Chapter Twenty

KATYA

S itting in the waiting room of the psychiatrist’s office, all I can think is, what kind of fun house hell have I walked into?

It’s unlike any doctor’s office I’ve ever seen. Sterile, sanitary, you know. Beige? Instead, the walls are papered with photos of people—headshots, stock photos, magazine cutouts, just faces everywhere—and enormous black-and-white optical illusions, hypnotist-style swirly vortexes. I have to tear my eyes away after I’m overwhelmed by the sense that the walls are closing in. I keep shifting in my seat, which of course is not your standard issue waiting room seat, rather a blinding neon-yellow bean bag that does nothing to prevent me from sinking to the floor.

I do not like this at all. And not just because I’m in this acid trip of a hellhole in the first place, or that I’ve been sitting in it on this godforsaken bean bag for seventeen minutes past my appointment time.

They didn’t even let me explain. Not that I should need to—really, who are they to stick their noses in my habits, let alone judge me for them? Lian is one thing. She’s my coach too now, and I can at least understand different coaching styles, whether I agree with them or not. But Bryan?

He could’ve covered for me. He could have, he should have, and he made the decision not to. He’s supposed to be my partner, and he betrayed me. I can’t believe I almost trusted him. Emphasis on the almost. I don’t trust anyone unless they’ve proven they can be, and this is exactly why. Because I get stabbed in the back every time without fail.

He’s just jealous , a familiar voice sounds in the back of my head. He’s trying to sabotage you. Don’t you dare let him.

I’m not planning on letting that fool do anything to me, let alone mess me up. I don’t care how much he smiles at me. If anything, it’s a relief, because now I know for certain that he isn’t on my side, and never will be.

A knock sounds against the doorframe, and I look up to see a South Asian man, probably early thirties, with clear glasses frames and curly black hair that would probably make Mikhail cry from jealousy, dressed in a Keep Austin Weird! t-shirt and acid wash jeans.

“My next victim!”

There is no way this is him.

“Hi. I’m Sanjiv, Sanjiv Acharya, sports psychiatrist to the stars. You can just call me Sanjiv. Or whatever, really. I’m not picky.”

He smiles in a way that’s probably disarming to any normal person, but just triggers all of my fight-or-flight instincts. He walks over, and I stand up from the bean bag, doing my best to keep the growing dread off my face. Is this it? Is this my punishment? I have to be stuck in a room with this hippie “doctor” while he tries to dissect my brain? Forget sleeping pills, I might take something stronger to avoid whatever madhouse I’ve just been thrown into.

“Katya, right?”

“Ekaterina,” I correct immediately, and he raises his eyebrows over the rims of his frames, but he seems almost a little amused. Ugh. I hate when people think it’s just so adorable that I want to kill all of them and then myself.

“Yeah, Lee’s told me a lot about you. Ekaterina, then, it’s nice to meet you. Come on in.”

I follow Sanjiv into the, unsurprisingly, equally psychedelic inner office, although along with the weird collages there’s (unframed) diplomas and a lot of (framed) pictures that I can’t make out from where I’m standing, in the middle of one of those grass curtains you’d find in a tiki bar. Really, it’s like he mistyped psychiatry as psychedelic and a massive box of multicolor décor kits showed up.

“So!” he declares, settling into his armchair, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “What’s your poison?”

“What?”

“The sleeping pills. Temazepam, triazolam, benzos, zolpidem?”

I’m so shocked by the question that I tell him. “Um, zolpidem. Quick release.”

He nods appreciatively, tapping his pencil on the table. “I’d have probably given you the same thing originally.” He tilts his head. “They didn’t make you dizzy or lightheaded at all?”

I don’t know why he’s thrown me off so much, it’s obvious that Lian would’ve told him why she sent me to him. It’s just a little weird he’s not even trying to disguise his motives, try to befriend me or anything. It’s…interesting. “No. Not really.”

“Really? You don’t remember falling more than usual in practice when you first started taking it?”

