Chapter Seven

KATYA

I gasp, only nothing comes out—not entirely surprising, because I’ve just been dropped onto my stomach from ten feet in the air onto all-too-thin mats. My ribcage feels uncannily like a pancake.

“Oh, shoot—are you okay?”

It’s not nearly as bad as it could be (and probably nothing compared to the equivalent on the ice), but I’m so shocked from getting my lungs whacked like a pi?ata that I don’t answer right away.

“Katya?” Lian asks, starting to come over, but I put a hand up, struggling to my knees.

“I’m fine,” I say, then turn to look up at the boy who’s maddeningly taller than I am, even leaning over with his hand stretched out. The anger flares up, and I smack it aside, getting up on my own and ignoring the pain gripping my solar plexus.

“What the hell?”

“I could ask you the same,” I hiss.

Bryan furrows his brow. “My hand slipped. I’m sorry, alright? It was an accident.”

“I don’t care,” I say, slowly and clearly to make sure he understands me perfectly. “Don’t do it again.”

“It’s not like I did it on purpose.” He seems almost offended. Then he crosses his arms across his t-shirt-clad chest. “Although I understand why you’d think that.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That it’s not that hard to want to drop you, is all. I’m glad you’re self-aware.”

I let out a sound that sounds uncannily like Old Masha, the stray cat that’s lived in Dedushka’s backyard since before we can remember, and I’m glad to see Bryan’s eyes go wide as he rears back.

Lian blares a bullhorn she’s summoned out of nowhere, and I nearly jump out of my skin, a little embarrassed when I realize she’s just played a sound effect on her phone. “Do I need to go over there?” she threatens.

“Did you see that? She just hissed at me!”

“ Mudak ,” I mutter.

“What, no more hissing? Are you one of those cat girls or something?”

“Hey!” Lian yells out, her voice piercing through the air like a knife, and just as deadly. “Focus. Do it again.”

Bryan shoots me a death glare as we both face each other, and I smile sweetly, firing him a middle finger now that my back is to the woman who’s likely regretting her idea more with every passing minute.

I’m alright with that. Seeing how incompatible we are with each other might actually convince her that trying to force me into a partnership isn’t such a good idea, and then I’ll finally be left alone.

“I hope you eat shit,” I whisper.

“Why don’t we find you a nice litter box first?”

“On three,” Lian calls.

“Screw you,” I murmur before turning my back to him, and I hear him laugh softly.

“Yeah, okay. Hold on tight.”

And before Lian’s even started the count, before I realize what he’s doing, he dives under me, launching me into the air, and I let out an inhuman shriek; nearly tipping forwards over his head, and I’m barely able to grab onto him in time to save myself. Even after that, I almost fall back down and it’s a fight to get myself back up, digging my knee into his shoulder.

“What the fuck? ” I scream down at him, once my grip is secure enough, and Lian looks like she’s about to hit him.

“Put her down!” she bellows, and he does. I’m still dizzy, my heart pounding.

“Do you have any idea what could’ve just happened if she didn’t catch herself in time, jackass?” Lian demands, serene features contorted with fury. “Get your act together, both of you! You’re world class athletes. Act like it. This is business .”

I glare up at Bryan, but instead of cussing him out I keep my mouth shut. Lian is right, even if it’s not my fault he’s such a child. I’m getting the feeling I’m going to have to lower my standards if I want to win this.

Lian takes a deep breath, the red slowly draining out of her face. “We’re back on the ice in ten minutes. By then I expect perfect behavior from both of you. Oh, and Bryan?”

His face flushes pink in anticipation, like a child in trouble.

“Try that again, and I’m calling Heffner and telling him you’re done. I don’t care how much I love you and want you to succeed, and I don’t care what your problem is with each other, or if she started it. You do not mess around like that. You’re going to be holding her fucking life in your hands every day. You do not mess with that trust.” Lian looks at both of us, stare hard as metal. “And if this is going to work, you’re going to need that trust.”

I bite my tongue, fighting the urge to look at the boy next to me, whose jaw is clenched so tightly it’s making a perfect ninety-degree angle.

Lian eyes us. “Are we in agreement?”

I can’t help it; I glance back at him. He’s already looking at me, blue eyes round and resigned.

He doesn’t take them off me as he nods.

There’s no way out other than through. At least for now.

I nod back.

“ D amn it!”

