Chapter Thirteen

KATYA

W alking into the Young house felt like walking into a hug—the air is warm, smelling like cinnamon sugar and that indescribable way things that have been stored away for a long time do. Like memories.

It feels natural to be here, curled up on the sofa with the first cup of tea I’ve had since my last weekend with my grandfather, with Bryan and his little sister, the former of which with his head tipped back on the couch cushion and his mouth half-open as he lets out tiny snores.

Looking at the two of them, Alexandra resting her head on her brother’s shoulder, their similarity finally hits me. At first glance, it isn’t obvious. Her hair has a more strawberry tint to it than his, her skin is covered in freckles where he has none, and she barely comes up to Bryan’s armpit. But they have the same bright ocean-blue eyes, wavy hair and, of course, the same sunny smile. Radiating sunshine must run in this family.

I think if someone had told me in January I’d be watching the ungodliest (and most addicting) reality show known to man, with my partner and his little sister asleep next to me, I would’ve laughed in their face.

Being here makes me think about home. My friends, especially. I was an only child for eleven years; then I moved to Moscow, and suddenly I had a second family. Tatyana was strict, but she loved us, Anna was like a sister, and Mikhail and Vanya were my brothers. Vanya was just a baby when he first showed up at training, hiding behind his siblings, after their Olympian-turned-coach parents joined Tatyana’s staff, bringing their younger children with them. Vanya must’ve been six or seven. Us girls collectively decided to adopt him. He had no choice in the matter.

And all the others—well, we may not have gotten along all the time, but that’s what siblings are like, right? Even though we were competitors, we still gossiped, and did each other’s hair and makeup; all the things friends do.

Even if all gloves came off during competition season, we were still some kind of big family. And maybe I was expecting Bryan’s to be the same. Not just him and his little sister in a house that feels oddly empty, despite its warmth.

I glance back at him, lashes fluttering, arm tight around Alexandra even in sleep.

I think, maybe, I might understand something now.

W e walk along the sidewalk, the asphalt shining under the streetlights, the remnants of this afternoon’s rain shower glowing in the night.

The wind’s nipping at my face, and I rub my hands together. Cold or no cold, if Bryan weren’t here with me, there’s no way I’d be out at this hour. But before I could order the Uber, he finally woke up and insisted it would be stupid to waste thirty dollars on a ten-block walk, practically dragging me all the way to Main Street, where the string lights are flickering overhead and the shops are closing, the stream of passersby dwindling except for the two of us.

“So…what is your middle name, anyway?” he asks, a goofy smile pulling at his lips.

He’s not funny , I have to remind myself, before shrugging. “Guess.”

“Uh…Anna?”

“Nope. It’s Dmitriyevna.” In Slavic countries, we have a first and surname, but also a patronymic, which is usually taken from the father’s name. My mother gave me Dedushka’s, because my own couldn’t be bothered to stick around to the first sonogram. I think Dedushka was relieved when he left. As for me, I’m happy with it just being the three of us, although sometimes I wish it were a little easier to make the bills so I wouldn’t feel so awful about always missing the prize for first place.

“No way. Ekaterina Dmitriyevna Andreyeva? How old were you before you could pronounce your full name?”

I roll my eyes. “Very funny. And it’s pronounced Ye katerina, by the way. But what’s yours? Bryan Bonehead?” I shoot back, and he laughs.

“Robert, for my dad. I mean, I have two, but—”

“Your initials are B-R-Y? Isn’t that what everyone calls you?”

“Technically, it’s B-R-A-Y, which is even more unfortunate.”

“Like a donkey? Oh, that explains so much.”

He shoves me in the shoulder playfully, and I shove him back hard enough that he stumbles into the melting remnants of the snowbank.

“Hey!” he protests, then a wicked smile passes over his face. “Oh, you know, just for that, we’re going somewhere right now.”

“Where?” I ask suspiciously, and he just grabs my hand, starting to run down the street.

“Just come on!”

We run down Main, all the way down to the busy end, where there’s people laughing and falling out of pub doors, couples and elderly people huddled on the sidewalk as we blast past all of them, the wind whipping in our faces.

“Slow down!” I shriek, nearly colliding with a lamp post, but Bryan lets out a wild laugh and yanks me out of the way.

“You’re just a slow-poke, hurry up!”

“What’s a slow-poke?!”

We keep running, leaving Main in our dust, passing town buildings and a big church. When he finally lets go of my hand, I double over, out of breath. “Are you done torturing me yet? Is this some kind of punishment for being so superior to you?”

