Page 14 of Hate You Most

“I know.”

“And you know what people will say.”

She did. They would say she had cracked under pressure. That she couldn’t handle skating at such a high level. That she couldn't lead Russia to victory at the Olympics.

“I won’t let it happen again,” she said.

He nodded once. “Good.”

Backstage, she waited silently for the final scores to be announced. So far she had placed fourth. There were many other girls around her, yet she just couldn't bring herself to interact with any of them after that terrible display of a routine she'd done.

She brought her hands to her face and attempted to wipe away any embarrassment she could. It was pointless.

The announcer tapped the microphone a few times before beginning to speak. “Next in the Junior Ladies Free Skate, from Detroit, Michigan, is seventeen-year-old Dakota Sanchez.” The crowd roared with applause as she stepped onto the ice, the American flag being raised in the stands.

Viktoriya watched from backstage as Dakota waved to the crowd as she skated inwards toward the middle of the rink. Before Dakota had begun, Viktoriya knew she was going to win.

She centered herself and settled into her starting position. As the first note flowed out, Dakota pushed herself backwards, her legs elegantly moving across the ice.

Motherfucker. Dakota was skating to an instrumental version of Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve.

It was beautiful and immaculate and showy. It was everything that figure skating was supposed to be. A blend of artistry, elegance and dedication—all done on a narrow blade on the ice with a near impossible precision.

She really was a beautiful skater.

Every movement flowed flawlessly into the next. She attacked the jumps with speed Viktoriya recognized—envied—and landed them clean. The triple lutz that had failed Viktoriya earlier looked effortless under Dakota’s feet, her landing so stable it barely drew attention.

Even from a distance, Viktoriya could clearly see the makeup Dakota was wearing. Black eyeliner lining her waterline, her eyelids smothered with the same silver color that was found throughout her dress. The makeup was, clearly, not the American's idea. It was much harsher than anything she'd seen her wear until this point.

By the time Dakota struck her final pose, the entire arena was already on their feet, cheering.

The scores came fast.

They were high. Higher than anyone else’s. Dakota moved into first place and Viktoriya kept her face as neutral as she could muster. She didn’t react. She didn’t need to. She already knew what it meant.

The next skater left the ice in tears. Her opening jump was under-rotated and made her landing shaky and unstable. Her program never quite recovered.

The skater after her fell outright—a brutal slip on the landing, even worse than Viktoriya’s had been. Her knee slammed into the ice, hands reacting too late to brace her fall. She never finished her program. The damage to her knee was too severe, likely a dislocation.

One by one, the names shuffled beneath Dakota’s on the board.

Viktoriya’s name climbed, not because she had earned it, but because other skaters had failed more than her.

Viktoriya had been in fourth after her fall, but that was only her placement after the free skate. When the short program and free skate scores were combined, one of the skaters ahead of her dropped down due to a lower combined total, and Viktoriya’s score was enough to push her up into third overall.

Third place and a bronze medal wasn't anything to celebrate—it meant she had let two other people skate better than her.

From the corner of her eye, Viktoriya noticed Dakota on the backstage TV, laughing as her coach pulled her into a hug. She wore the same loose, disbelieving smile she always did when she won, like she hadn’t expected it even though she had skated the best.

The cameras adored her.

Viktoriya stood before she was called for the medal ceremony, hands clenched at her sides. The bronze medal was placed around her neck. She kept her face neutral as the photographers snapped pictures and she could practically see the headline that would circulate by the morning.

´AMERICA'S GOLD GIRL WINS OVER RUSSIAN RIVAL. ´

Her coach stood beside her on the sideline, expression tight. Her parents were thousands of kilometers away, likely watching a delayed broadcast at best—if they were watching at all.

When it was over, when the ice had cleared and the arena began to empty, Viktoriya returned to the hotel room. Her phone buzzed just as she'd reached her room and firmly closed the door.