I pause. Did I? That does happen when my schedule gets disrupted, I get woozy and it’s like I’ve never been on the ice before—last year one of my bags was lost by the airline and I didn’t have any meds for three days; and the second I arrived for practice I slipped and got a bruise on my thigh the size of a pancake—but I can’t remember it ever affecting me once I’m on it. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Listen, Doctor—”

“Ugh, I hate honorifics. I barely graduated med school, anyway, so it’d probably be a disservice to doctors who know what the hell they’re doing. It’s like people with a PhD.” Sanjiv laughs, and rolls his eyes when I don’t. “Fine, fine, no joking for you. Unfortunate, as I’m frankly hilarious.”

I very nearly smile. “I don’t remember, that’s why I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”

Sanjiv frowns. “How long ago? When was it prescribed?”

I shift in my seat. “A few years ago.”

“How many?”

“I was, um, sixteen.”

The crease between his brows deepens. “And you’re how old now?”

“I turn twenty in November.”

“Okay.” He leans forward, locking eyes with me. “I’m going to be straight with you. Is that okay?”

Please do. “I don’t really care.”

“Alright. I need some more information first. I’m gonna ask you a bunch of questions, rapid-fire, and I want you to answer as fast as you can.”

I have to be in some kind of fever dream. “Okay.”

“Have you been taking the same form this whole time?”

“Uh, no. I started with some generic brand; that worked for a few weeks. Then things got better, but then within a few months they put me on the slow-release, but that only lasted another few weeks.”

“You built up a tolerance?”

“Yes.”

“And what after that?”

“Back on the over-the-counter kind, then I didn’t need it for a while, and the next year I was back on the slow-release. The year after that I figured out the quick-release worked better, so they switched it.”

He’s not scribbling on a pad or anything, just listening intently as I talk. It’s unsettling.

“Don’t you need to write this down?

He smiles, tapping his head. “I keep it all up here. I hide the knowledge in the hair. Don’t worry. So, how much is your current dose?”

Don’t worry. Sure. “Five milligrams, as needed.”

He tilts his head. “And how much is ‘as needed’?”

I try not to wince. “It’s not…that often.”

“Once a day? Once a week?”

I sigh, swiping my hair out of my face. “Once every two days, then the next week alternate the days; then one week on, two weeks off.” Usually the full week, combined with training, is enough to keep me knocked out enough to get a fine enough night’s sleep, or at least enough to keep me functioning with the help of a hefty caffeine dose. “I have a system,” I clarify, as if it weren’t obvious enough. One that took forever to figure out, to minimize usage and maximize effectiveness. I’m perversely proud of it.

“Wow. Impressive.”

I fold my arms across my chest. This man is surprisingly good at hiding his opinions from his expression—I’ve always been terrible at that, it’s part of why all the reporters and team media people always loathed working with me, why I developed my reputation—but I know he definitely isn’t impressed. If anything, he’s probably about to call Lian and tell her she should dump me and cut her losses. “Yeah.”

Sanjiv laughs, raking his curls back. “No need to look at me like that. Trust me, if I was going to lock you up, I would’ve gotten Lian to do it. She’s a whole lot scarier than I am.”

Fair enough. “Fine. What else?”

He shrugs, taking off his glasses and wiping them with the hem of his t-shirt. “Honestly, I just want to get to know you. Lee didn’t say much, just that she wants me to figure out how we can help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I agree.”

“You do?”

“You seem fine enough to me. You’re not tweaking. You’re not in cold sweats. You don’t sleepwalk, do you? No hallucinations?”

I crease my brow. “No…”

He makes a yikes noise, shaking his head. “You should’ve seen this water polo player I had once. Poor guy used to scare the living daylights out of his girlfriend ‘cause he’d sleep-cook and almost burned their apartment down.” He shakes his head. “Trust me. Back in my competing days, I almost overdosed on Z’s before my team forced me down and into rehab. You don’t got shit to worry about.”

“I…” I pause. “I was going to say sorry, but that’s stupid, isn’t it?”

Sanjiv grins at me. “Atta girl. I like you already.”

I can’t help it, I smile back. “You’re a very unusual psychiatrist.”

“And thank god for it.”