“Just hold it a little longer!” Lian shouts from the boards, and I clench my teeth, my neck straining, curving my back while my stomach stays flat on top of Bryan’s hands in a platter lift. This is the first moving lift we’ve done, and even though he’s gliding at a snail’s pace, it still feels like he’s going too fast. Going quickly with your feet only separated from the ground by a few inches is one thing. When you’re separated by over six feet, and you have to keep both legs up in the air and try not to look down, it’s another feeling entirely.

“I’m trying,” he returns, clearly struggling, because I can feel it in his hold, in the shaky bumps. Although you wouldn’t know it to look at him, he does seem to be trying—as troubling as it is that this is him trying . Since we got on the ice, neither of us have said more than two words to each other, as I don’t think either of us want to be yelled at again. At least this way I don’t get a headache from his whiny voice. He hasn’t dropped me again, either.

“You got it, Bry!” the blonde assistant coach cheers from next to Lian, and Bryan lets out a laugh.

Juliet, I think her name was. She seems very sweet, although far too touchy-feely—when Lian introduced us yesterday she immediately dove into a hug that I had to awkwardly extract myself from. I vaguely recognize her, but she must have retired a while ago. In all likelihood, she quit before I even hit the senior level, because she looks to be in her late twenties. Although this is America, so who knows. Their skating committee has a nasty habit of letting their skaters outstay their welcome. The boy below me right now is a prime example.

“Okay, you can put her down now,” Lian calls.

“Gently,” I hiss, and I’m sure he’s rolling his eyes at me again. He doesn’t reassure me or anything, just shifts his hand under me to grip my waist before flipping me over and lowering me back onto my feet. It’s a little wobbly, and he lets go a little too soon, leaving me to land roughly the last few inches. But I stick it, and I pull him back by the hand so he gets close enough to continue into the step sequence we’ve been practicing since we started this session.

It's ridiculous how easy it is. Simple turns, crossovers—but now I have another person stuck on me like a mold infestation, and Lian’s insisting we do it over and over, until we get it perfect.

She nods in what might be approval. “Better,” she calls, as we move past her and through the steps. “Remember to stay close together. Flow. You look like you’re trying to push each other away.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. Seriously?

Lian narrows her own at me. “And on that note, quit it with the eye rolling. That applies to both of you. Believe me, I’d rather you both be in singles too, it’s easier to deal with one little bitch at a time. But the powers that be have other ideas.”

Bryan nudges me. “Hear that? We’re Little Bitches One and Two now.”

I swallow the ridiculous urge to smile. He isn’t funny. “Glad to hear we have formal titles.”

“I know both of you think this is too easy for you,” our coach continues. “But it’s not going to be this simple making the switch to pairs. There’s the technical aspects and increased training, obviously, but I know you both can handle that. It’s everything else I’m worried about.”

Bryan beats me to the question. “Like what?”

“Like…artistry. And partner dynamics.”

Is it my imagination, or did she look specifically at me when she said that?

“We’re going to be doing team-building exercises along with ballet and other off-ice training. Most pairs teams now focus on strength, but judges like the pretty stuff, and the fans like drama.”

“I think we can provide that,” Bryan mumbles darkly.

“Not that kind of drama. People like pairs that like each other, ones with tension.”

Oh, absolutely not. I know what she’s saying, and it’s not happening, not while I still have anything to say about it . I cross my arms. “Can I clarify that there’s no chance I pretend to date him?”

Bryan’s eyes blow wide, like he hadn’t realized that’s what Lian was implying. “Oh, hell no! No way!”

“I don’t mean dating, necessarily. Just don’t look like you want to hit each other all the time. Besides, it’s common enough for partners to be involved; what people really like is the will-they, won’t-they . You don’t have to,” Lian emphasizes, before I can open my mouth. “It’s just something to keep in mind.”

Bryan snorts. “Sure. Let me think. Hm, no.”

I raise a gloved hand. “I second that.” I turn to the boy standing next to me. “It’s not like anyone would believe it, after all.”

The corner of his mouth lifts into yet another insufferable smirk. “Why? Because I’m so out of your league?”

I smile back at him in a way that I hope conveys how much I want to rip that smirk off and put it into a blender. “Like I said. I don’t think it will happen.”