“Look over there.”

“Where?”

Bryan reaches behind me, taking my arm and pointing both of ours to the right. I squint, trying to see in the dark, but then he takes my hand and drags me after him again, stumbling down the snowy hill, past the parking lot and up to a little green shed.

“What is this, your serial killer lair?” Even in the dark, I can see the boy next to me rolling his eyes as he cards his hair out of his face.

“Shut up. We’re going to have some fun.”

“Couldn't we do it in a less horror-film-worthy location?” I ask, following him as he walks up to the door, fiddling with the handle.

“Just roll with me for a sec.”

I look at what he’s doing, and groan. “Are you breaking and entering right now?”

“I’m breaking, not so much entering. Picking a lock is a lot harder than it looks, sunshine.”

Please . “Move.”

“Why?”

I ignore the question, pushing past him and twisting the knob, turning back to smirk as the door creaks open.

The glare on his face is almost comical. Never mind, it is comical. “I hate you, you know that?”

“I’m not the one who tried to pick a lock without seeing if it was even closed first.”

“Just for that, I’m schooling your ass on tobogganing.”

“On what?”

“Only the best winter activity in existence.”

“This coming from a competitive figure skater?”

He grins at me. “Trust me. You’re gonna love this.”

Something about the way he says it makes me think I most definitely am not.

S ure enough, less than five minutes later, my stomach’s flying up my throat and my life is flashing before of my eyes.

“If we die, I’m going to kill you!” I shriek, and I can hear him laughing from the seat behind me, arms tight around my waist.

“We’re not going to die!”

“I think we might!”

For once, I’m glad he’s right, and we make it to the bottom of the hill with minimal damage save the makings of a not-insignificant bruise on my tailbone.

Bryan gets off, still way too gleeful, sticking a hand out for me to take. “See, I told you we wouldn’t break any bones.” I glare at him, letting him pull me up. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that yet.”

“Oh, so much rage in such a tiny, adorable little package,” he taunts.

He bumps me, and I immediately push him square in the chest, hard , making him trip back into yet another snowbank.

“So? What does the A stand for?” I ask, after he’s quit the whining and brushed the remainder of slush off his sweatpants, which I’m pleased to see now have wet splotches all over the knees—oh, and on his ass, too. I smother a laugh.

“I can’t believe you just—actually, yes, I can totally believe it, because you are an evil, sadistic woman,” Bryan says, pointing an accusing finger at me. “Anyway, like I was saying before you shoved me into the snow again , I have two middle names, because I’m so special, and the second is Alejandro.”

I skip over the idiotic comment, and frown. “Isn’t that Hispanic?”

He sighs. “Yes.”

“But you’re…”

“Yeah, white, I know,” he says, a little curtly.

I hesitate. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. It’s fine. I just get that a lot. My mom grew up here, but her dad was from Mexico. I speak the language, but not well. Mom never really made it important.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, it’s always kind of funny when the guys at work talk trash about the customers or the manager in Spanish and jump out of their skins when el güerito jumps into the conversation.”

Bryan pulls on my ponytail out of nowhere, and I yelp, but recover quickly, shoving him again, directly on the red-white-and-blue crest of his hoodie. I’m smart enough to not ask what team it represents. I’ve spent enough time around Vanya and his gaggle of rabid brothers to know never to ask a boy about his favorite sports team.

“Quit shoving me!” he protests, and I’m shocked at the sound that escapes me in response.

Bryan’s jaw drops, eyes going wide. “Was that—a giggle?”

“No,” I say abruptly.

“I definitely heard it.”

“You’re imagining things.”

Bryan shakes his head. “Nuh uh, you can’t gaslight me, sunshine, I’m immune. The Ice Queen just giggled!”

“Stop it,” I demand, fighting to keep the smile off my face, and when that doesn’t work I turn my head, but Bryan tugs my chin back towards him with his thumb, face absolutely lit up with glee.

“See, I knew you could smile.”

“You are so annoying.”

“Yeah, yeah, you hate me, I know. You only tell me every single day of our lives.”

“How else would you remember, with that ant-sized brain of yours?”

He rolls his eyes, dropping his hand from my face. “M-hm. Anyway, Miss Ekaterina Dmitriyevna Andreyeva , I hate to break it to you, but we’ve still got a whole year to get through. You’re not getting rid of me now.”

I roll my eyes. “Believe me, I’m trying.”

His smile slips.