I suppose the “casual doctor” thing isn’t as off-putting as I originally thought, because before I know it we’re chatting like we’ve known each other for ages. I tell him about work, my life back home, what it’s been like since moving here, how much Bryan gets on my nerves, and he tells me about his other weird clients.

“What did you used to compete in?” I ask eventually. “Didn’t you say something about that?”

“Wow, someone’s…terrifyingly attentive.”

“I get that a lot.” Usually just the terrifying part, but sometimes both.

“I’m sure. As for your question, I used to ski a little bit.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“Nah, the tourists up here put me off it.”

He really is funny. Bryan should take notes , I think, which is when I spot the framed picture behind Sanjiv’s desk on the other side of the room. I squint at it. It’s him, younger by maybe ten or fifteen years, in a bright red-white-and-blue ski suit, goggles and beanie hiding most of his black curls. He has some kind of lanyard around his neck, maybe an ID card—

I stop short. “Is that a fucking Olympic gold medal?”

“Maybe,” he replies meekly.

“Are you serious? Oh, I used to ski a little bit,” I mock, and he bursts out laughing.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to bamboozle you. It’s simply my nature to deceive.”

“What on earth does bamboozle mean?”

Sanjiv pretends to sigh. “Russians. Can’t depend on you guys for anything, least of all understanding silly vocab.”

“I take offense at that. But don’t deflect, how many times did you make it to the Olympics? Just the once?”

He holds up three fingers.

“And how many medals did you win?”

He’s barely stifling a laugh even before he holds up four fingers.

“How is that even possible?”

“I tried another event at my last one. Placed in both.”

“You tried a new event? Like, just for the hell of it?” I ask in disbelief. “That’s it, I’m leaving. You’re insane.”

Sanjiv grins. “And that’s exactly why I became a psychiatrist.”

“In my case, it’s why I’m seeing one.”

“Agreed.”

My jaw drops.

“I’m kidding . Anyway, speaking of why you’re here, we should probably talk some more about what the plan of attack is for you.”

Why do Americans insist upon speaking in riddles? Bryan has explained a lot of common phrases to me that, even after his explanations, still make no sense, but he hasn’t managed to come up with an answer for why they’re used than “variety is the spice of life, sunshine.” Which, now that I think about it, just goes to prove my point perfectly. He’s just feeding me examples every time he opens his mouth.

Irritation sparks at the thought. Just because I like this psycho psychiatrist doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten whose fault it is I got sent to him.

Also, I hate it when he calls me sunshine.

“What were you thinking?” I ask Sanjiv.

“I think you can’t stop taking the pills outright. You’re already used to planning out your doses, right? So we’ll just alter it little by little. And eventually, between that and other things we can do, you’ll be able to sleep like a baby without having to worry about setting your house on fire in your sleep.”

“That…would be preferable, yes.”

“Is this your off week?”

I nod.

“Perfect. I’ll talk to Lee, work it out. For now just turn off your alarms, and try to minimize blue light and caffeine intake starting five hours before bed.”

Forget the no-coffee and no-phone thing. My alarms? “How am I supposed to make sure I don’t miss practice? How am I going to get up in the morning? We have a competition next week—”

“You’ll get up when your body wants to get up.”

“ But—”

“Try it before you yell at me. We’ll go from there.” Sanjiv pushes his glasses up his nose. “I’m also going to send you some notes on what to expect in terms of symptoms. It varies from person to person, but withdrawals can be pretty rough. I don’t want you freaking out. I’ll see you as soon as you come back from Germany, alright?” He pauses, eyeing me. “It’s going to be hard. I’m not gonna lie and promise it’ll be sunshine and rainbows. But this is going to make you a better, healthier athlete. That I can promise you. Trust me on this.”

I huff, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms like a petulant child. Easier said than done , I want to tell him, but I just keep my mouth shut. Especially when he’s basically ruining my entire routine, which in turn means my entire life. Because without it, I feel my life spinning out of control.

I’m going to kill Bryan when I see him.

NEBELHORN TROPHY—OBERSTDORF, GERMANY

M y skin is crawling.

