunteered for that all by yourself,” Katya points out, and I scoff indignantly.

“You asked for it when you said there’s nothing to do here. I’m proving you wrong.”

Alexandra scoops up the last bite of cake from her plate with her fork. “I mean, is she wrong? There is nothing to do here.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Well, how’s this for help? It’s a little late in the year, but Charlie’s working the toboggan; apparently it’s still open.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Since when is Charlie Beck still hanging around?”

Alexandra huffs. “Don’t start. We’re just friends.”

I raise my glass of milk to my mouth, mumbling into it, “go around kissing many friends, do you,” which earns me a violent kick to the ankle.

“Hey!”

Alex completely ignores me, instead lighting up. “Oh my god, you should totally take her downtown to that place you used to take me. Katya, you haven’t lived until you’ve had Maple Creme soft serve, I promise you.”

“Soft serve? Isn’t all ice cream soft?”

I shake my head in pretend disappointment. “My lovely, yet fantastically uncultured partner, everyone.”

Said lovely partner reaches for the pillow under her arm and tosses it at my head.

“Hey!” I protest, and she squints at me, ice-cold glare in full force.

“Don’t call me stupid.”

“I called you uncultured, sunshine, there’s a difference.”

“Well, I’m a better skater than you, so there’s that difference.”

Alexandra lets out an mm! sound mid-milk sip. “That reminds me. What are you guys working on right now, anyway?”

“Quad toes,” I say miserably. Katya snorts.

“So dramatic. You’ll get it. Maybe.”

“Oh my god, I love her,” she cackles, and I throw the pillow Katya just pelted me with at her head.

“If I don’t get it in practice tomorrow when the choreographer is here, we can’t put it in the program,” I shoot back. “If we can’t put it in the program, then we have less and less of a chance of winning.”

“And what’s the problem? You can’t land it yet?”

I drag a hand over my face, drawing out a sigh that’s just as exhausted and heavy as I feel. “God, I don’t know. I can do it off-ice. I can do it on ice. It’s like, whenever I’m supposed to do it for someone, my legs just forget what they’re doing.”

Katya takes a sip of her tea, then sets it down on the one of my mom’s Live, Laugh, Love coasters. Laugh is now covered. “If you ask me, it’s a psychological problem, not physical.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you seize up whenever you feel like someone is watching you. You don’t like the expectation. That now you have to deliver to their expectation.”

I lift my glass to my lips, forcing a smile. “I think maybe we stick to blaming the legs.”

She fixes her stare on me. “I think maybe we face the issue instead of running away.”

Alexandra reaches over to ruffle my hair, and I duck away in annoyance. “He’s just like our dad. Can’t stand B.S. from anyone else, but feeds it to himself all day long.”

“I’m not running away from anything,” I say curtly, in response to Katya. I can’t even think about what my sister just fucking said to me. I can’t. It’s fine . “Now, can we just—"

Katya’s not letting up. “No. Because if you recognize what’s wrong, then you can fix it. And then we can put the quad toe in the program. Then, we can win.”

Leave me alone. Please just leave me alone. “Fine. Whatever,” I say lightly, holding the air in my lungs tight so I don’t lose control. “What episode did we leave off on?”