Chapter Twenty-Five

KATYA

NOVEMBER

NORDIC PRIX—ESPOO, FINLAND

“ A re we ever going to escape this snow?” Bryan gripes, before tearing off a piece of croissant and stuffing it in his mouth. “It’s November, for crying out loud.”

I turn to Lian, who’s sipping on a cup of coffee—black, of course, just like mine. “Did the issue with our practice ice get resolved?”

“Yes, thankfully.” Lian puts down the coffee. “Did the issue with your scheduling get resolved?”

I sigh. “No, not yet. I need to text Sanjiv and ask.”

We’ve been so busy these past couple of weeks with constant traveling to and from competitions, not to mention the competitions themselves, that there hasn’t been any time to even think about anything other than flight arrangements and skate sharpenings. But sure enough, psychological problems wait for no man, and I have to figure out when I’m going to be able to see Sanjiv in the middle of all this craziness.

“We were discussing potentially doing virtual sessions once the season starts back up after the holiday break,” I add, and that’s when I notice that Bryan is looking extremely awkward all of a sudden, fiddling with his croissant.

“Um, how’s that…how’s that goin’, by the way?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck.

“Fine,” I say curtly, and Lian hides her amusement. “According to the good doctor, I’m ‘certifiable, but in a fun way,’ and I’m making progress on the other thing.”

He starts to laugh until I pin him with a glare. “Well, that’s good, then. Right?”

I roll my eyes. “Right.”

Lian clinks the sugar spoon against the cup, presumably for dramatic effect. “Let’s focus. We need to lock in today.”

She’s right. Ever since we got here, though, I haven’t been able to get over how bizarre it feels to be in this country, when I hope—I know —that we’ll be back here in just a few months, just a twenty-minute bus ride away, for the Olympics. It feels insane to be sitting here worrying about a Prix event when that’s the end goal. Then again, my mother would laugh and tell me to take it one step at a time.

She’d also tell me to eat something so I’m not in a foul mood by the time there’s cameras in my face, which is why I continued the pattern of putting aside all my usual routines and joined Bryan and the others downstairs for breakfast.

“We need to clean up the side-by-side triple Axels,” Lian is saying for the millionth time. “You both have flawless ones, there’s no excuse. You could be getting major bonus points if it weren’t for your inability to count to five.”

“We know,” we mutter.

“And transitions out of lifts. Please , for the love of god. Transitions or nothing. Lasso and overhead are looking good, but Bryan, you can’t be so terrified of dropping her. You look like an old man, you’re taking so long to get her down. Katya, get off your toe pick when he puts you on the ice. You’re jerking backward onto your blade. It looks sloppy.”

“We know.”

“And smile! Katya, you’ve got to emote. Bryan might skate constipated, but at least he’s selling it. You have to sell it. You’re door-to-door salesmen on that ice, you hear me?”

“We know, Lian,” Bryan says soothingly. “We’re going to be fine.”

“You better be,” our coach grumbles, standing up from her seat. “I’ll see you in an hour. Don’t be late. And don’t laugh, Young,” she adds curtly, just as Bryan unsubtly covers his grin with a yawn, practically turning maroon from holding it in.

Don’t laugh, Young, I mouth, and he has to shut his eyes, tiny squeaks coming out of him.

“Bye, Lee,” I say, and he can’t even reply. As soon as she’s out of sight, he can’t even hold it in, and he just starts howling laughing,

“Oh my god, I can’t breathe,” he gasps, and I start giggling uncontrollably.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re literally an ice queen. I have no idea how you were able to hold it in for so long.”

“I don’t emote, remember?” I say, and that sets him off again, but I just poke his shoulder, grinning enormously as he struggles to breathe. “We have to be door-to-door salesmen on that ice, Young.”

“Stop!” he begs, clutching at his stomach. “It hurts!”

“Fine, fine.” The sight of him smiling this wide, the crease by his eyes and the scrunch in his nose beaming sunshine onto me, it makes my stomach twist. Because I remember all the times I’ve seen him smile like this, but I remember just as well how he looked when he was falling apart in front of me.

The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why were you so upset that night?”

Bryan’s eyes slide back onto mine, the laugh dying in his throat, a flicker of surprise visible before he blinks it away. I guess I didn’t need to clarify what night I meant. “I…” he trails off, an odd, resigned look on his face. “It was nothing.”

“Clearly it wasn’t nothing.” His brow pinches, and I mentally tell myself to stop being so damn demanding. “Sorry. I just mean—sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”

He’s silent for a moment, and I can see him weighing his options. Answer the psycho, or don’t answer the psycho. I’m half-expecting him to not answer the psycho when he does.

“My dad had a flare-up. He’s immunocompromised because of his injury and gets sick a lot. Nothing too serious this time, but it was stressful. I had to take him to and from the doctor once a week because he can’t drive, and my mom works crazy hours, plus I had to make sure Alexandra was alive and eating something other than takeout for six weeks straight, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh.” Oh? That’s all you can say? “Is he…okay?”

