Page 80 of Oh, Flutz!

Of course she waits for our coaches to be out of earshot before she starts insulting me. “At least I have friends,” I say under my breath.

“People who feel sorry for you can’t be classified as friends, either.”

I grit my teeth, forcing a snarky smile and finally looking up at her. “And where areyougoing tonight? Back to the shrink?”

Bullseye.She snatches her phone and the tangle of headphones wrapped around it, but not before I see how red her face is getting.

“How’d that go, by the way?” I ask, as if I don’t know her blood pressure’s rising with every word that comes out of my mouth. I know I’m being insensitive, but I can’t bring myself to care. Why should I feel bad? Katya’s made it clear she doesn’t give a damn about my feelings.

“You are such a hypocrite,” she hisses, turning back to me. “You know why?”

“No. Why don’t you enlighten me? It’s not like I can get you to ever shut your mouth anyway. You think you’ve been getting back at me by not talking, really, it’s beenbliss.” I tug at my laces a little more aggressively than necessary.

Katya steps closer, planting her blade on top of my loose lace barely a second before I get my finger out of the way. “Because you’re as screwed up as me.”

I smile. “Really.”

“Yes.”

“Somehow I doubt it, but okay, I’ll bite. How?”

“I thought you were ignoring me now?”

I glare at her, yanking my lace out from under her skate.

She tosses me a saccharine smile. “Well. Since you’re so desperate to know.” The smile fades from her lips, and her eyes grow cold. “It’s because Taylor Davis was right. You are done. You don’t even like doing this anymore. Why do you think you’ve been so awful? Why do you think you can’t land the quads unless no one is watching? Why do you think you can barely stand to get on the ice?” She scoffs. “You’reterrified.And it’s because you know that you’ll let everyone down if you actually try. That everyone will know that there’s no hope for you. Well, I hate to break it to you, but everyone already knows.”

It takes me a second to recover, my mouth stupidly open like the idiot I am.

I will not let her win. I will not let her win.

“You’re a bitch,” is all I can come up with, my voice coming out cracked and thin. “And you’re wrong. I’m not scared.” But my voice doesn’t show it, and I’m sure my face doesn’t, either.

Jesus, why do I let her do this to me? I know what she’s doing. My rational side knows full well that she’s trying to one-up me, get back at me, shake me. But that rational part is getting steadily drowned out by the screaming of every other thought in my head going,she’s right! She’s right, and you know it, you worthless piece of shit!

She laughs. Actually laughs. “Fine. I might be a bitch, but at least I’m not lying to myself.” She smiles at me, turning to leave, but it’s more like a baring of teeth. “Have fun tonight, Young. Tomorrow we will see if you catch a lucky break.”

She stops, pretending to hum in thought, then leans down to my level, my skin lighting up with goosebumps as her hand spreads across my shoulder, breath and hair brushing against my ear. My breath catches automatically, even before she whispers her next words.

“But you’re not very lucky, now, are you?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

BRYAN

This is just embarassing.

I’m sitting here in a bar with my friends, and all I can think about is what some sociopathic girl with fake hair and a mean streak said when she was trying to get a rise out of me. Well, it worked, and now I’m hunched over in a booth nursing a (onlyslightlyillegal) beer like it’s my wounded ego. And my arm, too. The alcohol’s numbed the pain a little bit, but that’s not even what really hurt in the first place.

Moby’s is the king of tourist-free holes-in-the-wall, with its fake log cabin walls smothered with pictures of every hockey player this town ever had to offer, plus both the Winter Games that took place in the very arena me and Katya train in, 1932 and 1980. It’s dark except for the glow of ancient ceiling lights and equally ancient TV screens that have probably been here since the eighties, too. There’s a whole wall dedicated to the Miracle On Ice, back at the ’80 games when the US hockey team pulled off an insane victory over the Soviets, who were the gold-medal favorites. Growing up in this place, no one ever shuts up about it. It may have been forty years ago, but people still remember it like it was yesterday. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pretty damn proud of it, too.

It’s the kind of place where, as long as you’re a local, no one cares what your age is, which is exactly why I’m drinking out in the open right now—I mean, it’s only a few months away from my twenty-first, but still. Everyone knows everyone. Ollie and I used to do odd jobs here in the off-season when we were in high school, too, which is how come all the staff treat us like their annoying little brothers.

“Young!” Deanna, who’s been running the place forever, barks at me, yanking out a towel rag from her flannel and waving it threateningly at me. “Stop moping, or get the hell out of my bar!”

I bury my head in my arms, shaking my head, and Oliver runs over, grabbing me from under the shoulders and trying to pull me out of my seat.

“Sorry, Deedee, we’ve been trying our best to get him outta his funk,” Ollie says apologetically. The woman waves her rag at us, shaking her head smilingly, and Oliver gives me another hard yank that sends me tumbling out on the floor, groaning and clutching my ribs.

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