Page 2 of Oh, Flutz!

The seconds drag by.Come on, I’ll settle for third, I’ll take it this once—

Mikhail drops his arm.

The numberfiveburns bright in the place column. Tatyana shoots to her feet and storms off; the other trainers following meekly. Then Mikhail steps away, too.

Katya sits there alone, frozen. She drops her head to her hands.

She doesn’t even register the bleeding.

Chapter One

BRYAN

THREE WEEKS LATER

U.S. NATIONALS—SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK

Anyone who knows anythingabout figure skating knows who Ekaterina Andreyeva is. The Russian ice queen and reigning Worlds silver medalist, with the bright red hair and the death stare that could make even the stoniest guys in the business break a sweat.

After that last skate, though, when her life basically derailed on live television, even people who know nothing about the sport can’t avoid the endless replays of that fall. It’s, like, a meme now. I keep telling people she should be getting royalties.

You see, the main difference between me and someone like Katya Andreyeva is that people don’t expect me to land big jumps like quads, which is fair considering every time I’ve attempted one in competition in the last few seasons I’ve eaten shit. Also that I haven’t been expected to get a silver medal since before my balls dropped.

This girl was a lock for next year’s Olympic podium until now. Me? I’ve been skating by—literally—since the start of my senior career. Always a couple spots shy of the podium; just enough to qualify for everything. Never to really…what?Win?

And judging by the performance I just gave out there, it doesn’t look like that’ll be changing today, either.

I skid to a stop at the boards, ice screeching under my blades. I step off and grab my guards from Juliet, putting them on before shrugging on my jacket—the navy blue one with Team USA in big letters on the back, from when I used to compete internationally. For a second I can’t help but feel like those dads who wear their letterman jackets from a million years ago, still reliving the glory days long gone.

Juliet hands me a bottle of water, biting her lip. I unscrew it, swallowing a couple huge gulps. “Don’t bother. I know.”

She leads me farther from the ice so the hot mics can’t pick up our conversation. “Look, Bry, it’s just that—”

“I know.” My tone comes off a little harsher than I’d meant, and the irritation deflates. “Sorry. I just…”

She nods, offering a sympathetic smile and putting an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go find the others, okay?”

Do I have a choice?I sigh. “Sure.”

You know when you'reat the top of the rollercoaster, just before you tip over into the drop?

That’s what it it’s like waiting for scores. And let me tell you, your stomach flies up your throat the same way when you get confirmation of just how shit-tastic you just did. Somehow, no matter how many times it happens, I still manage to want to throw myself off a cliff after seeing the results. Somehow, there’s always that tiny glimmer of hope, that, maybe, this time might be different. That maybe, justmaybe,this time I won’t fail.

I can practically feel my nerves vibrating. I dig my fingers into my palms to force myself not to bounce my leg five hundred miles an hour.

Please, please, please—

The scoreboard lights up. And just like that, the glimmer disintegrates.

“Shit.” I say it quietly, because I’m hyper-aware of all the hot mics and the cameras beaming my face up to the Jumbotron, and the last thing I need right now is for the American Figure Skating Committee to think I’m a poor sport on top of everything else.

I’m not even surprised, which is probably the biggest problem.

I brace my hands against my knees, trying to glance over at Lian, who’s sitting next to me with an impassive look on her face. My coach is impossible to read, but I can imagine what I’m in for once we get out of range of the audience and the reporters.

It's not like the score is horrible, alright? Depressingly enough, it’s probably one of my best this season—but at this level, it’s just a step up from elimination.

Because this isn’t even me going up against skaters from Japan and South Korea. This is me going up against high schoolers who barely screeched past qualifiers, and I’m twelve full points behind the guy who placed fourth before me—this in a sport where people can beat each other by a tenth, ahundredthof a point. I don’t want to think about the forty-point difference between me and first place. I don’t want to think about the guy from AFSC that’s been watching all my practice sessions for the last month and a half, having conversations with Lian in corners and walking off with a tight smile every time I go up to them.

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