Bryan shrugs. “He’s got medical complications up the wazoo, but he’s been like that ever since the accident. He’ll survive. He always does.”

I bite my lip. “At least he’s fine now,” I mumble, and the second I say it, I know how stupid a remark it was, because Bryan lifts his head, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, and my face erupts in flames.

Stupid, stupid, stupid —

I clear my throat. “Anyway, you’re a good son for doing that. He’s lucky to have you.”

I meant it as a swift way to turn the page and change the subject on a slightly less humiliating note, but the look on Bryan’s face tells me otherwise.

He looks almost…what? Surprised?

“What?” I ask suspiciously, and he blinks a few times.

“Nothing. Just…funny that you’d say that, is all. Anyway, it’s whatever.” He laughs. And I know that laugh. It’s one of the rare Bryan laughs that I don’t like to hear, because it’s the one that only comes when he’s being self-deprecating.

I crease my brows. “No, not whatever. What aren’t you telling me?”

He lets out another short laugh, leaning back in his chair, like he knows he’s dug himself a hole. “Nothing! It’s fine.”

“Young, I’m going to cut your hair off in your sleep if you don’t tell me.”

His hands fly to his overgrown sandy curls, blue eyes round with horror. “You wouldn’t!”

I raise two fingers, miming scissors. “Snip-snip,” I whisper, and he blanches.

“Fine,” he says crossly. “You’re annoying, you know that?”

“So are you.” I tilt my head to the side, studying him.

One of the things I’ve never fully understood about my partner is how he can go from moody and upset to grinning and joking around in less than a second. It’s like he has this mask, or something. Like he never wants anyone to see the cracks in the porcelain—only instead of having a facade built of cold stares and an icy reputation, his is one of warmth and smiles and laughter. Like he doesn’t ever want anyone to see if he’s hurting, and only see the funny boy, the golden boy, the sunbeam who lights up every room.

“Bryan.” It’s a question. He lifts his gaze, and I track the tiny shifts in his expression that lead to surrender.

“Fine. You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I’m aware.”

“Good.” He sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “I don’t know. I just—never really feel like a good son, you know what I’m saying?”

I do know what he’s saying. The difference is, unlike me, he doesn’t seem like he should be questioning it. “But you do so much for your family.”

“Not really.”

“Are you kidding? You drive your father to the doctor, you spend half your time with Alexandra, you take care of things while your mother is at work—"

Bryan shakes his head. “It’s my responsibility.”

One that he goes above and beyond over almost every single day. “Yes, but most people put that on the back burner when they have other things going on. You don’t. You’re doing an Olympic season and you still do all of that by yourself, without anyone having to tell you.”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Family’s important.”

“I agree.” He’s not getting it , I realize. “I’m just saying, you’re a good son. That’s all.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute. “You know, I think that might be the first time anyone’s ever told me that.”

I laugh, then I realize he isn’t joking. My smile drops. “Bryan.”

“ Katya .”

“Your parents don’t…” I search for the right words. “Appreciate all you do for them?”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not that much.”

“Yes, it actually is.”

“You don’t think you’re being a little dramatic?”

“No, I really don’t. You give up so much of your time for them. You are always there for them—”

“I wasn’t before. That’s why I do it.”

I frown. “You mean when you were at international competitions?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t there, when they needed me. And they basically funded my career until—like, a few years ago. I have to make up for it somehow.”

Oh, I am definitely coming around to Paula Young’s workplace later. “You were a teenager , Bryan.”

“Come on, I was sixteen. It was no big deal, I’d been helping out since I was a kid. I had to pull my weight around the house since my dad couldn’t, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean you should feel guilty for not being around. You were winning. You were about to win Worlds—"

“Well, I didn’t.” The roughness in his voice rises out of nowhere. “I didn’t , okay? Everything went downhill from there. So I think it’s safe to say that it’s my job to help.”

I swallow hard. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, you never do.” He looks back over at me, and I can see the anger fall from his face. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just…hard to explain.”

“I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in. I’m sorry, too.” I’m thinking that’s the end of the conversation, but then Bryan huffs.

“God, it just pisses me off. You’re right, you know? I shouldn’t feel so damn guilty. It is my responsibility, though. I guess I just wish they’d say thank you every once in a while.” He glances at me, smiling.

“Kinda dumb, huh?”

Something inside me twists. “It’s not dumb.”

“A little bit. Like, my dad can’t walk, my mom works two jobs. Plus, they’re my family, you know? They shouldn’t have to worry about thanking me.”

They don’t, i s what I want to say. They don’t, and it makes me angrier than you could imagine. “You’re not asking for payment, Bryan.”

He shrugs. “I don’t even really know what I’m asking for.”

I reach out and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, and he sighs again. “Seriously. It’s pretty pathetic that you’re the first person to say I’m a good son, right? Like, that’s kind of messed up.”

I force myself not to say anything, not to shake him and yell, thank you, finally! But I don’t. “They’ve really never…”

“No.” He cracks a grin, or tries to, because he just looks so impossibly sad that it makes my chest ache. “Stupid of me to still hope, right?”

