“Happy belated birthday, Ms. Shaw,” she replied. “Let me check on that for you.”
I gave her the account details and listened to her crisp keystrokes as she input the information. Everything was going according to plan. Heath and I were gaining on our competition. We had our first goldmedals. If we performed well at our second Grand Prix event in St. Petersburg, we might make it to the Grand Prix Final—which would be great preparation for Nationals. If we maintained our trajectory, we could even qualify for Worlds in the spring.
And then, surely, the sponsorship opportunities would come rolling in. Unless you were an Olympic champion, endorsement deals weren’t going to make you rich. But combined with the inheritance money, they’d give us breathing room. No more sweating over a single dinner out. Maybe we could even move out of the dorms and into a home of our own. Most likely a single-room studio apartment in a semi-scary part of town, but it would be ours.
“Thank you for your patience, Ms. Shaw. You were granted access to the account in question as of your eighteenth birthday. However, there aren’t any funds allocated at present.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “What?”
“The account balance is zero. Well, technically the balance is negative, since several overdraft fees were charged recently. Would you like to resolve that today?”
As a professional athlete, you’re taught to visualize the exact future you want. Every step of a flawless program. The view from the top of the podium. The weight of an Olympic medal around your neck. But all it takes is a second—a slip of your blade, a lapse in your concentration, a spark of doubt in your mind—and everything falls apart.
“Who withdrew the funds?” I tried to maintain my poise, but my voice was trembling. It must have been a mistake. My father’s lawyer moved the money to another account, or—
“The primary account holder,” the teller told me. “Leland Shaw.”
Chapter 20
I couldn’t tell Heath about the money. He would’ve been furious enough to blow our last dollar flying back to Illinois just to punch Lee in the teeth.
Lee was my brother. My problem. I was determined to fix the situation myself.
So I punched my childhood number into my brand-new cellphone. It rang over and over, so many times I almost gave up and disconnected.
Finally, someone answered. “Hello?” A woman’s voice, scratchy and sultry.
“Hi.” I tried to keep the rage from seeping into my tone. Whoever she was, this situation wasn’t her fault. “Is Lee there?”
“Who’s calling?”
Even through the haze of whatever substances she was on, the edge of jealousy was obvious. How my idiot brother got all these women to give him the time of day, let alone compete over him, was beyond me.
“Katarina,” I said. “His sister.”
Shuffling sounds as she handed the phone over.
“Yeah?” Lee said, and from that word alone, I could tell he was wasted. Later in life, I acknowledged Lee’s addiction as the illness it was. But at eighteen, all I knew was that my shitty older brother was screwing me over yet again.
“Where is it, Lee?”
“Katie? Is that really y—”
“What did you do with my money?”
“Yourmoney?” He laughed. Halfway through, it turned into a hacking cough. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Dad left that money for me. I’m eighteen now, so—”
“So what? We both know you’ve gotten way more than your fair share.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“All those ice twirling lessons and pretty little dresses add up, princess. You know what Dad left me when he died? A big damn mess.”
I shook my head. “No. You’re lying. You blew it all on drugs, or—”
“He took out loans so you and that freeloading little creep could keep competing. Hate to break it to you, sis, but half of nothing is nothing.”
