Page 7 of Oh, Flutz!

“And I thought fivea.m. practice was bad,” Oliver wheezes, doubling over. “Man, I can’t walk. You’re gonna have to carry me.”

I slap him on the back with my towel rag. “Not a chance. Move it.”

It’s times like these when I wonder if Ollie knows how lucky it is for him that we love him so much, because he’s annoying as hell and no one else could ever put up with him.

We’re standing in the middle of the lobby after leaving the ice after a, to put it one way,gruelingpractice session. We usually book sessions together with Nina, his cousin (who’s been the only sane one in our group since we all started skating here in kindergarten). Today, though, Juliet and Mia, Oliver’s coach, must’ve had a little too much coffee, because they were working us like drill sergeants in Lululemon, equipped with reusable pink Starbucks cups.

He gets to his feet, still griping. “I swear, Mia and Jules knew we were hungover, that’s why they decided to go all Rambo on us today.”

“Don’t look at me. I told you to stop after the third round of shots; you, as usual, decided to ignore my advice. They could totally smell it on you.”

“Ugh. Why is thismyfault? I can’t believe I wasted one of my good fakes on your ungrateful ass. I was just trying to do my job as best friend and get you drunk after getting kicked off the team.”

I told Oliver the news yesterday. I’ll give him some credit, he at least waited thirty seconds before seizing an opportunity to get plastered, but I still ended up getting dragged downtown —Alexandra was monumentally pissed about me ditching Bachelor night, but Ollie wouldn’t leave me to spend my Friday evening in peace to catch up on the episodes I missed while I was away.

I’d have much rather have just sat on the couch with my little sister waiting for Mom’s frozen leftover cake to thaw while we started placing bets on which of the identical girls would end up getting the rose. Instead, I was left moping at the bar while Ollie hit it off with some guy. The bartender didn’t even card me, so I didn’t need the fake, just gave me one of those“yikes, man” looks before giving me a refill on the house.

Yeah. I’ve never felt more pathetic in my life than I have these last few weeks.

“Thanks for reminding me, dick. And I’m not getting kicked off, alright? Lian’s got a plan.”

At least, Iassumeshe does, after her mysterious words post-my freakout in the hallway at my last competition—especially considering we pulled me out of Nationals after that disastrous short program. I had zero shot at winning anyway and could use a break to get back to regular training. Except of course, my coach immediately disappears after teasing her master plan to save me.

I’m assuming she flew to Colorado Springs to go harass Chris Heffner at Committee HQ and get them to fix this.I hope.

“I’m never drinking again,” Oliver moans, ignoring me and collapsing on the overstuffed sofa.

I laugh, because hell would have to freeze over before Oliver Kwan turned to sobriety, then reach over my shoulder for the remote on the side table to turn the little overhead TV on.

I flick between channels, searching for something other than politics or the telenovelas that Oliver’s coach pretends she doesn’t watch religiously, but Oliver jerks upright as I skip over a CSN Sports segment.

“Wait, wait, wait, go back.”

“What?” The screen changes to footage of a familiar redheaded girl trying to escape a mob of reporters. The camera pans to the crowd, stopping for a second on some lady and an extremely frazzled Mikhail Kuzmin trying to get them to a car before zooming in on—you guessed it--Katya Andreyeva. Who looks remarkably unbothered for someone with a hundred cameras shoved in her face.

“Man, that’s depressing.” Oliver shakes his head. “You know none of the Russian coaches want to take her?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nina says she’s blacklisted. They’re metal as shit, man. One bad skate and it’s like she’s a leper or something.”

I have a feeling that, if Tatyana Zhukova were my coach, it wouldn’t have taken nearly this long for me to get in trouble. “That’s insane, though. Have they not seen her? She’s fifty times better than all those robots they have on rotation.”

“Yep. Guess it’s like with us, though. If you don’t have the quads…”

Story of my life.

Wait. “It’s already been almost two months since the Final, though. Why’s it still on the news? It’s not like it’s another doping scandal.”

He shrugs, and we both jump as the door bursts open before I can focus on what the commentator is saying.

“Oh, hey, Neens,” I say, and she just stares at me, wild-eyed.

Nina Yung is like my second sister—and yes, there’s a years-long running joke about how I have the white version of her last name, though there’s no question which one of us she’s related to. She and Ollie are cousins, but could be twins. They’ve got the same pale skin and jet-black hair and brown almond eyes with sharp brows, and they tear into each other like siblings, too.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Nina says breathlessly, then glances past us. “Wait, you guys already saw?”

“What?”

---