Chapter Forty-Nine

KATYA

THE NEXT DAY

I pull frantically at the skirt of my Top Gun short program costume, which got massively wrinkled on the flight.

“Shit,” I hiss, hearing the announcer declare the scores of the pair that just went on. I turn to Bryan, who’s been standing silently next to me brooding all morning, but right now I don’t care. “Is it noticeable?”

He doesn’t look at me. “It’s fine.”

“You didn’t even look.”

“Katya, I don’t give a shit, alright?”

“You’ll give a shit when they duck our artistic scores for a messy costume. It’s sloppy. It looks like we don’t care.”

“Do we?” he asks ironically, and I glare daggers at him.

“You’re impossible.”

“This coming from you?”

I shake my head. “I don’t even know why I try.”

He’s silent for a second, frustration radiating off of him. He’s so determined to not talk to me that I’m about to give up—we’re about to go on, it might be better to save any distractions for later, anyway—but then he finally glances back, eyes burning. “You know, if you really gave a shit, you never would have let this happen in the first place.”

He cannot be serious. “You want to do this now ?” I hiss, and he scoffs.

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Because we can’t keep ignoring it, not because I figured we should have this conversation right before we go out there.”

“That’s right, I forgot. Everything is on your terms, all the time. Katya Andreyeva only does things when she feels like it. Katya Andreyeva doesn’t give a shit about how her actions affect other people. Katya Andreyeva doesn’t give a shit about other people, period.”

The hurt sinks in my chest like a rock. “That’s not true,” is all I can get out, voice pathetically small. He can’t possibly think that. Everyone else can think it, but not him. Please not him.

The look in those eyes just adds insult to injury. I don’t think he knows just how much power he has over me.

“You up and left in all of five minutes.” His voice is cold. Hard. The normal sunshine’s gone stormcloud grey, and his sea-blue eyes are frozen over. Any other time, he’d be trying to get as far away from me as possible. Right now, we don’t have that option. He tightens his grip.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I say, loudly, because I need him to understand this. Why doesn’t he understand it? Why can’t he see why I did it? Why can’t he see that I did it for him?

“Sure you did. You chose to leave. Abandon me, just like everybody else.”

“Stop,” I demand, because I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know how else to get him to stop saying this. “You know that’s not true. You know I—”

“From the United States of America, Ekaterina Andreyeva and Bryan Young!”

We switch on our smiles. Switch off everything else.

Once the music starts, it’s like nothing ever happened—we’re doing some of our best work yet, moving in perfect unison, executing a flawless quad twist and throw triple Lutz; Bryan holding me straight over his head in the lasso lift and flipping me downwards to get more points for difficulty of exit.

Then the music shifts, meaning it’s almost time for the quad toe-triple toe combination. We step together, crossing backwards, then letting go and spacing apart. I slam my left pick into the ice behind me; one, two, three, four—and before I know what’s happening, I’m coming down too far back on my blade and pain is shooting up from the base of my spine, so burning hot that I can’t even try to save the landing, leaving me sprawling out on the ice.

Fuck, fuck, fuck —I push myself up, ignoring the sting on my hands, then do a shitty double toe to compensate so at least I can catch up. But by the time I do, and we’re skating hand in hand again, I realize something else.

“I can’t feel my leg.”

“What?”

“I said I can’t feel my leg,” I repeat, and his eyes go round.

“Don’t freak out,” I warn in vain, blindly turning on my numb foot, keeping my smile stable so no one notices something’s wrong.

“Don’t freak out?” Bryan half-yelps with his face turned away from the crowd, his usual stage expression sliding back into place every time he turns to face them. Some hysterical part of me wants to laugh at how psychopathic this is.

I prepare for the next jump combination, spreading my hands out and glancing behind me, but out of nowhere Bryan grabs my waist, swinging me around and guiding me into more footwork instead.

“What the—”

“Just listen to me. We do the pair spin, then some ice dance stuff— just, go along with whatever I do.”

