Chapter Four

brYAN

T he answer was yes, by the way. An hour later, I’m slamming the front door behind me.

“Yo, I’m home!” I yell out into the house, dropping my bags and shucking off my boots and gloves, before trying to unzip my puffer coat with frozen fingers. Finally my knuckles thaw enough to free myself, and I rub my hands together as I let the heated air of the house wash over me. Every frugal bone in my mom’s body evaporates the second the thermostat dips below sixty, and after a long day at the rink in the middle of January, coming home feels like walking into a toaster.

I hear the unmistakable clattering of nails against the kitchen tile, and when I turn back around, I get tackled by an extremely large lump of fur.

“Hey, Ruby!” Ruby’s the other family golden retriever, and we really do share an uncanny resemblance. We’re both big, blondish, will eat anything and everything, and are hyper to the point that we have to be medicated. “Okay, okay! Down, girl.” Ruby lets out an irritated bark but stops trying to do a doggie dance with me, and I lean down and scratch behind her ears. “Come on. Let’s go find Alex.”

“Dude, you aren’t gonna believe what happened today.” I trudge straight over to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and leaning against the door as I hunt for something to eat. I glance over my shoulder towards the sounds of reality TV coming from the living room. “Seriously, you’re gonna get a kick out of this. My total suffering is your favorite kind of entertainment.”

“Shut up and get over here, you’re gonna wake up Mom.”

“You mean she’s home ?”

“Look who’s talking.”

I roll my eyes, reaching in to grab the milk and a Tupperware of recently defrosted Thanksgiving pumpkin pie, balancing them under my chin before kicking the door shut behind me and heading over. Ruby chases after me, tongue lolling and tail wagging as she stares hungrily at the pie.

“Bring me a fork, too.”

I glare at her, but oblige.

My sister is probably the most chaotic fifteen-year-old in history, which is saying something because when Oliver and I were that age I was sure no one could ever have us beat. Alexandra is a 5’3 ginger with Pippi Longstocking braids and the personality of a very aggressive hamster. Like me, she plays an ice sport. Unlike me, it’s hockey. Mostly because she had to spend so much time bored out of her mind at the rink because of me, back when she wasn’t old enough to stay home alone. Our mom didn’t waste a second trying to coax her into figure skates, just handed her Dad’s old stick and puck and sent her on her way. She only plays for the season on the high school team, but I for one appreciate that she can channel some of her rage out on the ice so I don’t have to get smacked around so much.

I’m armed with twin forks, and I plunk myself down on the couch that’s seen and a half of frozen dinners, Bachelor marathons, and tickle fights that end with a lot of shrieking (Alex) and crying (me). If you squint at the fabric, you can spot the dime-sized spatters of brown where she bashed my nose one time.

We tend to take things very seriously in the Young household.

Ruby jumps on top of us, and I hand my sister her fork and the container, setting the milk down on the coffee table. I’m about to dive straight into my rant about today, but before I can get into it, a question springs out of me. “How’s Dad?”

My sister shrugs, unbothered. “Same as always.”

“Right.” I don’t know why I asked. “How are you?”

She cracks a grin. “Same as always.”

I laugh, and she shakes her head, smiling. “I got my leftovers and my corny shows, so, all good.”

“I can’t believe you finished the red velvet without me. Rude.”

“Your own fault for moving out, jerk. Anyway, what about you?”

I kick my feet up on the coffee table. “It has been a long fucking day.”

“Spill,” Alexandra says, raising a brow as she flicks her eyes back to the lineup of white bread people onscreen who probably all peaked in college.

Not that I would know. I didn’t go to college, something that my parents will forever give me grief about. I know a handful of people who somehow manage to balance training and a whole Ivy League education, but I can’t imagine. I graduated high school by the skin of my teeth, and that was after I got on meds and had a better handle on it. I guess I used all my miracles up on my physics teacher inflating my grade to a C senior year. I think the guy was just relieved he at least had one student who actually used the stuff he taught in daily life. And he probably felt bad it was his class keeping me on academic probation.

I do kind of wish I still had one or two big ones left in me, though, because I could use a miracle right about now.

Where do I even begin? “You know about the Russian skaters, right?”

“A little, yeah. Why?”

“You know about—”

“Ekaterina Andreyeva? The redhead? Oh my god, I love her.” Alex pops off the container lid and shovels some pie in her mouth, before passing it back to me. I break off a little piece and sneak it to the dog as my sister gushes. “Did you see her Les Mis program last year? Still gives me chills. Didn’t she just get transferred or something?”

“Yep,” I reply, popping the p. “She’s skating here now.”

“In California, or where?”

“No, here.”

“Here, New York?”

