Chapter Thirty-Five

KATYA

“ I need another drink,” Bryan announces suddenly, appearing out of nowhere behind me.

I startle so badly I nearly spill the glass of water I’ve been holding sadly.

“ Ebanashka . Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

"Sorry.” He says it absentmindedly, and the look on his face only serves to confirm that he’s somewhere else. He moves to my side, putting one hand on my waist as he reaches over to grab the champagne bottle from the ice bucket.

I eye him suspiciously. “Where are you going with that?”

“Dunno.” He lifts a shoulder, looking very mopey as he slides his gaze back up to meet mine. Puppy eyes . “Wanna come?”

I hesitate. I’ll go where you go , I almost say. If only to make sure this klutz doesn’t accidentally fall over and hurt himself.

“ T his is the worst idea you've ever had,” I warn, and Bryan just throws his head back, letting out a massive whoop.

“I’m serious, I really don’t think icy surfaces and knife-shoes are the best idea!”

That only makes him giggle uncontrollably. “We’re wearing knife-shoes,” he whisper-shouts, and I shake my head.

“I now understand why they compare you to a rodent.”

“Come on, sunshine! Live a little!” He pulls me forward by the hands, and I follow with a groan, although I can’t help but smile as he twirls me around on the ice.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You never get sick of saying it.”

“You never get sick of hearing it, either. Otherwise you might act less ridiculous.”

“Aren’t you clever,” he teases, and I grab the bottle from him, taking a brave swig that makes him raise his eyebrows. “Wow. I don’t know if you noticed, but this is champagne , not vodka, my lovely little ice queen.”

“Ha, ha.” I bite my lip. “Yasha, who called you?”

He drops his arms, letting both of ours hang between us. “My dad.”

Shit.

“He…I don’t really know. He said some stuff.”

I jerk my head back up, anger flaring in my chest, but he shakes his head hastily. “No, not like that. He, uh…he actually kind of apologized.”

“Really?”

“Well, not in so many words, but I think so. It was—”

“What?”

“Weird as fuck,” he admits. I let out a laugh, then tilt my head at him.

“Are you okay?”

He sighs slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. I asked him to come to Nationals at the end of the month, and he…he said he would.”

“That’s wonderful.” I smile, then it tilts into a frown. “Right?”

“No, you’re right. I mean, if it pans out, that is. Is it bad that I kind of hope it will, though? Even if it probably won’t?”

I soften. “Of course not. It’s not bad. And I hope it does too, for the record.”

“Mm.” Bryan takes the bottle back, taking a drink and wiping his face when it drips down. “Anyway. You really think we’ve got a shot at the Olympics?

I pause, then decide to let the abrupt subject change go. “In what sense?”

He rolls his eyes. “In the only sense that matters. Do you think we could really win?”

I pause. The automatic answer is obviously , because why else would I have stuck around this long? Him, too? We’ve destroyed everyone’s perceptions and expectations. No one thought we would even last through summer training. It’s been hard, and we’ve both been wrong and screwed up more times than either of us can count. I can tell it’s going to be a longer road than ever when it’s just within reach, but we’ve made it this far, haven’t we? It’s our responsibility to keep pushing. To get there.

“Yes,” I say, and he smirks.

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Ten! Nine! Eight!”

“You’ve been drinking this whole time,” I point out, and he shoves me playfully in the shoulder, making me sway dangerously. “If you make me fall, I’m going to be so mad!”

“Ooh, I’m so scared,” Bryan taunts, looping an arm around my waist, and I screech as he trips, bringing both of us tumbling down onto the ice, flat on our backs.

“I hate you,” I say, groaning, but the effect is more than a little ruined by my uncontrollable giggling.

“I know.”

I turn my head to look at him, but he already has his eyes on me.

“Four! Three! Two!”

“What are you thinking about?” he whispers.

I look straight up above us, at the fireworks exploding overhead over the Midtown skyscrapers, painting the sky with streaks of light and color. “I’m thinking…”

Back home, there’s this saying—those who don’t take risks, don’t drink champagne. I always thought it was a sorry excuse for the wild cards at my old center to attempt the most out-of-control, death-wish elements they could think of (cough, Vanya, cough)--but now, lying here, on this ice with this boy in this city…I can almost see it.

I turn my head to the side to tell him this, but his eyes have already fluttered shut.

I let out a sigh, my breath puffing into the cold air. “Happy new year.”

W hen we get back, I’m too tipsy to do much of anything.

I try to shower, but after ten minutes of just standing there with the water running I get out. Then I pull out my phone, scrolling aimlessly before opening my email and digging through the hundreds of unreads clogging my inbox, stumbling across one from [email protected].

It must’ve gotten lost among all the junk in my spam folder until now. Mikhail’s probably been sitting in his office, squinting judgmentally at his empty notifications tab, his drama queen self stewing just because he’s too stuck-up to follow up himself—

AIRLINE FLIGHT 13080

Passenger ANDREYEVA/EKATERINA

NEW YORK CITY, JFK to MOSCOW, SVO

Typed below is a brief message.

I’m sorry. Please come home. It’s time. -M