Page 122 of Oh, Flutz!

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

Istepped foot inmy old training center for the first time in over a year just a few weeks ago.

Everything is the same. The building, the sessions, the coaches, the students—everything looks and sounds exactly as I remember. So it should feel how I remember. Right?

I only wish it were that simple. Ithoughtit would be that simple.

Instead, I’m back in my old center, under my old coaches, in my old team, and it should feel like coming home. But it just feels like trying to put on an old pair of jeans you outgrew years ago. Tight, uncomfortable, and half of you is still hanging out because you can’t cram it in no matter how hard you try.

But I can get it to fit. I can.

Which is why I’m doing the test skate—a huge, high-profile exhibition of the country’s top skaters. The costume I’m wearing right now, a dusty grey dress with puff sleeves and burgundy detailing, feels uncannily like the metaphorical jeans—way too tight.

“What on earth have they been feeding you in the States, Ekaterina?” Tatyana asks, making a face as she pinches at the too-tight sheer mesh that I’ve been pulling at for the last ten minutes. “You’re lucky we didn’t have to get it let out. Just one more ounce and we would’ve.”

I swallow the embarrassment, feeling my face burn, trying to ignore Polina’s giggles.

“Enough,” Tatyana snaps, and I feel a rush of gratefulness. “Once you have Katya’s grace, then you can crack jokes.”

Polina’s cheeks go bright red, a stark contrast from her platinum blonde hair and milk-white skin.

“Oh, before I forget,” Tatyana says, handing my jacket over to one of her underlings. “You could learn a thing or two from Polina, I admit. That last quad combo, the Salchow-toe loop?”

I crease my brow. Is she going to ask me to triple it? It makes sense if she’s worried, considering it’s the jump that killed me last December and it was a bold move to even put it in here, but I’ve been landing it perfectly these last few weeks in practice. “I’ll be fine with it, don’t worry.”

“No, it’s not that. Skip the first quad, make it a triple. Add a triple toe to the combination. Make it three in a row.”

“What?” I blurt. The others stare at us in shock, confusion.Has she lost her mind?“I can’t do that.”

Tatyana huffs, irritation pinching her features. “Of course you can. You can do triple cascades in your sleep, it’s the same principle.”

“But that’s different. I can’t keep that kind of momentum up for a triple after two quad jumps—”

“Enough. Do it. You can, and you will, understand?”

I close my mouth, seeing all the coaches’ and the others’ eyes on me. Polina is trying very poorly to hide a smirk, and Anna glances at me, biting at her hangnail nervously. But Tatyana knows me better than I do sometimes. If she thinks I can do it, then I can. I will.

“Yes,” I say.

Tatyana nods in approval, then makes atsknoise, pulling at a strand of my faded ponytail. “As soon as this is over, we color your hair red again. I don’t know why you let this happen, it looks like dirty dishwater.”

The second I stepout onto the ice, people start clapping and calling my name, even before they announce me.

“Nash sleduyushchiy figurist, Ekaterina Andreyeva.”

“Idi,Katya!” people scream, and I force myself to shove away the worries and break into a smile, waving up at the crowds, and they cheer in response, those with banners and posters waving them furiously.

Breathe. In. Out.The program isn’t new. This is my Les Misérables program from two seasons ago, because there wasn’t any time to learn a new one and Tatyana didn’t want to remind people of the last time I skated to myMasqueradeprogram. This is fine. I’m only swapping out the quad Salchow for a quad combination. It doesn’t matter that it’s three jumps. It’s just a combination.

I take one last lap, shaking out my hands, doing some power pulls.In. Out.

“Pokazhi im, dorogusha!”

I close my eyes tight.In. Out. In. Out.

I stick my right toe pick into the ice behind me, almost in a curtsy position, arms out, head bowed down to face the ice.

“The Convent” starts playing over the speakers, and the echoing, unsettling sounds of the choir direct the beginning choreography. As it starts building into the lead vocals, so does my speed, and I race into my opening element, a triple Lutz-triple toe combination with arms over my head—landed. I ignore the rush of relief and plow forward up until the triple Axel, then the connecting steps that lead into the step sequence. Then comes the layback spin, and the second step sequence.

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