“No, here here. Lake Placid. Our rink.”

Alex stops chewing, turning slowly towards me. “Oh. My. God. You’re so full of shit.”

“What’d I do?” I protest, and Alex groans.

“Jesus, Bryan! How did you not tell me about this before?”

“I just found out, like, five minutes ago, leave me alone.”

“Give me a break. She’s in trouble, too, isn’t she? That’s why they kicked her out. Like you.”

I snort. “Yeah. Lian’s trying to pair us up.”

“Are you serious?”

“I know. It’s horrible. She’s horrible. I don’t know how I’m—” I stop, because my sister has started laughing hysterically. “What?” I ask, suspicious.

“Oh my—I just— you ,” she chokes out, letting out another cackle. “You’re gonna punt her in the air? You’re skinnier than I am!”

“Thanks a lot. You’re a real emotional support in my time of crisis.”

“Oh my god, stop, you’re gonna make me pee myself,” she gasps, clutching her stomach.

“Little shit. Go ahead and piss yourself, you baby.”

“Shut up. No, but seriously. Is this really happening?”

I open my mouth to answer, but I realize that I don’t know. Katya seemed to think this is a fate worse than death, but she at least implied she’s committed. I, for one, have to be there tomorrow morning no matter what. Just try it, Lian said. We’ll see. But you’re going to have to try .

“Are you going to tell Mom?” Alex asks.

Now there’s a concept. I think about all the times we’ve tried to have a conversation, about skating, about anything. Her asking me how practice went. Me pretending I’m not hanging on by a thread. She walks away, the end. Even if we were any good at communicating on a regular day, I don’t know if it’d be any different on this—maybe because it almost seems too good to be true?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m already wanting to run away screaming thinking about having to see that girl again, who for some reason seems to have me at the top of her hit list despite only knowing me for all of five minutes.

And I’m not excited about the prospect of having to learn a bunch of super-dangerous elements, either. I can hardly watch pairs, let alone try and do all the stuff they do. It’s madness. So is potentially having to do it right next to one of the best skaters in the world. But at the same time, what are the odds that I get handed the opportunity of a lifetime right when I’m told my career is over?

I may not be the most cautious person ever—very far from it, as my x-rays are sure to show—but there’s still too many what-ifs for my liking. I don’t want anyone excited, thinking I might have a comeback, just for everything to fall back apart.

“Um, I don’t know,” I say lightly. “You planning on sharing that pie, or what?”

“Look, you know Mom just—”

“Not now, alright?” I really can’t do this now . “Just…pass the pie.”

I ’m taking off my gloves and coat and shoes all over again, dropping my bags and shutting the door behind me—but this time it’s my apartment, and it’s not nearly as relaxing of a feeling.

I almost trip over the mountain of boxes by the door, the only decoration since I moved here after finally leaving Lian’s spare room almost three years ago. It’s embarrassing. I’ve got an Ikea couch and bed (no headboard), a flat-screen, plus a handful of spoons for the ice cream in the freezer. Alexandra flat-out refuses to come over.

I don’t spend a lot of time here, clearly. I’m at the rink all day, then head home to hang out with Alex before coming here to crash, and then I’m up at six to get back on the ice. And I can end up staying over at the Kwans’ anyway, so sometimes I don’t even sleep here. I’m lucky enough to get some grant money from AFSC for training and travel, but they’ve been gradually cutting me off. So I work Sundays at the Mexican place down the street serving wilted chips and guac to tourists, and I man the rink’s pro shop a couple of times a week when we get booted off to make room for the hockey guys.

It's exhausting. And I’m not exactly getting a lot out of all my running around, either, other than sleep deprivation. But I know it could still be worse. I could be not skating.

Which is what’s kept me going this long— it could be worse. I’m doing decent enough that I don’t completely lose hope, which is both good and bad: mostly because if there’s any bright side, I’ll pretty much ignore the rest until I blow up. In this case, though, it doesn’t seem so simple.

Do I want to keep skating? No shit. Do I want to prove to the AFSC that I deserve to be on the team, to Lian that she hasn’t wasted a decade on me, and to my family that I haven’t wasted my whole life (and all their money) only to fail?

Of course I do.

And by skating with Katya, I’d be securing my spot for the next year, at the very least. It’d be a do-over, sort of. A chance to start from the beginning, wipe the slate clean. Cross my fingers and hope for the best.

By “ hope for the best ” I mean put hundreds of hours of grueling work in per month, obviously. I’m not stupid. I know that, if I do this, there’s a big chance I’m going to be in for even more pressure, just because AFSC has a hell of a lot more riding on a potential gold medal for pairs next year than it does on a B-envelope skater. It’s kind of terrifying to think of potentially being above the fold. Having more people counting on me.

