Page 40 of Oh, Flutz!

“Actually, I think she might like you more than she likes me.”

“So she’s smart, then.”

“Hilarious. Seriously, she’s a big fan. When she was younger and I’d go off to competition, she’d tell me to go get your autograph instead of saying ‘good luck.’”

“You’re kidding,” Katya says, not even bothering to disguise how smug this makes her.

“I wish.”

She smiles. “Well, you never did ask me.”

True. I could say it was because she was constantly surrounded by press and/or traveling in a pack with the other Russians and that evil-looking coach of theirs—but it was probably also because I was, and still am, incredibly intimidated by her. Which probably speaks more to my male fragility than I’d like to admit, but I knew full well how good she was. And it was pretty hot. I mean scary.What?

“I can’t believe I have fans outside of Russia,” she mutters.

“I don’t know if you have an adequate grasp of just how famous you are.”

“I’m notthatfamous.”

I laugh outright. “Please be serious.”

“I’m not!” she protests.

“Katya. You have, like, a million followers. When you show up at competitions, half the crowd has posters with your name on them.”

“Many people unfollowed me after I transferred,” she mumbles, and I pull out my phone, opening Instagram.

“Let’s see. Ekaterina Andreyeva,” I read aloud as I type into the search bar, tapping the first profile with a verified mark that pops up (which just goes to prove my point further, considering no non-famous athlete spawnsthatmany fan accounts.) My eyes nearly pop out of my head when I see her follower count. “Oh, poor baby, lost a couple hundred thousand followers,” I tease, and she gives me a dirty look.

“I feel sorry for your sister. I’m about to combust just from this long working with you, I can’t imagine what living with you my entire life would be like.”

“Ha, ha,” I say, giving her account a quick follow before shoving my phone back in my jeans pocket. “For your information, she’s not exactly easy to live with, either. You know, she’s broken my nose not once, not twice, butthreetimes?”

True story. The first was the tickle fight incident. Then there was the time she pushed me out of a tree, and finally, last year, when she opened the car door a little too soon after drama with her then-boyfriend and it collided with my face (I, being such a good brother, was standing right there about to open it for her.) Lian had not been pleased when I showed up to Sectionals with tape and an eggplant where my nose should’ve been. It’s a miracle it’s still on more-or-less straight.

“Considering I’ve felt the urge to do so at least a hundred times that amount, I can believe it just fine.”

My partner, ladies and gentlemen. “Well, we’ve still got ten minutes to get to the house. Try not to hit me before then?”

“No promises,” she says darkly.

I stifle a smirk.

“What?” she asks suspiciously, and I finally break into a wide smile.

“Strawberry cheesecake protein bars?”

She huffs. “Oh, shut up.”

This is really weird.

I’m standing on my parents’ front doorstep next to Katya, and my only reassurance is that she looks just as uncomfortable as I do.

“Her name is Alexandra,” I say, after several moments of awkward silence. “Don’t call her Alex unless you’re me, which you’re not, so don’t.”

“Any other incredible advice?”

“She’s fifteen, she likes hockey and Taylor Swift, and if she tells you anything embarrassing about me, she’s lying.”

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