Page 9 of Hate You Most
Viktoriya stepped off the ice but couldn't get herself to leave before knowing when they'd meet again.
“Hey—American,” she said, tilting her head. “Are you skating the ISU Junior Grand Prix in Italy?”
“Perhaps,” Dakota said, grinning. “Someone’s got to make sure you don’t get too comfortable on top of the podium.”
Viktoriya rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll take perhaps. See you in six months, loser.”
CHAPTER THREE
June 11th, 2011.
— Viktoriya’s Family Apartment. Moscow, midday.
The sports channel replayed highlights from Senior Worlds on loop. Viktoriya passed through the living room without slowing, her skate guards in one hand and her jacket hanging loose from her shoulders. Outside the apartment windows, Moscow was buried beneath a dull gray sky.
“They are still calling you the Ice Queen,” her mother said from the couch, half-amused. “And the American—”
Viktoriya stopped.
On screen, Dakota Sanchez’s free skate replayed for what had to be the fourth time that evening. The camera followed her the moment the music ended, catching every raw second of emotion as it crossed her face. She brought her hands to her mouth, eyes wide with shock before breaking into a grin she didn’t even try to contain.
Dakota laughed openly as her scores came in, bending forward at the waist as if the joy was too much for her body to handle. Even through a screen, there was something magnetic about her. Something infuriatingly effortless. She skated like she had nothing to lose and reacted like she had never once been taught to hide what she felt.
The cameras adored her for it and the commentators did too. Dakota hadn't won that night, she had—but that didn't matter to the audience.
“Russia’s precision versus America’s passion,” one of the commentators said as another replay of the podium ceremony flashed across the screen. “Two completely different skaters pushing each other to new levels.”
A split-screen appeared: Viktoriya stood perfectly still on the podium with a controlled smile and the gold medal around her neck, while beside her Dakota smiled so brightly it bordered on recklessness.
Opposites. That was the narrative the Russian media pushed for. The disciplined Russian girl who never cracked under pressure and the emotional American who wore every feeling openly for the world to see.
Viktoriya hated how easily people consumed it, like she was nothing but a digestible morning news story. Hated even more that the rivalry was beginning to feel real. Not because of the media and not because of the commentators desperately trying to turn them into a story. Because Dakota kept catching up.
Dakota took bigger risks, landed harder combinations, skated with a kind of reckless confidence that Viktoriya could not understand. And somehow, the judges rewarded her for it.
She was unapologetically emotional. Made people feel things.
Viktoriya stared at the screen as Dakota glanced sideways during warmups, laughing at something off-camera. Then she stepped onto the ice with that fearless expression, like failure had never once frightened her.
Viktoriya's jaw tightened.
“She seems sweet,” her mother commented.
Sweet, as if that mattered. As if being sweet had ever won anything.
Viktoriya turned around, took the remote from the coffee table and switched the TV off. The apartment fell silent instantly.
Her mother looked up at her. “All I said was that she seemed sweet. Do you dislike her that much?”
Viktoriya stared at her own reflection on the black TV screen.
“Yes. I do,” she said flatly.
June 14th, 2011.
— State Training Facility, Moscow.
Her coaches had stopped pretending Dakota’s name wasn’t relevant. In fact, it was the first name out of their mouths whenever she didn't skate to absolute perfection.