Lian shrugs, clearly not bothering anymore. “Do whatever you want. But on the ice, and in front of the media, you two are a united front, alright? You’re gonna have to get damn good at pretending, because the last thing I need is an AFSC publicist hassling me about its new couple being an absolute press disaster. I have other things on my mind. Like getting the two of you to Nationals in a year.” She grimaces at the reminder of our deadline.

“The Olympics,” Bryan and I both correct at once, then side-eye each other. Mudak , I think contemptuously, even though we’re agreeing.

Lian sighs heavily. “I need more coffee.”

I t's one o'clock when we get forced off the ice to make way for the hockey team, which I guess explains the break for lunch being so long.

I peel my sweat-soaked black jacket off, replacing it with the identical replacement I’d packed into my duffel bag—almost everything I own is dark athleisure, which I realized when I had to pack all of my things. Mikhail and Anna may have had a point with all those increasingly desperate attempts at getting me to buy anything other than black. “Katenka, please ? You dress like your life is a funeral!” they’d cry, and try to hold me down while forcing primary colors on me—if they had it their way, my closet would look more like a seven-year-old girl’s, or maybe a clown’s.

No matter. At least this way I don’t have to worry about sweat stains. Or about looking like a clown.

I pull an oversized sweatshirt over my head, tugging my freshly redone bun free as it gets caught. Then I square my shoulders, shrug my bag strap on, and push my way back through the door of the locker room. There must be some kind of snack bar situation around here. Hell, I’ll settle for a vending machine.

“Hey, wait up!”

I stop short. Mudak , I think automatically, already grinding my teeth at the sound of that obnoxious, grating, impossibly irritating voice.

I ignore him, and keep walking, but the downside of being short is that people (namely freakishly tall people) can catch up pretty quickly. Sure enough, within two quick strides Bryan is walking next to me, hands stuffed in his vest pockets.

“Hey,” he says, with far too much enthusiasm for someone who’s just spent the entire morning purposefully pissing me off.

“Hi,” I mutter, purely because I have no other option, continuing the charge ahead even though I have no idea where I’m going. I’m not about to slow down for him. Or give him any kind of encouragement to keep talking to me.

Apparently, and unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to need any. “Where you headed off to?”

“The pits of hell.”

“Now that I can believe.” He pivots and starts walking backwards, facing me. “Although I have a sneaking suspicion that you’re looking for food.”

“I would be impressed, if it weren’t our lunch break.”

Bryan just cracks that big grin. “Lucky guess.”

I huff at his idiocy and push through the doors.

“Do you even know where you’re going?”

“Of course,” I lie.

He raises an eyebrow. “Right. Well, since you clearly know all the best spots around here, I guess I’ll follow you.”

That is the exact opposite of what I want him to do, and from the smug look on his stupid face, he knows it. I don’t need to eat that badly, do I? I could stand to lose some weight to help me out with the quads.

He's practically skipping along next to me as I stop suddenly, confronted with a stampede of small children clomping around in rental skates. Two of them giggle hysterically as they push each other around, tripping a third child in the process, who falls on top of another, and I have to jump out of the way of the domino effect before it knocks into me. My horror must show on my face, because Bryan snorts before catching himself, still barely smothering a laugh.

“Um…I think maybe you should come with me. There’s a shortcut. Which reminds me, I should probably give you a tour of this place.”

I don’t know whether he means the arena or the town, and I don’t care enough to ask. “Shortcuts are for the weak,” I mutter, starting to edge my way through the crush of six-year-olds. It’s like trying to walk through extremely loud and unhygienic quicksand, and I wince as a boy wipes his runny nose with a hand, then touches my leg as he pushes past, leaving a white smear against my pants. Oh, for god’s sake. Today can’t get worse.

“Suit yourself,” Bryan calls out. “I’m going around.”

I grumble a few choice words under my breath, then turn and stomp after him.

“ T here's a bunch of good places right around here. It’s cold, but it’s just a couple blocks down. You up for a walk?”

I snort as we weave through the people milling around in the lobby. “Please. I’m Russian.”

“Right, I forgot, zee long hard winter ,” Bryan mocks, with the most ridiculous fake accent I’ve ever heard. “So? What are you in the mood for?”

“Winning,” I say flatly, pushing through the last set of doors, the cold hitting me like a smack in the face—more so from the change in temperature than the temperature itself. It is a good bit colder here than back in St. Petersburg, though still far warmer than Moscow. The one upside of having spent the last few weeks away is that I don’t have to worry about the ice being too cold to skate on, which, yes, is actually possible.

