Page 25 of Hate You Most

She was running out of clear patches of skin. The worst part wasn't the bruises, it was splitting the ice with Dakota and having her nail it more than half the time. She was fucking perfect at the triple axel.

“Triple Axel, Volkova” Her coach snapped from behind the boards, arms crossed. “Again.”

Dakota kept her eyes on Viktoriya from across the ice—her eyes were driving a knife through her body. That motherfucker.

Viktoriya pushed off again, her blades gliding across the smooth ice. The familiar rhythm settled into her muscles and she let her body take over.

She kept her eyes forward, but she could feel Dakota as she moved parallel to her on the other side.

They were going at the same time. Of course they were.

Viktoriya drew her arms in and vaulted into the air. For a breathless second, the world slipped away and she was one with the air. Gravity pulled her down and the blade bit into the ice. She lost her balance at the last second, her knees and hands absorbing the shock of the fall. The sound of her fall echoed across the large rink. She got up quickly, fists clenched, breathing sharp.

Across the ice, Dakota had landed her axel cleanly, her eyes flickering back to Viktoriya.

Their coach skated over immediately. He kept his voice low. “Focus and reset. You are scared, and it causes you to hesitate at the last second. You need to have more faith in yourself, Volkova. There's no reason why you shouldn't be able to land it, you've got this!”

It was odd—she was so used to her coaches lashing out with anger when she didn't land a jump. No matter if it was training or competition, the response was always the same. American coaches were softer in their approach, in a way that was almost comforting.

She centered herself, took a deep breath, and pushed off again.

February 26th, 2012.

—Viktoriya's apartment.

Detroit, Michigan, night.

The American’s text came at 11:47 p.m.

Sanchez

You still awake?

Viktoriya stared at the small screen longer than she meant to. Her room was dark, the only light coming from a single lamp in the corner. She typed, erased, typed again.

Volkova

Yes.

The reply came no more than thirty seconds later.

Sanchez

Come downstairs

What the hell? Was Dakota outside of her apartment? Viktoriya crossed to the bedroom window and tried to look down, but the angle was wrong and she was too high up to see the front door.

She was still in an old, washed-out T-shirt and fluffy pajama pants when she hurried to the bathroom and brushed her teeth. Talking to Dakota with bad breath would simply be rude.

Before putting on her jacket and heading out the front door, Viktoriya stopped by the narrow mirror in the entrance. She looked at herself, combed a hand through her hair. She had no idea why she did that. She didn't want to impress Dakota, she merely wanted to look presentable. Why was she so nervous?

Outside, Dakota was leaning against the brick wall, a lit cigarette hanging from her fingers. She was in a dark skirt and stockings of all things—in late February.

“Hey,” Viktoriya said as the heavy door closed behind her. “What are you doing here?”

She walked down the stairs that led to the ground.

“Came to talk,” she said, dropping the cigarette from her fingers and putting it out with her shoe. “About your axel.”