Page 11 of Hate You Most

AMERICA'S GOLD GIRL SETS SIGHTS ON RUSSIAN RIVAL.

“She is loud,” she replied. “That is not the same thing.”

August 23rd, 2011.

— State Training Facility, Moscow.

“Sit,” Her coach said and gestured to the bench. He didn’t raise his voice. He never did when something actually mattered.

“There is a program in the U.S.,” he began, hands folded loosely in front of him. “An elite training placement. It would be long-term.”

Viktoriya said nothing. She watched the Zamboni as it moved smoothly across the ice.

“They have consistent ice time, better access to specialists. Better choreographers and coaches that understand how international skating is shifting.” He paused, studying her face. “You would be expected to relocate, of course.”

“When?” she asked.

“Not immediately. When you turn eighteen at least, maybe even later.” He tilted his head slightly. “It would be permanent, if you wanted it to be.”

Permanent.

He continued before she could respond. “This is not about leaving Russia, you would still represent us at competitions. You need exposure and different training than what we can give. Judges in North America see things differently. They reward confidence, and girls that smile.”

“I skate well,” Viktoriya said. She was sick of being told to smile all the time. Her skating should be what the judges and media saw, not whether she plastered a fake wide smile over her lips. She shouldn't need to change who she was in order to consistently win. It seemed that no matter what she did or how she acted it was never enough, there was always someone doing it perfectly.

“I know. That’s not the question.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a thin folder, sliding it across the bench. “You don’t have to decide now, but this is an opportunity you won’t get twice. Most don't even get it once. Think about where you want to be in five years. If you've ever wanted to compete at the Olympics, this could help you get there.”

He stood then, conversation clearly over. “Stretch. Then go home and think about it.”

Viktoriya stared at the folder, moving it around in her hand. Then she shoved it into her bag, beside her skates.

Thinking about it was stupid, her parents would never approve of it.

Sure, they had stopped showing at her competitions, and they didn't come watch her at practice either—but leaving the country permanently, it wasn't an option or something she could even consider.

September 17th, 2011.

— State Training Facility, Moscow.

Fluorescent lights buzzed in the rink office, the smell of stale coffee lingering in the air. Viktoriya sat on a bench near the doorway and half-laced her skates while a staff coordinator flipped through her phone, muttering about travel schedules.

“She’s already in Colorado,” the woman said. “If her flight gets delayed again, we’ll have to move her practice slot.”

She scrolled, thumb moving quickly. A name and number flashed across the screen for just a second too long.

Dakota Sanchez.

The woman turned her back away from Viktoriya, moving into the office and closing the door behind her.

She finished lacing her skates. This was stupid, she wasn't going to put that number into her phone. What would she even text her? ´Hey, I memorized your number like a creep. How’s training? ´

Yeah, it was stupid, she wasn’t impulsive. She didn’t do reckless things. Yet she took out her phone, held it in her hand for a moment too long before unlocking it and typing the number in manually. Checked it. Deleted it. Typed it again

Viktoriya typed out a message. Stared at it hesitantly before sending it.

Volkova.

This is Viktoriya Volkova.