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Chapter Twenty-Two

brYAN

T his is just embarassing.

I’m sitting here in a bar with my friends, and all I can think about is what some sociopathic girl with fake hair and a mean streak said when she was trying to get a rise out of me. Well, it worked, and now I’m hunched over in a booth nursing a (only slightly illegal) beer like it’s my wounded ego. And my arm, too. The alcohol’s numbed the pain a little bit, but that’s not even what really hurt in the first place.

Moby’s is the king of tourist-free holes-in-the-wall, with its fake log cabin walls smothered with pictures of every hockey player this town ever had to offer, plus both the Winter Games that took place in the very arena me and Katya train in, 1932 and 1980. It’s dark except for the glow of ancient ceiling lights and equally ancient TV screens that have probably been here since the eighties, too. There’s a whole wall dedicated to the Miracle On Ice, back at the ’80 games when the US hockey team pulled off an insane victory over the Soviets, who were the gold-medal favorites. Growing up in this place, no one ever shuts up about it. It may have been forty years ago, but people still remember it like it was yesterday. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pretty damn proud of it, too.

It’s the kind of place where, as long as you’re a local, no one cares what your age is, which is exactly why I’m drinking out in the open right now—I mean, it’s only a few months away from my twenty-first, but still. Everyone knows everyone. Ollie and I used to do odd jobs here in the off-season when we were in high school, too, which is how come all the staff treat us like their annoying little brothers.

“Young!” Deanna, who’s been running the place forever, barks at me, yanking out a towel rag from her flannel and waving it threateningly at me. “Stop moping, or get the hell out of my bar!”

I bury my head in my arms, shaking my head, and Oliver runs over, grabbing me from under the shoulders and trying to pull me out of my seat.

“Sorry, Deedee, we’ve been trying our best to get him outta his funk,” Ollie says apologetically. The woman waves her rag at us, shaking her head smilingly, and Oliver gives me another hard yank that sends me tumbling out on the floor, groaning and clutching my ribs.

“Ow! Why ?” I gripe, massaging my ribs, which were already killing me from a stupid fall out of a death drop spin, in which you kick your toe pick into the ice and let it propel you into the air so you can “fall” onto the other foot into another spin—only I missed the landing and fell splat on the ice, knocking all the air out of me. I’m going to have a big fat bruise where my abs should be when I wake up tomorrow morning—if I wake up tomorrow morning, that is. I’m getting the growing urge to drink myself to death, although it’d probably take more than a couple beers to do that.

Oliver rolls his eyes. “Because we brought you here to drink and dance, not drink and mope around like a sad old man.”

“You broke my ass,” I point out, more than a little pathetically, probably pouting like a toddler. I feel like a toddler.

A not-drunk-enough toddler , I think to myself, reaching my arm up and feeling around for my beer so I can take another swig, but Ollie swats my hand away.

“Nuh-uh. What’s that, your third already?”

Deanna holds up four fingers, and my jaw drops. “Hey! Traitor!”

Oliver snatches the beer away before I can save it, chugging the whole thing.

“You are so mean to me,” I groan. “And a hypocrite, too, you alcoholic ass.”

Deanna lets out a loud laugh, planting her hands on her hips. “You boys worry me. Deeply.”

Ollie laughs. “Don’t worry, you aren’t the only one.” I stick my hands out for him to haul me up, and he does, dragging me all the way out to where some people are already dancing, slinging an arm around my shoulders, his dark curls bouncing in front of my eyes.

“My god, we need to get you laid,” he says, pushing me off him and forcing me to not slump around, grabbing my hands and forcing me to dance. Not really, though, because I’m standing still except for where he’s waving my hands around.

“Kwan, believe me when I tell you that I definitely don’t need your help in that department.”

“Yeah, right. You haven’t gotten any in, like, a year.”

I scoff. “It has not been a year.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How long, then?”

I blush, which just makes him grin.

“How are you even living?”

“Shut up.”

“Whatever. Seriously, though. You’ve been in a crappy mood lately. Maybe that would help.”

I huff a breath as Ollie spins me around. “I don’t think it’d make a difference.”

“Damn. That bad?”

Yeah.

Ollie pauses, still moving around to the music slightly, but I know what he’s about to ask.

“Is it the usual?”

“Yeah. And…” I sigh. “I mean, it’s Katya, too. Like, I know she doesn’t get it, get me , but it’s just making it worse when she’s always trying to make my life miserable. She could’ve put us in the hospital, Oliver. And it’s like—I haven’t even done anything. I’ve been trying to help her, and this is what I get in return.” More reasons to be drinking like a man in a midlife crisis.

“Have you tried talking to her?”

I snort. “No.”

“You should.”

“I should not.”

“Well, it’s better than whatever you’re doing. You’re just ignoring the problem.”

People really need to stop telling me that. I like ignoring my problems. “Yeah, well, what else am I supposed to do? She’s just gonna use it against me.”

“That’s a little harsh, even for her.”

Why the hell is he defending her? “Says Mr. Circles-of-Hell?”