So is everything in this town being within walking distance, considering Lake Placid is, well, tiny. I came here once for a competition years ago, but I’d forgotten how idyllic it was—the oaken buildings, the snow-capped roofs, the twinkly lights draped down Main Street and the mountains overlooking the lake; with couples and small children walking around in winter wear and holding cups of steaming coffee and cocoa. The whole town looks like one big ski lodge, in the best way possible. The Olympic Center is smack in the middle of downtown, easily recognizable from the legion of flags painting bright colors against the snow.

I’d like it here, actually. Under literally any other circumstances.

We trudge through the snow, which has already coated the plowed pathway in a slush that crunches under every step.

“Wow,” he drawls, in response to my answer. “You really are everything people say you are.”

I almost laugh out loud. Does he really think he’s the first to think I’m a bitch? Even the commentators figure out ways to “politely” mention my reputation. I’m used to it. I don’t care anymore.

The brown-haired boy across from me—no, not brown. Well, not exactly blonde, either, but some shade of dark gold that looks almost like when you leave a tea bag in for too long. Either way, he looks somewhere between highly annoyed and highly entertained by my refusal to play along with his jokes.

“Fine. Other than winning ,” Bryan says pointedly, “what do you want? Italian? Sushi? Bowls? There’s everything around here. Mexican, too, but I wouldn’t recommend the place down the street unless you like your stale chips with a side of explosive diarrhea. Trust me, I work there, and I have to clean it up when I draw the short straw.”

I make a gagging noise. “ Please just keep walking.”

That fucking smile. It’s going to be the death of me.

L ots of trudging later, we’re standing in a little restaurant. Bryan had perked up as soon as I’d pointed it out across the street from where we were standing, after my Uggs were starting to get too wet and squelchy for my liking and the growling in my stomach was getting to a volume too loud to ignore.

Once we’re inside, we both beeline for the pre-made section, where I pick out the first smoothie I see—juice is pointless, all sugar and no nutrients—and set it down on the checkout counter.

Bryan’s holding a stack of wrapped packages. He looks at my smoothie, then back up at me. “That all you’re gonna eat?”

“What, are you the meal police?”

He shrugs. “Just saying. Lian’s going to work our asses even harder when we get back. You’re going to want to have something in your stomach.”

I waggle the smoothie, liquid sloshing. “That’s what this is for.”

“You should really eat something else.”

“And who are you to tell me what to do?”

“Your partner. Sort of,” he adds quickly, before I can scoff and correct his assumption. “Anyway, Lian always says you should eat a double breakfast before practice, and I’m guessing you didn’t?”

I give him a withering look. “Again with the spectacular guesses.” I’d had half a protein bar from the stash I’d brought from home—I really am going to cry once I run out of them, it’s highly unlikely I’ll be able to find the brand here. Back home, we weren’t supposed to eat too much before training. Our first sessions were at five A.M. and you’d quickly get sick if you had a full stomach.

Bryan swipes his curls out of his face, leaning against the refrigerator case in a way that makes me wonder if he knows how absolutely ridiculous he is. He’s like if a golden retriever puppy were given human form and a contract with Abercrombie. Oblivious, he taps his fingers on the glass, looking hopefully back at me. “The food’s good here, I promise. It won’t give you salmonella or anything. They’ve got sandwiches, and the chicken wrap is bomb , unless you’re vegetarian, in which case they have this lentil thing that—”

“Alright!” The annoyance in my voice doesn’t faze him, just makes his smile spread bigger. He must really get a kick out of driving me absolutely crazy, which is made even more clear by the fact that he doesn’t move out of the way to let me get to the food he’s so dead set on me eating.

“You’re in the way.”

He gives me a who, me? expression, not making any moves to get out of it.

“Let me through,” I say, irritability creeping into my tone again, and this asshole just shifts to block the door even more.

“Would it kill you to say please?”

“To you, yes. What are you, three years old? Move out of my way,” I say, making a dive for the handle behind his back, and he moves to block me.

“You should really say please, sunshine,” Bryan whispers, and he’s so close to me I can feel his breath on my nose, so close I can hear the catch in it as I lean in slightly. I don’t miss how his eyes widen as I catch my lip between my teeth.

“You know,” I whisper back, “I’ve never been very good at that.”

Then I elbow him in the ribs, which gets him out of the way.

