Page 19 of Hate You Most

Now that Viktoriya was legally an adult, they needed to talk about their expectations, going forward. Sponsorship money. Prize earnings. Appearance fees. Travel stipends. It was only reasonable that she contributed more. After all, she lived there. Ate their food and used electricity. They had supported her skating for years.

Viktoriya stood at the counter, still in training clothes, listening without interrupting.

Her father joined in halfway through, already annoyed. He talked about sacrifices. About cost. About how success didn’t belong to just one person but should be shared. In a way she had seen this coming.

They never asked how she felt.

That night, Viktoriya sat on her bed and found the crumpled folder from the bottom of her bag. An elite training program in the United States. It would be long-term, it meant living in a foreign country where she didn't speak the language fully—it meant leaving.

Viktoriya would still be a Russian citizen, she would still represent Russia in competitions. With this program she would have a chance to improve, a chance of actually going to the Olympics.

American coaches were a different breed compared to Russian coaches—they demanded less and had a softer approach to training. Maybe it would be good for her, getting away for a little while.

Later that night she used her laptop when her parents had gone to sleep and entered all her information. She deleted her browser history afterwards.

November 28th, 2011.

— Viktoriya’s Family Apartment, Moscow.

The reply came two weeks later. She'd been accepted.

The email was only three paragraphs long, but Viktoriya read it six times before closing her laptop. Housing assistance and sponsorships were already set up for her. All she needed was to tell her parents she was leaving. Whatever they said to her, she wasn't letting them convince her into staying.

For five days she told no one.

Viktoriya decided it would be best to tell them over dinner. She waited until Sunday evening, when both of her parents were home. Her mother had cooked pelmeni, and her father sat at the head of the table reading the sports section, occasionally grunting at something he disagreed with. The TV murmured quietly in the background.

Her little sister sat beside her, swinging her legs beneath the table as she talked about something that had happened at daycare. Viktoriya listened and smiled at the parts she understood. She knew she had missed more of her sister growing up than she wanted to admit. Between training, competitions, and endless hours on the ice, she barely saw her anymore.

It was normal. Possibly the last normal dinner she would have in this apartment.

She waited until her mother had set the plates down, until her father had taken his first bite.

She spoke evenly, the way she did at interviews, voice calm and uninflected. “I’ve accepted an offer to train in the United States.”

Her mother slowly lowered her fork. Her father looked up, as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. “What did you say?”

“I've accepted an offer from a training program in America,” Viktoriya repeated. “I'm leaving in January.”

Her father outright laughed. “Very amusing, Zvezdochka.”

“I am not joking.” She put her fork down, her appetite had completely disappeared.

“You applied without telling us?” Her mother's eyes narrowed from across the oak table.

“Yes.”

“You made this decision already?”

“Yes.”

Her mother stared at her as though she'd become a stranger. Her father folded his newspaper and set it aside.

“No.”

Viktoriya blinked.

“No?” she asked.