“What?” I ask. He just clenches his jaw and walks ahead.

“Bryan.” I speed up a little bit, trying to catch up. “What is it?”

“It’s—why do you have to say things like that?” he asks, face flushed, and my stomach sinks. I thought we were joking around.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Forget it,” he says abruptly. “Good night.”

I t’s—finally—choreo day.

We didn’t even have to come until eleven, but I like being early, and the first thing I see when I walk in is a familiar sandy-blonde head zooming around.

A sliver of dread snakes through me. We didn’t exactly leave things off on a good note yesterday. Maybe that last comment about trying to get rid of him was a little mean, but it was a joke. Surely he knows that. Right?

Bryan has wireless headphones in, tucked in his curls, and his black shirt billows around his body as he speeds across the ice. I stop to watch instinctively, almost without meaning to or even realizing what I’m doing. It hits me now that I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen him skate. Not alone, at least, and never outside of our training sessions. All that “research” I did on him was pretty much just looking over his unimpressive senior scores on the World Skating Union’s website, if I’m honest. But those are just numbers. I never looked online for videos of his performances.

He doesn’t seem to be running through a program, more so just improvising to whatever music he’s listening to. Even without being able to hear it, though, it’s still…something. He’s so convincing I can practically imagine the song for myself. He brings the silence to life.

He prepares for a jump, and I hold my breath instinctively— come on, land it, come on —he flings himself up into the air, pounding the ice with his toe pick to send him a good two feet up into the air, spinning four times in the air and landing on a clean edge.

I have to physically shut my mouth after it falls open. This isn’t like his step-outs and over-rotations from practice. This is—well, it’s like mine, to put it that way. He actually landed a perfect quad toe.

Bryan doesn’t even take a moment to celebrate. He continues into crossovers, then does it again, this time with arms high over his head. What the hell? I didn’t know he could do that. I can barely do it, which is why I usually keep my arms in the normal position to minimize risk of messing up.

He keeps going, then does another gorgeous quad toe, this time in combination with a triple Lutz, again with arms over his head, which drags his shirt halfway up. I jerk my eyes away, embarrassed. Why am I even embarrassed? What is going on with me right now? Lucky thing he keeps pulling off insane jumps so I don’t have to worry about it too much.

Triple-triple. Triple-triple-double. A quad Salchow, which—I didn’t even know he’d been working on . It’s like he’s a completely different person. If he skates like this from now on, things are going to be…different. If he skates like this, we have a chance of getting to the Olympics. Of winning them.

When he finally spots me, he stops abruptly.

Shit.

Confusion is written all over his face. He skates over, stepping off the ice and picking up his blue guards, brows furrowed.

“What are you doing here?”

I shrug, trying not to look as awkward as I suddenly feel. “Came early. Wanted to warm up in the off-ice room.” Because I wanted to apologize, even though it’s not my fault, and I couldn’t figure out what to say.

“Oh. Okay.” He seems to believe me, sort of. He’s distracted. Struggling for breath a bit, but zoned out like he’s barely aware he’s talking to me.

“That was…good,” I say, truthfully, motioning to the ice he was just skating on. Good is an understatement. What I really want to ask is why on earth he isn’t doing that in practice, but I just add, “I mean it,” because he looks more than a little dubious.

“Thanks,” he mutters, taking out an earphone and snapping open the case before slipping it back into his pocket. “Have you seen Lee this morning?”

I swallow a sigh. How much is he going to make me work for this? “No. She wasn’t in the office when I got here. Listen, about last night…”

“I’m here, I’m here,” the woman herself calls from the entrance, sounding extremely hassled, and we both turn.

Lian sets down her bags. “Jeez. I thought all the tourists were gone. Why is traffic so backed up?”

That finally gets any sign of life out of the boy standing across from me. He snorts, putting away his other earphone. “They’re all leaving.”

“Good riddance, then. See, this is why I don’t live in New York City anymore. Between the cars and the people, I was this close to offing myself every day.”

“Here I thought you left because you punched Marissa Cape in the face and got shipped out to Hicksville to slum it here with us.”

“Hilarious.”

I crease my brows. “I’m sorry, did I just hear you punched someone?”

Lian waves a hand. “It was nothing. Just a little spat.”

“She ended up with a concussion!”

“How is it my fault she went on the ice two seconds after I hit her?” Lian protests, and Bryan bursts out laughing. “And anyway, she was coming at me with a hockey stick, so, maybe it’s a good thing she tripped before I got my own knee blown out á la Nancy Kerrigan.”

