Chapter Forty-Eight

brYAN

O nce it's over, I get the hell out of there.

I get out of there the second the pressure eases up and I open my eyes to her grey ones right there in front of me, wide and worried and almost—never mind. There’s a split second where I’m just sitting there, staring at her, feeling the most grounded I have in weeks. But then she blinks, and it’s enough to break the spell. I get up, her steady hands falling from my arms, and I ignore the tiny “wait” that leaks out of the room behind me.

I sit in the off-ice room for who knows how long.

Then Katya walks in. I don’t look up.

We both sit there in silence for a beat, waiting to see who breaks first. For once, I don’t.

“Are we going to talk about what just happened, or are we going to ignore it?” Katya asks conversationally, the edges of her voice simultaneously sharp and frayed. “Because really, I don’t think that strategy has been working out too well thus far.”

I smirk. “You don’t say?”

She stares me down, clearly unamused by my sarcasm. “You’re not being funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Yasha, I’m not joking around.”

I still. That one word crawls back under my skin, prying things open I want to keep shut and shoved under my bed forever. “When are you going to stop calling me that?”

“When you start talking to me.”

“What do you call this, then?”

“A sad attempt at trying to shake me off.”

“Funny, I’m usually the one being shaken off.”

“Stop making this into a joke. It isn’t a joke.”

“Of course it isn’t a fucking joke!” I explode, and Katya rears back. “You don’t have to tell me that! Jesus .” I dig my hands in my hair, trying to walk away, but she just blocks my path, face deceptively steady. I know she’s trying to hold her ground.

“I’m sorry,” she says, like she means it. Then she shakes her head. “Bryan, you’re my partner. I don’t want you to hide from me.”

I wish I could ignore how her calling me her partner makes some idiotic part of me want to just push all of this aside and let things be okay again. I wish I could stop thinking that, well, Ekaterina, if you didn’t want me to hide from you, you shouldn’t have run.

God, this is impossible. This whole situation is impossible. “I didn’t want you to see it.”

“See what?”

I shut my mouth. “Forget it.”

Katya blinks, mouth twisting, hesitating. “I don’t think any less of you for it. You know that, don’t you?”

I close my eyes.

“Don’t you?” she repeats, slightly louder, slightly desperately, and I run a hand down my face.

“Katya, I can’t—”

“Can’t what?”

I don’t answer her.

“Can’t what ?” she says again, taking a step closer, and without even meaning to, I startle back before she can get within reach.

I guess it’s answer enough, because her face just about splinters, and I feel my heart clench.

“Do you not…trust me?” she asks softly, voice cracking, the hurt on her face unmistakable.

A conversation I had with my sister months ago suddenly flashes back in full color.

“Do you really hate her that much, Bry?”

“It’s not that simple.”

Because nothing about Katya is simple. Nothing about my feelings for her is simple. I shouldn’t trust her, and yet that isn’t even why I don’t want her to know that sometimes I can’t breathe and my chest feels like it’s being put through a trash compactor. It isn’t even why. And that’s why I can’t do this anymore.

So I say it. I swallow hard. I say the words. “This is my last competition.”

Her face flickers, gears screeching to a halt. “What?”

Might as well do this now. I clear my throat. “After the Final is over, I’m retiring. It’s over.”

That shocks her into silence.

“Bryan, what—” She stops short. “It’s not over. We still have Nationals. We still have the Olympics , are you kidding? You can’t just quit.”

“It isn’t quitting, Katya, it’s retiring. I’m finishing the Prix Series, which, may I add, you clearly had no intention of doing—”

“This isn’t about me right now. You’re giving up! You’re running away!” She looks so angry at me, it’s almost funny, because suddenly it’s like the hotel rooftop all over again, just reversed. Then something passes over her face. “Is this because you don’t want to do the new routine?”

“Of course not. That’s stupid.” It’s also partially true, even if it is stupid. It’s not as stupid as the fact that she can still read me like a book, though.

“Bryan, you have to finish the season. You can’t quit right at the end. We have a real shot at winning, you can’t just—"

“Oh, of course. That’s what you care about. You can win an Olympic gold, but only if I’m there. That’s what this is about. You can’t win if I quit.” I laugh roughly. “Well, now you know how I felt. Sorry.”

She looks like I’ve slapped her. “You can’t possibly think that.”

“Can’t I?” I reply, even though my stomach twists. I don’t think that, not really. But that’s not the point. “You don’t have any right to tell me what I can or can’t do. You left. You were gone .”

Her face has gone pink. “If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, don’t bother. There’s no need. You don’t think I already feel that way?”

“Good,” I snap. “You should.”

She shakes her head, scoffing. “You know, Bryan, you’ve always been convinced you’re not good enough, but now you’re just acting like a martyr. When are you going to realize that it wasn’t about you?”

I can’t deal with this. I can’t do this. “Katya, I swear to God—”

“Can you just listen to the words coming out of my mouth? It wasn’t about you. It was about me! I made a mistake. I fucked up. I was afraid, so I ran away as soon as I got the opportunity. But it wasn’t even just that, alright?”

Her whole face is red, eyes glinting. “My entire life, I thought that what other people thought of me determined my worth. And then Tatyana came along, and she was the first person to make me believe that, even if people thought I was a terrible person, I could still keep going. I could even be better , because that way I could focus on skating and not on other people’s feelings. On my feelings.” She swallows hard. “I just shoved everything down. And I did it because it was the only way I could survive. But then I met you, and—” Her voice cuts off. “Just…I need you to cut me a little bit of slack, alright?”

She looks exhausted. Drained. I think she might actually be feeling as shitty as I’ve been. I don’t want her to feel bad, even if some vengeful part of me wants to yell, how does it feel, huh? I want to cut her all the slack she needs. I wish I could.

But I can’t.