Page 23 of Oh, Flutz!

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.

“There's a bunch ofgood 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 literallyanyother 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 thanwinning,” 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. “Pleasejust keep walking.”

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

Lots 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 isbomb, unless you’re vegetarian, in which case they have this lentil thing that—”

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