Page 133 of Oh, Flutz!

I let out a hideous cackle. “I missed you too, Sasha.”

“Whoa. Felix Skorniakov retired?”

I hear the shock in Bryan’s voice as I walk into the break room, where he’s lying on the floor looking at his phone, Juliet braiding his hair absentmindedly.

“I’m not surprised. He got his girlfriend pregnant. He’ll probably get a really well-paying coaching job, something stable. I knew him ages ago when I competed; he’s that kinda guy.”

“She’s right,” I say, making everyone jump at the sound of my voice. “Felix is nothing if not righteous.”

Bryan makes a thoughtful noise, propping his chin on his hand. “Still. It’s wild. Wasn’t he pretty much guaranteed a medal at Helsinki next month?”

“Yeah, he was. His brother Vanya and the Brewer kid aren’t old enough. This was supposed to be his last chance. I assume he just…” I stop before I can say,he knew what was important.Because that is the last thing anyone wants to hear from me. I clear my throat. “It was all over the tabloids. I would’ve thought you’d heard about it.”

“You know, I don’t believe much of anything I hear these days,” he says, glancing up to look at me. He’s finally smiling at me now, wide and flat. It isn’t a real one.

“I’m gonna…go,” Juliet murmurs, clearly sensing trouble, and leaves the two of us to deal with it. It’s funny how everyone seems to be doing that, running like we’re a bomb ready to blow.

My partner looks back down at the floor, pulling his bag up and starting to put on his skates.

“Bryan.” I have to fight to keep my voice steady. “Look at me.”

He keeps his stare fixed on the ground, fingers picking at the knot of his laces.

I hate this. Ihateit. I hate how it makes my chest clench up and my throat get tight. I hate that we don’t talk. I hate that I keep pretending things are normal. I hate that he can’t even look in my direction when we’re not on the ice. I hate that he’s barely spoken two words to me in the last week. I hate that this is all my fault.

I step closer, and he draws in on himself like a turtle, shoulders tensing. “Bryan.”

He’s still fumbling with the knot. He’s still not looking at me. “Shit,” he mumbles, and I have to pretend I don’t see his hands shaking.

“Yasha, talk to me,” and it comes out like I’m begging. I guess I am.

“Don’t call me that.”

“I—”

“Isaiddon’t call me that,” he says angrily, head snapping up, laces forgotten, red-rimmed glaring eyes finally meeting my own pathetically teary ones. “Jesus, Katya, why can’t you just leave me alone? Isn’t that what you’re good at?”

He pushes up from the bench and storms past me out the door, nearly knocking me over, but not nearly hard enough to explain why I feel like I can’t get any air in. Not enough to explain why I start crying.

“New free program!” Lianproclaims as soon as I walk in for our session.

“What?” I look over at Bryan instinctively, before I can remember not to.

“Now that you’re back, it’s time to hit refresh. We need new material, and in an Olympic year, the little things are more important than ever. I admit, Bryan may have had a point back when he was saying that Tchaikovsky gets repetitive. We all saw how the Russians are doing Swan Lake too, and we really don’t want another Battle of the Carmens in Helsinki, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Right,” I echo, although I don’t really know what she’s saying.

“We’re doing Hallelujah,” Lian says.

I draw my brows together. “The religious song?” I turn to Bryan, opening my mouth to ask if I’m thinking of the right one. He looks as if someone’s punched him in the stomach. As if he’s seen a ghost.

“No.”

He says it so forcefully, with such finality, that it makes me furrow my brows even deeper, looking between my partner and coach.

“What—”

“I’m not arguing about this,” Lian replies coolly, unscrewing her coffee thermos. “We’re doing it. Anne comes tomorrow. She already has the choreography. You can pick it up quick enough in time for Nationals.”

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