“It’s not stupid.” I’m finding it a little hard to swallow right now. “You’re a good person, Bryan, I—I hope you know that.”

The tiniest furrow appears between his brows before he offers a slightly confused smile. “Thanks. I think.”

We’re both silent.

“Why do you dye your hair?” he asks out of absolutely nowhere, and I let out a shocked laugh.

“What?”

He reaches a hand out, lightly brushing my hairline. “Your roots were showing before.”

I don’t have to ask what he’s talking about. Something reminds me that I shouldn’t be opening up, that I should pretend like that night never happened, and that he never saw me like that. So vulnerable. So weak .

But I suppose it’s my turn to open up, and besides, he looks so genuinely curious that I can’t help it. “My hair was red when I was a baby. But it went a lot lighter as I got older, so…I’m naturally blonde.”

He mulls this information over. “You don’t seem like a blonde.”

Probably because he’s only used to seeing me like this, but I cross my arms anyway. “What does that mean?”

“Just that the red fits.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Because I have a temper shorter than I am?” I ask, pointedly reminding him of when he told me those exact words.

He just grins. “Exactly. Now you’re learning.”

Mudak .

“So why’d you start dying it?”

I shrug. “When I started getting more attention a few years ago, my coaches thought it would be good for my image to look bolder. The red was to make me look aggressive or strong. I don’t know.”

Some stupid marketing thing. I didn’t bother questioning it. It worked, and it wasn’t like it was far off from what my hair color used to be, anyway—not that it had ever made sense for me to be a redhead as a child, unless my father was ginger. I wouldn’t know.

Bryan quirks his lips. “I don’t think you need hair dye for that.”

“Ha, ha.” I touch a hand to where his had just been, frowning. “I should get it redone. It looks bad now.”

“Don’t worry about it. You look fine.”

“ You look fine, ” I mock. “Wow, Young, you really know how to make a girl feel special.”

He just smiles, then shakes his head ruefully. “I can’t believe I never noticed before.”

“You thought it was natural?”

“Obviously!”

“Oh my god. You’re such a boy.”

“What, because I can’t tell when a girl is lying ?”

“It’s not lying,” I protest, and he grins, reaching for my braid and tugging lightly at it.

“Whatever. It works for you.” He grows quiet, then flicks his eyes over at me. “When did you start getting them?”

“The headaches?”

He nods, and I chew on my lip, leaning back in my seat. “I don’t know. A few years ago?”

“Did you see a doctor?”

I shrug. “They said as long as it didn’t interfere with training, I shouldn’t worry about it.”

“Well, you can worry about it now.” He blinks. “Not that you should . I’m just saying you can. Like, if you need to.”

“I know what you mean.” Should I say it? I sigh. “I used to…take the pills when I felt one coming on.”

I can see the shit look fall across his face, guilt written all over. Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have said it. I don’t want to make him feel worse for something that wasn’t his fault in the first place.

The only reason I was ever angry with him at all was because it was easier than being angry with myself. Easier than admitting the truth—that I have a problem, that it’s been making me worse, and that I had to do something about it.

I can’t keep taking everything out on him. I wish I could stop myself.

Bryan’s silent for a bit, shooting me a look. “You know…you know I didn’t do it to get at you, right?” he says quietly. “I was just…”

Worried about you. The words hang in the air, unspoken.

All I can do is try to smile. “I know.”

I also know that I owe him an explanation, one long overdue. “Listen, can I tell you something?”

“Shoot.”

“I’ve…pretty much been alone since I was a preteen,” I say, and he sits up straighter.

I swallow. Just tell him. Trust him . “I mean, I have my family, of course, but there’s only so much they can do from halfway across the country. World, now. And my friends at the center, well, there was only so much time for friendship when you’re training eight hours a day, and even less when you’re supposed to try to beat them in competition the next week.” I’ve never admitted this to anyone. I don’t think I’ve even admitted it to myself. I wipe at my face, then clear my throat. “I’ve never had a…a partner. Someone I’m supposed to rely on. Trust blindly.”

Something about the look on his face makes my heart full even before he opens his mouth. “You’ll learn fast. You’re a lot smarter than you look.”

I can’t help it, I laugh, and he just grins at me, shoving another bite of toast in his mouth. “ Trust me, Andreyeva. It’s the only thing you’re ever gonna have to do.”

I get a full eight hours of sleep after our practice for the first time in recent memory. When my alarm goes off in the morning, I don’t even feel like a bear dragged out of hibernation.

I fumble for my phone, get out of bed, chug a glass of water, and get dressed. I’m halfway out the door and shrugging my jacket on when I feel a weight in one of the pockets. What the hell? I think, reaching in.

When I pull it out, I’m staring at a gargantuan, bulk-sized bottle of aspirin that weighs about the same as a week-old baby, trying to calculate the possibility of me having finally lost it and this one of those hallucinations Sanjiv told me about when I see the post-it stuck to the cap.

Happy birthday, ex-teenager. You’ll get your real present in the kiss-and-cry tomorrow.

Love,

Your favorite skating partner