I put a plastic salad container down on the register. Bryan grumbles something, rubbing at where I’d gotten him, then groans when he sees what I picked out.

“What?” I snap.

“Bo-ring!” he sings out, and I really am so close to slapping him.

The cashier looks awkwardly between us. “Um, that’ll be seventeen twenty-five.”

I reach for my wallet, but when I glance back up Bryan’s already swiped.

“On me. Now you owe me one.”

“I don’t owe you anything, mudak ,” I inform him, and Bryan shakes his head sorrowfully, the self-satisfaction still clear on his face.

“So ungrateful.” He turns to look at the cashier. “See what I have to deal with?”

“You are absolutely impossible .” I grab my salad and my smoothie and turn to go back outside, but he takes my arm again to stop me. I whip around, looking down at his hand, lightly tanned against my sweater sleeve. “Will you quit grabbing me?”

His hand flies off, like he hadn’t realized he’d done it. “Sorry. Um. Do you wanna sit down?”

I squint at him. “Will you continue pestering me until I say yes?”

He flashes me that crooked grin that never seems to leave his face for long. “Yes.”

Like I said. Impossible.

We sit down at a corner table, and unpack our food in silence. He peers over at my salad as I pour the dressing over it. Only because it’d be like chewing horse food otherwise. Might as well treat myself, right?

“What’d you get?”

“A salad,” I deadpan, and his glare is so childish that I have to smother a laugh. “Spinach and quinoa.”

He gags. “So—so healthy ,” he gasps, and I kick him under the table.

“Ow,” he says, even though I seriously doubt he even felt it. He might be skinny for a supposed pairs skater, but those standards are much higher than those for regular people. Meaning he’s definitely not skinny compared to the other guys in this place. Like, at all.

Still, I don’t care about normal standards, because I’m above that, so it doesn’t matter. I stop staring at his forearms.

“That’s not very nice,” he says.

“Whatever. You should learn to be healthy, too,” I reply, eyeing his sandwich and chips.

“Excuse me, I am very healthy. And this hits all the food groups.”

“Fruit?” I ask dubiously, and he peels off the top bread slice and shows me the tomato as proudly as a father showing off his child’s picture. Or grandfather.

“Healthy,” he repeats triumphantly, just as he starts piling chips onto his sandwich.

I crease my brow, watching in utter confusion. “What on earth are you doing?”

“You’ve never had chips on your sandwich?” He looks so appalled; you’d think I’d just killed his puppy. “Here, try it.” He holds out his sandwich.

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Like I said. I never kid. Try it, it won’t kill you.”

“I think it actually might.”

“Okay, fine. More for me.” A dare is in his eyes, and I’m tempted to do it just to prove him wrong, but I contain myself. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone. That knowledge is the only thing that’s kept me sane these last few years. At least it was when I was the best, and even second-best. Now I’m going to have to gain everyone’s respect all over again.

The thought makes me nauseous. I push away my barely-touched salad, bouncing my fork between my fingers. “Is this really why you’re following me around like a little dog? To learn what my eating habits are like?”

Bryan’s grin is packaged neatly in the box it sprung out from, stowed away, expression so serious you’d never have guessed he was just goading me into taking a bite out of his sandwich monstrosity. He puts said sandwich down. “No,” he says. “I…I wanted to figure this out.”

I crease my brow. “Figure what out? How quickly you can get on my nerves?”

He huffs a sigh, running a hand through his sandy curls a bit aggressively. “No. I’m trying to figure you out. Whether we’re actually going to do this thing.”

Me? “Is that supposed to be a pick-up line?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Andreyeva. You’re damn hard to read, is all. I mean—” he scoffs. “Clearly you’re not happy about this whole situation. I’m not either, for the record. You obviously don’t want to skate with me. But I have a feeling you kind of need to.”

I stiffen. “Don’t flatter yourself,” I mock. “I don’t need you.” Or anyone else, for that matter. “You’re a washed-up has-been who cares more about his hair than his sport.”

A hand automatically flies back up to his head, and he brings it down, flushing. He opens his mouth to protest, but clamps it shut. “That’s not what I meant, alright? Lian told me that you needed to sign with Team USA if you wanted to keep skating. And the AFSC told me that the only way they’re keeping me on is if I do this trial period with you.” He lifts his gaze, focusing his blue eyes on mine. He has ridiculously long lashes for a boy. It’s totally unfair. What is he going to use those for? Adding to his puppy-dog gaze? Ridiculous . I ignore the uneasy feeling I get from his stare. He looks so…sincere.

