Page 1 of Hate You Most

PROLOGUE

October 5th, 2022.

— Detroit, Michigan, midnight.

It’s said that moments before the brain experiences extreme trauma, you're supposed to see your life flash before your eyes. In reality, it's nothing but a frantic surge of brain activity as your mind tries to make sense of it all before it shuts down completely.

Viktoriya Volkova saw nothing. Not the first time she stepped onto the ice. Not the first medal around her neck.

Her car was hit so violently from behind that it was forced into the air. Her body was thrown around like a ragdoll, completely weightless. Time slowed. The little plastic skate hanging from the rearview mirror spun wildly, catching flashes of the streetlights.

The seatbelt constricted and bit into her chest and upper shoulder as the car flipped once. Then twice. It kept her inside of the car but couldn't protect her from the violent force of the impact. Her head snapped forward, striking the steering wheel before hitting the driver-side window.

The car landed in a ditch, half submerged in water. She hung upside down, dangled motionless from the seatbelt. Blood ran into her eyes, then trickled slowly onto the dashboard below.

The last thing Viktoriya registered was a car door opening while the engine was still running, followed by footsteps dragging against the gravel road.

CHAPTER ONE

March 13th, 2010.

— World Junior Figure Skating Championships, Ladies Free Skate, midday. The Hague, Netherlands.

There was no better feeling in the world than the cut of blades against ice.

It didn't matter how long Viktoriya had been doing this for, or how many medals she had won. When she stepped onto the ice and the music began, the entire world narrowed down to one singular focus, and one singular thought: winning.

There was nothing else that mattered, nothing that even came close. It was a gold medal by the end and standing on the podium, or it was failure. Second place was still failure.

The cold seeped up through the thin blades of her skates and into her bones, familiar and grounding. Viktoriya welcomed it. The cold was honest, it did not pretend to care about nerves or expectations or the weight of a nation waiting for the inevitable moment she'd fail. The cold simply existed.

She pushed off, the first strokes strong and deliberate, carving clean lines into the ice. The rink lights blurred into white above her, the audience dissolving into nothing more than background noise. Applause, coughs, the scrapes in the ice from the skaters having gone before her—it all vanished the moment the opening notes of her program bellowed out through the speakers.

It was as easy as breathing. Easier, maybe.

Muscle memory took over. It was drilled into her body. Every jump, every spin, every transition had been perfected. There was no room for doubt on the ice. Doubt cost points, and doubt would make her lose.

Her first jump landed clean. Then the second. A ripple of applause moved through the crowd, but Viktoriya didn’t react to it. She never did. She skated exactly the same way she lived—controlled and precise.

As she entered her step sequence, her mind flickered, just for a moment, to the standings posted backstage. She knew them by heart. She knew who had skated before her, who had gotten dangerously high scores, and who was waiting to skate after.

She did not think of their names. They were just distractions that kept her from winning and their names never mattered. But sometimes, despite herself, one name crept in anyway.

An American.

Young. Inconsistent, the commentators liked to say. The American was emotional on the ice. The kind of skater who made the judges forgive mistakes because she felt everything too loudly. Viktoriya despised that kind of skating.

Her blade bit into the ice as she snapped into a double lutz, increasing speed until the world blurred at the edges. She tightened her core, focused on the burn in her muscles, the pull of gravity. Control. This was control. Not letting stray thoughts in. Not letting anyone take the gold away from her.

By the time the final note hit and she struck her closing pose, her lungs were burning and her heart was hammering against her ribs—but her face remained composed. She held the position, eyes fixed ahead, as the applause crashed over her in a wave.

Only then did she breathe out, allowing herself a tight smile.

Wrapped in her jacket in the kiss and cry, Viktoriya sat perfectly still as the scores loaded onto the screen. Coaches murmured beside her, but she didn’t listen. She watched the numbers appear, unblinking. The technical score came first. Then the components

The total flashed.

A beat of silence—and then her name moved above the others. Viktoriya had put herself in first place, but there were still skaters going after her. She nodded once, as if this result had never been in doubt.