Page 21 of Hate You Most

Her father exhaled through his nose. “If you go,” he said slowly. “Then you go to win. Go because you believe you can stand on that podium with a gold medal around your neck.”

“I will.”

Another pause.

“We will not stop you,” her mother said, begrudgingly. “But do not forget where you come from. You are Russian, remember who taught you how to skate before all these American coaches start taking credit.”

Viktoriya only nodded in response. In a month she would leave all of it behind.

January 4th, 2012.

— Bloomfield Hills training center, Detroit, Michigan.

The rink was louder than it was in Moscow.

Not noisier—just fuller. More movement, blades cutting across the ice in intersecting patterns that felt almost careless compared to what Viktoriya was used to. She stood just inside the entrance, skates slung over her shoulder, bag heavy against her hip, and watched the skaters.

Her new coach gestured her forward. “This will be your training group,” he said, already walking. “You’ll rotate ice time with them.”

They weren’t lined up on the ice. A few of the girls glanced over at her as they neared. One smiled. Another nodded. Someone whispered her name, not bothering to lower their voice much.

Viktoriya was used to that.

Names were exchanged quickly. Too quickly. Viktoriya caught only fragments—where they were from, what they were working on. Everyone spoke English fast and loose, words blending together.

She answered when the girls asked.

Yes, she was from Russia. No, she hadn’t skated here before. She set her bag down near the boards and watched the ice while she laced her skates.

“This isn’t a team,” her coach said, gesturing vaguely at the rink. “But you’ll train alongside the same group most days.”

Viktoriya nodded. That suited her completely fine.

A whistle blew, and everyone was instructed to step onto the ice. There, her new coach made them line up shoulder to shoulder. Viktoriya took her place without looking at anyone else, hands clasped behind her back, shoulders squared. The ice beneath her feet was familiar. It grounded her on foreign soil.

Their coach skated out to face them, stopping a few feet away. He didn’t smile.

“You’re all here because you’re good at skating,” he said. “Not because you’re special.”

A few girls shifted. No one spoke.

“In three months, there’s an international qualifying competition,” he continued. “That is a senior-level competition and if you do well there, people will stop talking about you as a future Olympian. They'll start talking about Sochi. Not maybe. Not eventually. In three months.”

Three months. Her entire future would be decided in just three months. Sweat dripped down the palm of her hand, she only tightened her grip and stood up straighter. She couldn't return home without gold.

“If you place high enough, you stay in this program,” he said. “If you don’t, you’re done here. No second chances, this isn’t junior skating anymore.”

The coach skated from one end of the line to the next. “You will train like you’re already at the Olympics,” the coach said. “Because that’s the only way any of you girls are going to make it.”

The doors at the far end of the rink banged open.

Someone came running in, directly toward the rink.

Viktoriya realized who it was immediately. She’d assumed—ignorantly—that America was large enough to keep them separated.

Dakota slid onto the ice just as the coach finished speaking, eyes already scanning the line of girls on the ice. She slowed as she spotted Viktoriya, surprise flashing across her face before she masked it.

“Nice of you to join us, Sanchez,” the coach said dryly.