Page 12 of Oh, Flutz!

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

I’m taking off mygloves 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—itcould 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?”

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