I’m supposed to be practicing right now, but I’m too busy adjusting my sweater, tightening my ponytail. I’m practically turning into Bryan with the amount of nervous fidgeting I’m doing.

“Stop,” said fidgeter says, visibly annoyed as he grabs my hand tighter during another lap. “Why are your hands so sticky?”

I’ve been ignoring him all morning, but I toss him a glare, skidding to a stop by the boards. “I’m wearing gloves.”

“Yeah, and I can still feel it. Stop.”

“I can’t stop,” I hiss, and he frowns.

“Are you tweaking or something? Did you have too much coffee this morning?”

“No,” I snap. I did have to have a third cup, though, considering I barely slept. Like, at all. Scraped together, it was probably under four hours. I’m not tweaking, and that’s the problem. I’m off my game. And now is not the time for it.

After I got the email late last week from Sanjiv (with Lian copied), a PDF attached with over forty pages of treatment plans and “what to expects” outlined, I nearly deleted it on the spot. There is just so much that I need to do to get over this. And maybe I should have deleted it, because Step One—stop taking the meds—is the reason I can feel every cell in my body vibrating right now.

“Katya, what’s wrong?” Bryan asks, a wary edge in his voice.

“Why don’t you ask Lian? You already snitch to her about everything I do, anyway.”

He opens his mouth to object, then closes it, something in his face softening almost imperceptibly. “Sit down.”

“What?”

“Just sit, will you?” He motions towards the bench, and I swallow before obliging, the solidity a welcome change from all the shakiness. He kneels down in front of me, reaching for my skate.

I snatch my foot back before he can touch it. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Your laces are loose,” my partner says simply, and I scoff.

“I can tie my own laces.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” My voice lets out a traitorous crack. “I can.”

“Go ahead, then.”

I lean over, suppressing the urge to scream at the sight of my completely unfastened laces that look like a six-year-old did them up, remembering how this morning I had given up attempting to do them normally after I had completely lost the ability to move my trembling fingers. I try to ignore Bryan’s blue eyes on me as I hesitate, then try to pick at them. I keep taking deep breaths, trying to calm myself down. My hands. Work, damnit! I choke on air as control keeps escaping me.

That’s when I feel another pair of hands gently fold over mine, leading them back to my lap. Bryan’s fingers start undoing the strings, nimbly loosening the knots, then working back up from the bottom of the boot, pulling them taut on each side. It’s taking every part of me not to start crying, and I know he knows it. He does me the favor of pretending not to.

Suddenly, I’m a child again, getting her skates laced up for her. Completely fucking helpless.

Bryan does a final double knot, and lets go. “That feel okay?” he asks casually, and I jerk my head yes.

Say thank you, Katya . My blood is boiling. I can’t tell whether I’m going to scream or sob. Just say thank you, and move on. He’s not judging you. You know he isn’t. Stop punishing him.

“This is your fault,” I whisper.

Bryan’s eyes harden, the softness falling away. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I inhale sharply, roughly wiping at my face. “I don’t care enough to bother with jokes. Let’s just skate.”

“After you,” he says mockingly, after a split second of staring in disbelief, gesturing to the sheet of ice around us. “You’re the one that’s been holding us up.”

“Raspizdyai.” I get up, pushing past him, then storm out to center ice, weaving through the other skaters. I don’t bother pretending like I can stand my partner just because there’s people around. I throw my hands up, planting one on my hip as I yell, “Well? Come on!”

Even twenty feet away, I can see his face flushing from anger. He skates out to meet me, jaw clenched tight enough for me to pick out individual muscles at work. “I like you better when you shut your damn mouth,” he says, and I widen my eyes, batting my lashes at him.

“Really? Most guys like it better open.” He flushes beet red, and I smirk at him. “Too bad, huh?”

“You’re just lucky I’m stuck with you. Otherwise I would’ve dumped you faster than you could say do svidaniya.”

“I thought you wanted to skate,” I say hotly.

He grabs my hand and tries to yank me forward, but I see him coming a mile away, so I’m able to move forward right as he tries to throw me off, and we take off into extremely quick crossovers, the freezing air relentlessly whipping in our faces as we race across the ice.

