Page 25 of Oh, Flutz!

“Excuse me, I am very healthy. And this hitsallthe 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 figureyouout. 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 toldmethat 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 haveanythingto 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 ridiculouslylonghis 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 evenspellperseverance.”

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

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