“Sure, but this is different. You’re always saying how you wish she communicated better, but come on, man, you don’t either. You just keep it bottled up and pretend you’re all good. All the crap you deal with, I mean, she might lay off you a bit if you’re just honest with her. How is she supposed to get your position if you don’t tell her shit?”

I snort. “Please.”

“She might understand.”

“She won’t.”

“But—”

“She won’t ,” I repeat, way too loudly, and people around us turn to stare. I can feel all the blood rushing to my face. “Just—she’s not gonna get it. Can we change the subject, please?” I pretend like I don’t see the look on Ollie’s face. Like he’s worried about me. Like he feels sorry for me.

“Okay.” Oliver nods, looping his arm in mine and starting to walk me out. “I’m not letting you drink anymore—”

“Hey!”

“—because your tolerance is comparable to that of an underfed hamster, while I could probably get hit by a car with nothing but Long Island Iced Tea running in my veins and these rock-hard thighs wouldn’t even tremble. I know where we’re going.”

N ext thing I know, we’re standing in front of an extremely familiar light blue front door.

I sigh and turn to my best friend, who’s looking mischievous and gleeful. “Why are we here?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because this is how we’re getting you out of your funk.”

“And how is this going to do that, exactly?”

Ollie grins, then reaches to knock on the door, but before his knuckles even hit the wood the door swings open, making us both shriek.

Lian stands there, squinting warily at both of us. “What are you doing here?”

I turn to Oliver, who’s biting his lip like that SpongeBob meme in order to keep from bursting into giggles. “Good question. Ollie, why don’t you tell Lee why we’re here?”

“To get Bryan out of his funk!” he says cheerily. “Hi, Lee.”

Lian rolls her eyes, stepping aside and opening the door further so we can go inside. “Get in. I knew I shouldn’t have told Juliet about the ice cream.”

“Ice cream?” I yelp, charging in, beelining for the kitchen, and Lian groans.

“Take off your boots, at least! My god, I thought not having kids meant I wouldn’t have to deal with this.”

Me and Ollie are already sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the freezer with tubs in our laps, giant spoonfuls of mint chocolate chip halfway to our mouths.

A n hour later, Ollie’s conked out on the couch—better tolerance my ass—while I’m sitting half-asleep on one of the kitchen stools, laying my head and folding my arms atop the spotless granite.

Lian’s watching me from where she’s standing behind the counter, elegantly eating her bowl of coffee ice cream.

This woman is a fiend. Even her desserts have caffeine—I swear to god, it’s just like Oliver, only if you tried to draw blood from her veins, you’d get Folgers dark roast with extra shots of espresso instead of alcohol.

I’m quiet. There aren’t that many people I can just sit with and not feel the urge (or obligation) to run my mouth to fill the silence, but Lee’s always been one of them. Probably because I can trust her. Arguably better than anyone. She knows stuff about me, has done so much for me; I can barely stand to think about it sometimes. It hurts my head about as much as my current beer overload.

“I think Juliet told me once that sundaes are the best hangover cure,” I mumble, not bothering to lift my head so my voice comes out muffled by my sweater sleeves.

I can hear the clanking of her spoon against the bowl. “Mm-hm. Makes sense.”

“Ollie was right, sadly. I think ice cream is the only way to make me feel better.”

“Well, I think technically it’s because of the nutritional aspects. The ice cream is cold and settles the stomach, the sugar boosts your energy, and depending on the flavor, it has caffeine. Not just coffee. Chocolate, too.”

“So…you’re saying sundaes are healthy?” I ask, finally lifting my head and trying to smile. “I think Katya would flip.”

Lian tilts her head, trying to analyze me. “How are you two doing?”

“What do you mean? You see us every day.”

“You know what I mean.”

I play dumb. “Umm, no…”

“Umm , yeah…”

“Fine. What do you even wanna know? Whether I have the serious urge to find the closest tall building so I can jump off it whenever she opens her mouth? Then yes, I do.” I roll my eyes, reaching across the counter and sliding the tub of coffee towards me, picking up a spoon and stabbing at it. “Anyway, it’s whatever at this point. There’s no chance of it getting better, so it might as well get worse.”

She frowns. “What does that mean?”

I snort into my ice cream. “Come on.”

“Bryan, honey.” Lian reaches across the counter, taking my hand, and I can’t look at her. I can’t see another person feeling sorry for me. I already have Katya reminding me every chance she gets that I don’t deserve to be here. I have to force myself not to rip my hand away. “Why are you getting so fixated? This isn’t…normal, for you.”

“I’m usually content with being a total loser, you mean?”

My coach gives me a withering look, and I drop the bullshit.

“It’s just—” I swallow the tightness threatening to block any words from coming out, lowering my voice so it doesn’t betray how shaky it is. “I was thinking about it. Maybe, if I start winning again, maybe…”

Lee sighs. “Oh, kiddo.” The pity in her voice—the immediate understanding—is unmistakable. It makes me want to vomit. “When are you gonna learn not to listen to them? You know better.”

They didn’t even have to say anything this time, I almost say. I’ve got their voices in my head, and now I can do their job for them. Now they won’t ever leave me alone.