“Katya, I need this,” he says simply. “So I need to know if you’re going to say yes or not. Because if you’re going to fight with the AFSC until they let you do your thing, I need to start cutting my losses.”

I bite my lip. I’m being backed into a corner here, and I suppose dragging the confirmation out is just my way of squeezing out as much control as possible, showing these people that they can’t blackmail me—but it doesn’t make a difference. Not really.

“Anyway,” Bryan says suddenly, popping a Dorito into his mouth. “I know something about you.”

I blink, lifting my smoothie bottle back to my lips. “Oh yeah?” I ask, monotone. “What’s that?”

It’s like a game at this point. Katya Bingo —what names am I going to be called this time? What will this boy choose? So many options. Rude? Callous? A bitch? A whore? Rumors used to circulate that I’d given the French judge at Worlds two years ago a blowjob, and that’s how I’d caused an upset and beaten Polina—of course it wouldn’t have anything to do with her under-rotating every jump and screwing up some way on half her elements. Not at all. The only reason she’d even gotten second place was because of the sheer number of quads in her program, which compensated for most of her mistakes.

We all knew who’d started that rumor. She’d cried at the medals ceremony, getting the audience to feel sorry for her, then leaned into my ear after she’d wiped her crocodile tears and whispered, “You might have won, but we all know how, you slut,” just loud enough for poor Kanna Saito on the other side of me to widen her eyes in shock.

Bryan widens his eyes too, and I’m brought back into the present just because I’m struck once again by how ridiculously long his lashes are, even as I’m bracing for his next words—not that I care. I’ve heard it all before, and from people whose opinions matter more to me than this nobody boy.

“You’re secretly an alien.”

I choke on my smoothie. “ What?”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense! How else do you explain five years in the top two slots in the world?”

I quickly get over my shock and roll my eyes. “How about intense training? Hard work? Perseverance?” I deadpan. “Although you probably don’t know what those words mean.”

“I don’t think I can even spell perseverance.”

I let out a laugh despite myself, and Bryan pretends to faint, sliding halfway out of his chair. “Lord have mercy. She can laugh!”

I roll my eyes. “Shut up.”

“No, I need evidence, hold on.” He pulls out his phone, and I dive for it, but he’s a lot stronger than me and is able to keep a grip on it long enough to click furiously on the shutter. “Oh, that’s a good one,” he says giddily, and turns it back towards me so I get a good look at the monstrosity of a photo—somehow both totally blurry and absolutely hideous, with my hair flying and an awful snarl on my face.

I grumble a few choice words, stabbing at a spinach leaf. “Don’t think I’ll drop the fact that you looked me up.”

He shrugs, putting his phone away in his sweatpants pocket. “Of course I did. And, I mean, I already knew a lot of it.” He pokes my leg with his foot. “You’re kind of famous, in case you missed the memo. Plus, you looked me up, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did.”

“There you go.”

“Your resume is a lot less impressive than mine.”

“Wow, thanks.”

I swallow the bite of salad. “It’s just the truth. You haven’t won anything since your last Junior Nationals. What I really want to know is how you’ve managed to avoid execution this long.”

His jaw is a little tighter than it was a minute ago. “Good question.”

I eye him. “You won’t answer?”

He laughs lowly. “Nope.”

I smile. ‘You’re a coward.”

He cocks his head, looking at me, wary, almost confused. I can’t really tell what he’s thinking. He clears his throat, popping another chip in his mouth. “You really aren’t very nice, are you?”

Good grief. It's so cute that people—men, mostly—think it crushes me every time they don’t like me. It’s like they expect me to fall over and die any time one of them calls me rude or unladylike. Tatyana never tried to make me be nicer to those idiots—it always amused her when I made a reporter blush—and everyone else had given up after the first try. Sure, they’d gripe about how it isn’t that hard to smile every once in a while, but they’d back off when they saw how good I am. They’d leave me alone, as long as I kept my place at the top. At least that’s what I thought.

I shove these thoughts away. Wanting to be liked is the only surefire way of getting yourself hurt, and I have enough injuries already from my sport. I force a nonchalant shrug and reach for my smoothie. “I guess that’s your fault for expecting me to be.”

He looks at me again, in that way I can’t decipher. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “I guess it is.”