“Are you insane? We can’t just—”

“Just shut up and listen to me for once in your life. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” is all I can say. There isn’t anything else to say.

Thankfully, there’s less than twenty seconds on the clock and the spin is on my left foot, so once we get out of it I let myself go limp, follow what Bryan does, let him carry me the rest of the way. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the judges frowning over the program sheet, trying to figure out why the hell the last quarter has gone out the window. Every instinct drilled into me by my coaches to never, ever deviate from the program is screaming at me. We’re risking everything right now. I can feel the podium slipping further from our grasp with every passing second.

I’m going to kill him when this is over.

But I keep my mouth shut, and he picks me back up in his arms, spinning us around. Then he puts me down, and somehow without even telling each other we both dive into a lunge, sliding into our end position just as it’s over.

I heave a sigh of relief, but before I can open my mouth to say anything, like, how bad do you think this is going to be, or, what were you thinking, jackass , Bryan picks me up again and starts rushing us to the boards. “Medic!”

“Bryan, I’m fine—” I try, but he shoves past the gaggle of coaches and cameramen so confused they haven’t even pounced on potential drama yet, swinging me back and forth, people dodging my flying blades.

“I need a medic!” he shouts.

Lian pushes through the crowd, worry creasing her features. “What happened? Katya?”

“I’m fine,” I say again, although, even though Bryan’s grip on my back is gentle, it’s still pressing in all the wrong places. I keep a whimper locked in my throat. I’m fine. I’ve skated through sprains, hairline fractures. I’m fine .

Someone directs us to a foldout cot, cameras finally starting to crowd around us, and Bryan lays me down as carefully as if I were glass. Something leaps into my throat at the gesture. I flick my gaze back to him, and he hesitates before averting his eyes.

I guess I’m still not forgiven.

“Where does it hurt?” the medic asks me, probing at my leg, and I shake my head, trying to focus.

“It’s just a little numb.” I make the mistake of wincing when the man’s fingers press down again a little more forcefully, and Bryan glares at me. “Fine. When I landed the jump, I felt it in my back. I thought it would hurt more but it doesn’t. I can’t feel much of anything in my leg.”

“Could she be—is she going to be okay to walk?” Bryan asks, voice cracking.

Oh, god.

“I’ll be fine,” I say quickly, to him, then turn to the medic. “Right?”

The man ignores me, and my pathetic attempts at reassurance. “Any history of numbness? Back issues?”

I hesitate. “Um.”

Lian nods curtly, and Bryan clenches his jaw.

“The feeling’s coming back,” I mumble.

“Turn over on your stomach, please.”

I oblige, and he prods at my lower back. “Anything?”

“No, not rea— owowow —” Pain suddenly bursts from where he’s poking with his claws, and I jerk away, trying to sit up, only that just makes it a hundred times worse, and my whole back and leg feel like they’re on fire. I gasp, instinctively grabbing my partner’s hand, holding on for dear life.

“Well, I definitely feel it now,” I grit out, my grip tightening around his wrist, and Lian bites back a smile despite the worried furrow between her brows.

The medic leans back, packing away his kit. “You’d have to get an x-ray to take a closer look, but it’s most likely aggravation of previous injury that led to a pinched nerve. I wouldn’t worry about it. Sciatica can lead to partial numbness in the lower extremities.”

“What about the free skate?” we all ask immediately. The man isn’t fazed. He’s probably used to feral athletes in his line of work.

“Like I said, I wouldn’t worry about it. Stay off your feet as long as is humanly possible—no practice sessions—and you should be fine for tomorrow. Bed rest would be ideal.”

“No practice sessions? You’re kidding, right?” I turn to Lian. “That’s stupid. I’ll be fine.”

The look on my coach’s face is far from promising. My stomach sinks. “Please don’t tell me you agree.”

I look over at Bryan, and we both realize at the same time I’m still holding his hand. He rips it away like I’m burning him.

I swallow hard, looking up to Lian, flexing my hand and wiping it on the bench. It doesn’t do any good. “Fine.”