“Uh huh.” I can feel my heart beating out of my chest, the lump in my throat growing even tighter as I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my chest from exploding . Bryan, get yourself together. Man up. Come on! My vision gets blurry. “Yeah. Okay.”

And as I’m picking the spoon back up, dropping the subject like the coward I am, it hits me, and the ice cream suddenly tastes like sawdust. That maybe Katya was right.

I can’t even remember the last time I was happy to just do this.

T he rest of the weekend drags on to the point that you’d think everything was moving in slow motion. Maybe it’s the feeling like you have no reason to keep on moving that leaves you so stuck in place.

Practice . Bachelor night, only without my sister, just me in my sad little apartment eating cold pizza and zoning out instead of actually watching. Then more training, over and over, until the next competition, and then the whole cycle starts from the beginning. I’m so exhausted I’ve been having to set extra alarms to make sure I actually get up in the morning.

Katya hasn’t let up, either. I don’t know why it surprises me. Keeps surprising me, actually. I guess some stupid part of me was thinking that she would sense something was going on with me. It’d be almost as if we were partners and spent basically all of our time together—oh wait, that’s exactly what we are!

Forget it. We have to get ready for American Prix. There’s no time for anything else.

It’s the end of the day, and despite us barely looking at each other, let alone speaking, it went fine enough. Even though I was extremely reluctant (i.e., they had to force me kicking and screaming), we tried the quad twist, and we didn’t die. All the throws were decent, and our jumps and spins were “passable,” according to Lee, which means they were almost perfect. Maybe not quite there yet, but we have time. Sort of. Not really.

So I’m sitting in the off-ice room at the end of the day, stretching to mitigate the soreness I can already feel creeping up on me, when Katya walks in. She, as usual, does not look happy. But I’m getting a bad feeling already.

“What’s up?” I say tonelessly, and she drops her skate bag with a thunk before glaring at me.

“What do you care, mudak ?”

I sigh. “Forget I asked.”

“No, actually, since you asked. I’m doing great. On top of training, I have to go to a psychiatrist twice a week, and to the pharmacy to get my prescriptions. I’m getting zero sleep, and I’m on the verge of killing myself, all thanks to you .” She injects so much sarcasm into that one word that I’m already feeling my blood pressure rise.

I rub at my temples. “I can’t deal with this again. I can’t.”

Her eyes flash, and her mouth twists into a mean smile. “Sure you can. Otherwise you wouldn’t have done it. Although, now that you mention it, it wouldn’t be the first time you bit off more than you could swallow.”

“Chew,” I correct automatically, then shut my eyes. “Katya. Please. Come on. You have to stop being pissed at me over something Lian did.”

“No, I don’t, because it’s your fault, not hers.”

“For God’s sake, Katya, I didn’t do anything!”

“Yes! You did, and you know it!” she cries, and I swear, I’m about two seconds from imploding. My head is swimming.

“Katya,” I try, and my chest feels so tight, I can’t breathe—

She shakes her head, and not before I can see the burning red all over her pale face, looking so overwhelmed she could burst into tears at any second, not that she would let me see it. “No! I won’t let you talk your way out of this. I won’t let you convince me to let me forgive you. I won’t. I can’t .”

I can practically hear my heart pounding in my chest. I feel like I’m walking underwater. “What the hell do you want from me?” I croak.

“I want you to admit it.”

“Katya—”

“Admit that you were wrong to do that to me. That you broke my trust. Admit that I’m not crazy!”

“I didn’t do anything. She walked in! And I’m not the one that had a meltdown here.” It’s a low blow, and I know it the second it’s out of my mouth, but even if it’s not going to help me at all I can’t help but put up a pathetic last defense.

Sure enough, her expression cracks, and out comes even more fury. “You don’t know anything about me. You had no right—”

And suddenly, my chest splits open. “You don’t know anything about me !” I yell, so loudly and unexpectedly we both physically startle. Her eyes widen. I actually scare myself a little bit, didn’t even mean to say it, feel bad about saying it like that, but now that I’m going there’s no stopping. “Christ, Katya, have you even noticed that I haven’t been acting normal lately? Or, like, even slightly different from usual? That I’ve been arriving late and leaving early? That I’ve been on the phone and in a shitty mood and stressed out of my mind? No?”

She doesn’t reply, and I scoff. “Of course not. All you care about is yourself. I hate to break it to you, Katya, but it’s just like you and your self-destructive bullshit. If you’re in trouble, I’m in trouble. And if I’m in trouble, so are you. There’s also the matter of being a decent fucking human being, but I guess that’s asking too much.”

Katya doesn’t say anything. She looks like she’s in shock, absorbing the words, but I can’t even make myself feel bad about raising my voice. I just rake my fingers through my hair and collapse on the bench, rubbing at my face furiously.

God , I need to get my shit together. This is nothing compared to any of the other crap my parents have pulled, so I don’t know why it’s throwing me off so much. I’m doing it to myself, I really am. It’s like getting bad scores in competition. I should be used to it by now. I don’t know why my head won’t let me be.

I really want to be used to it.

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