Bryan looks at me, still smiling. “Marissa was a total witch back in her day. She was always second to Lee, and she was always mad about it. One time she basically said it was because they wanted a diverse podium.”

Sounds familiar . It may have not been the same, but I know full well how shitty it is when someone tries to say you don’t deserve your wins. “I would’ve given her a concussion, too. Although not by accident.”

Lian laughs. “I really am a terrible influence on the two of you.”

“Marissa’s one of the main skating commentators now. She’s not as bad anymore, I don’t think, but still. You really don’t know her?”

It finally clicks. “Oh, god,” I say, disgusted, and Bryan laughs again.

“See? I told you she’d know her!”

“How could I not? She’s the one who said I looked anorexic last season.”

“ What?”

Lian makes a face. “Oh, I remember that. I wanted to smack her all over again.”

“That’s…extremely messed up.”

I shrug. “It is what it is.”

Lian grimaces. “She’s right. At least people call it out more now.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, onto less depressing topics. The choreographer is five minutes away.”

“Why did we even bring in a new choreographer, anyway? Why aren’t we using Stefan?”

“Because this is different, Bry. AFSC is cracking out the big guns for you two. They want the best for their new sweethearts, meaning I get more budget. Plus, by the time Anne’s done, you and Katya will have winning programs.”

The sound of a door opening makes Lian look up. “Oh, would you look at that, I summoned her. Anne!” she calls out, and me and Bryan both notice at the same time the small woman walking to us.

“Katya, Bryan, this is Anne Simard,” Lian says, and the woman smiles.

“It’s a pleasure. Lian’s told me much about you two, it should be very interesting to work together.”

“Oh, it’ll be interesting, I promise you that,” Bryan says, a big smile on his face. He turns to me. “Isn’t that right, Ekaterina?”

I ignore him. Although he did pronounce it right this time.

Lian looks pointedly at us. “Anne has come all the way from Montreal, so you guys are going to be on your best behavior. Right?”

“Of course,” I say sweetly, moving my arm to look like I’m hugging Bryan, although in reality I’m just getting close enough so I can pinch his elbow as hard as I can.

He suppresses a grunt, smiling down at me and laughing, although he’s not nearly as convincing. “Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t we be?” He snakes an arm around my waist, pulling me tight against his side. I try to edge away, but he’s strong enough to toss me in the air, meaning his grip is definitely too much for me to go anywhere as he reaches with his other arm and pinches me right back, making me yelp.

Everyone turns to stare at me. “Sorry,” I mumble, face burning, and when Lian and Anne turn back around, skating off to discuss whatever it is they’re talking about, I look to see Bryan just barely holding in laughter, and I promptly elbow him in the ribs, making him stifle another oomph. When he straightens, he narrows his pretty blue eyes at me, and I stare back, raising my brows, a dare in my eyes. Game on, krasavets.

Before he can crash-tackle me, though, Lian’s voice calling from center ice bursts our tense staring contest. “Get over here, guys!”

“So, you forfeiting?” he whispers as we skate over, and I scoff.

“In your dreams.”

“Believe me when I tell you I have better things to dream about.”

“We’ll start with music,” Lian announces, before I can reply. “Do we have any suggestions?”

Bryan raises a hand. “Could we do something from a soundtrack? Like a musical or a movie?”

I snort, and he glares at me. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just so very in character for you to pick something so stupid.”

“Okay, and what were you planning on suggesting? Mozart? Tchaikovsky?”

“What’s wrong with Tchaikovsky?” I ask, a little defensively.

My mother never got time off, but every Christmas until I moved to Moscow, she’d scrounge up a sick day in order to take me to the Nutcracker at the Marinsky Theatre. She’d pool her savings for half-decent seats, and afterwards we’d drink hot chocolate and watch the lights in the snow. She’d twirl me around, pretending we were the Snowflakes from the ballet.

Bryan’s eye roll brings me back to reality. “Only that it’s probably the most overdone thing in the world. You’d think the Russians would be sick of skating to it by now.”

I clear my throat, shoving aside the memories. “He’s more talented than you’ll ever be, and he’s dead.”

I turn to Anne, who’s looking between us, clearly confused. I presume she was expecting professional athletes who were, well, professional.

“Apologies for my partner,” I tell her. “I was thinking we could do something traditional, a classic that the audience will recognize and the judges will appreciate.”

Bryan groans. “Oh, boring!”