Speaking of which, what about Alex? What about our Bachelor nights and our dinners together? I don’t want to just cancel all our plans. I mean, I’m sure she’d be fine without her lame older brother tagging along all the time, but I like hanging out with her, especially since I don’t get to see her for weeks at a time during competition season.

I spit, rinsing my mouth, then open my phone again and put it on speaker. “Alex?”

“Who were you expecting when you called me, dumbass?”

I laugh, ruffling at my hair in the mirror. “And hello to you too, lovely little sister.”

I can practically hear her rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to say hi.”

“Liar.”

Like I said, she knows me way too well. “Fine. I was thinking about the offer, is all.”

“What about it?”

I frown. “What do you mean? I want your opinion.”

“There isn’t anything to think about. You’re dumb, but you’re not dumb enough to pass up this kind of an opportunity, right?”

I guess my hesitation is pretty obvious, because she repeats, “ Right?”

I sigh, pulling a box farther away from the door—the cardboard infestation apparently spread to the bathroom when I wasn’t looking. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a life.”

“Um, what life?”

“Excuse me ?”

“Am I wrong? It’s not like you have a girlfriend or anything to worry about getting jealous or whatever.”

“Gee, thanks.” I can’t believe my fifteen-year-old sister is able to roast me like this. I give up on the boxes, then grab my phone and take it off speaker, then go and plunk down on the corner of my sad headboard-less bed that’s almost as depressing as a high schooler being less pathetic than me. “ Yeah , sure, no girlfriend, but I do have you. And Mom and Dad, and a job—”

“Oh, please. Spare me. All you do is hang out with me and Oliver and Nina when you’re not training. Your so-called job earns ten bucks an hour. And as for Mom and Dad, when have they ever factored into your decisions?”

More than you know. “That’s not the point. I’ve been able to balance skating and everything else this far, but if I started trying for Worlds, for the freaking Olympics, I don’t know.”

“So?”

I huff. “What do you mean, so?”

“Come on, Bry. I love you, which is why I’m gonna be straight with you.”

“Oh, is that why? I thought you just liked bullying me.”

“Listen to me. You’re being a bit of a pussy.”

I scoff. “Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

“I know why you’re doing this, you know.”

“Oh, really? Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“You don’t want to abandon me.”

I stop short. Shit.

“I’m taking that as a yes.”

I wince. “Alexandra…”

She groans. “ Bryan . I’ll be fine.”

My throat’s getting tight. “How do you know?”

“Because it’s not how it was before you left. Mom’s fine. Dad, well, he’s as good as he can be. Alright? Things have gotten better. And, I mean, they were always kind of better for me anyway.”

She’s not wrong. And it doesn’t make me mad that she knows it—it does kind of make me sad, though. You shouldn’t ever have to feel like you have it better than your sibling when it comes to your parents. I feel like it might be just as bad knowing that you’re the favorite as it is knowing you’re not. Although it wasn’t even like that, exactly. I don’t think they ever actively liked her better than me. They just left her alone.

And because she’s so much younger than me, she doesn’t remember how things used to be. How he used to be.

“I don’t want to leave you again,” I tell her, my voice cracking a little. “I’m your brother.”

“And I’m your sister. And we’ve been over this, Bry. You needed to get out. I understood, alright? I was just…ten. I didn’t really get what was going on.”

I drag a hand over my face, grimacing at the reminder. “I know.”

“I, personally, would much rather have a brother with a shot at winning than one who stays home eating all my food. This way I can actually watch you skate on TV without being embarrassed.”

I can’t help it; I burst out laughing. “Shut up.”

“Yeah, right! You’re gonna need me to keep your ego in check when you get to the Olympics with this girl.”

I snort. “ When?” That’s very optimistic.

“Mm-hm.” There’s a clattering in the background. “I gotta go finish my homework, alright? Go call Lee.”

I exhale heavily. “Yeah.”

“Be more excited. This is gonna be good, I have a feeling.”

“Oh, like the good feeling you had when you brought home Francine the Raccoon?”

“I was nine!”

“And you still act like it.”

“Oh, shush. And don’t change the subject. I’m serious, okay? This is going to be good.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay.” I pause. “Hey, Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Love you, dumbass. Oh, and tell Katya I’m obsessed with her Les Mis.”

She clicks off before I can reply, leaving me with my finger hovering over Lian’s name.

Sometimes you get a weird feeling that something important is about to happen—and right now, my heart is beating way too fast for someone who’s only about to start a phone call. Fuck it . I heave a sigh and press the button.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sorry it’s late. I just wanted to say…” I take a deep breath. “Alright. I’ll do it.”