“Is that really all you got?” I taunt, and he lets out a laugh, tugging me by the waist through the next part of the choreography.

“Trust me, sunshine, you don’t want to see me cranked all the way up.”

“Please. Your idea of all the way up would make my grandfather look like a speed skater.”

Bryan gives me a nasty smile. “Wanna bet?”

I turn around and lift my arms so he can secure his own around my torso, flipping me so I’m facing him and lifting me up so I can balance my skates on top of his and lean back, stretching towards an imaginary panel of judges.

I can’t see him, but I know that he’s doing the same, only straightened and leaning on the outside edges of his spread eagle position. Everything’s upside down as we glide across the ice, and I’m acutely aware of his hands on the small of my back. I straighten up and jump backwards off of him, landing on two feet, and Bryan promptly loses his balance from the loss of my weight, stumbles, and falls over.

I let out a little laugh. “Sure, I’ll take that bet.”

He gives me a death glare. “That wasn’t even showing off. That was just dumb.”

I skate back over, leaning my hands on my knees as I crouch forward. I stick a hand out. “My, you really are a sore loser.”

He looks back up at me, a different irritation flashing across his face. “Not everything is a damn competition, Katya.”

I shrug. “Maybe you’d think differently if you ever did well in them.”

Bryan laughs, but he isn’t smiling. He gets up on his own. “What’s your problem, huh? Seriously.”

Why does he always ask me that? It’s like he can’t help himself. All he wants to do is pick me apart so he can understand me. But letting someone understand you can only end badly. It gives them an instruction manual on how to cause you pain. And I don’t care if I’m being harsh, because I’m not stupid—or maybe I’m just too used to the real world to believe that he only wants to know me.

“You’ve asked me that about a hundred times already,” I say.

“Yeah, well, I want an answer. You always do this. We’re getting along fine, and then you have to go and be you again.”

“Then why do you keep being surprised?”

Something unnerving passes over his face. “Why do you always act like wanting to see the good in people is a character flaw?”

I’m reminded of what he told me about his parents. “Maybe it’d do you good to stop being so hopeful. You might be less miserable.”

He stares at me, long and hard. “What? Like you?”

“I—” You can dish it, but you can’t take it, can you? His snide words from when we first met echo in my mind.

He shakes his head, skating past me as I stand there, unable to think of something to hit back with. “Let’s just move, Andreyeva. We clearly aren’t getting anywhere.”

“I shouldn’t even bother, if you’re just going to screw up the side-by-sides tomorrow,” I snap, and he just keeps shaking his head.

“Go for it. Put all the blame on me. Because everything is always my fault, right?”

“Finally, you get it. It only took you a year.”

“More like twenty,” he says under his breath, and I glance back up at him. Before I can reply, he grabs my wrist and drags me out to the middle.

“Side-by-sides. Quad Sal, quad toe. Let’s see who’s screwing it up for us tomorrow.”

“Didn’t think there was any question of that,” I manage, trying to keep up. The Canadians barely get out of our way in time, giving us weird looks.

He’s going too fast. When Bryan’s pissed, he skates without any regard for himself or anyone else. He’s going to get hurt because of it. I nearly trip over my toe pick, but I’m not giving him the satisfaction.

Bryan skids to a stop, and I nearly fall on top of him, but he holds me up.

“Ready, sunshine ?” he seethes, only this time, his favorite teasing nickname for me just sounds mean.

“Always,” I say.

We take off with our matching entries, turning in and out of three-turns and footwork. I catch a glimpse of him in my peripheral vision, his brows drawn tightly together, jaw clenched. Then I propel myself up in the air.

His is flawless. I slam my foot down with excessive force, and nearly trip backwards.

He doesn’t miss a thing, a mean smirk on his face. “I’m sure you can do better than that. I believe in you.”

“Tiny mistake,” I say breathlessly. Only it wasn’t a mistake. He’s just too thick to realize it. I ignore the way my stomach flips at the sight of his triumphant smile, even if it is only at my expense.

It’s just going to make everything all the sweeter when his newfound confidence shatters tomorrow.