I smile at Anne. “Oh, and we probably shouldn’t make the choreography too difficult. I don’t want Bryan to get overwhelmed.”

His smile drops from his face.

The woman looks unconvinced, glancing back at Lian. “Perhaps I should…”

“No.” Lian pins us both with a vicious glare that makes us fall silent like chastised children. “We’ll compromise, like the mature adults we are. Right?”

Bryan elbows me hard, and I glare daggers at him only for him to smile down at me sweetly. “Right.”

“Good. We’ll do the short program to a soundtrack—”

“Oh, no —”

“—and the free skate to a classical piece.”

“What?” Bryan protests. “That’s no fair! The free is longer!”

“Exactly which soundtrack?”

“Both of you, quiet. Katya, any ideas for the free?”

“Swan Lake,” I say triumphantly, and Bryan makes a gagging noise.

“Lee—”

“Bry, I don’t want to hear it. Just pick the—"

“Top Gun,” he says immediately, and my eyes practically pop out of my head.

“The one about planes? ” I cry in horror, and Bryan’s grin is disgustingly self-satisfied.

Anne smiles. “That sounds excellent. This way, everyone is happy.”

Yeah, right.

D rills, drills, drills.

“I need a feel for your style,” our choreographer had explained. She watches us intently as we do laps, step sequences; every element we have except for the throw jumps, which we haven’t even started yet. We have just over six months until we start competing, and we haven’t even tried once to do what’s one of the required elements.

Though twists are nerve-wracking enough. It’s not like I’m excited to get literally catapulted across the ice like a frisbee.

“You two have very different styles, different personalities,” Anne tells us after calling us back. “We must let them complement each other. Katya, you are more balletic, graceful. But it can get cold, yes?”

The smirk that sprang up when she started her sentence evaporates, and Bryan snorts.

“Bryan, you are energetic, more powerhouse. You have the emotion, but you’re holding back.”

“She’s saying you skate constipated, Bry,” Lian says dryly.

“She’s right,” I add.

“You’d agree with anyone who criticized me, Andreyeva.”

Anne seems to find us more entertaining than Lian does, and struggles to hide a smile. “It’s no problem. It’s just something for me to take into consideration. And we’ll be able to work more once we have the music ready.”

“I’ll send it to our guy today, so we have it as soon as possible,” Lian assures her.

“Wonderful. As for elements, I hear you are hoping to include very high level ones, yes?”

“Quad toe, quad Salchow, quad twist, and maybe a quad throw.” I tick them off my fingers one by one.

Bryan nearly chokes. “ What?”

Lian looks like she’s regretting her life decisions. “Katya…”

“No, wait, quad throw ? There’s no way. We can’t do that,” Bryan says, looking to our coach for confirmation. “Right? We don’t have time. What kind of drugs are you on?”

Nothing that would make me senile . “It’s fine. We can handle it,” I tell him matter-of-factly, because it’s true. We have the technical ability. The only problem is Bryan’s head. He proved this morning he can do it all when no one’s looking.

“We can handle—we haven’t even started throws!”

“It’ll be fine,” I say loudly, trying to be reassuring, and Lian throws her hands up in surrender.

“You know what, try whatever you want, but right now we’re trying to put together your programs so you can actually compete before I kill myself. So can we we leave this discussion for later?”

“I’m definitely not dropping this,” Bryan says, jaw tight. And then it finally hits me. How much he underestimates himself.

Anne clears her throat gently. “Is the quadruple ready? Should we put it in?”

“No,” Bryan says abruptly, and I crease my brows.

“Of course it is.”

He looks over at me, and I flush under the sheer force of his glare. “I just mean—you were doing it so well this morning. I saw you. And you pulled off a quad Salchow.” I pause. “You don’t think you can do it?”

“Quad Salchow?” Lian repeats, incredulous. “Bryan?”

He doesn’t answer, just clenches his jaw, and I bite my lip. Maybe I should just shut up. He hates me enough already.

“We can put it in as an option, and if necessary it can revert to a triple,” Anne offers.

I try to meet my partner’s eyes, but he’s staring fixedly at the ice. If this were a few weeks ago, I’d have said he was just contradicting me just to get on my nerves. Now I don’t know. “That’s fine.”

“I still think Swan Lake is a bad idea,” Bryan grumbles. “Watch there be another team doing it. Or two. Or five .”

Lian raises an eyebrow. “Then we’ll be better than them.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

He looks at her for a second. Then he shrugs. “Okay.”