Page 2 of Hate You Most

It was only when she turned toward the monitor showing the next skater’s warm-up that her attention was caught—against her will—by a flash of movement. Dark hair pulled into a bun, though two curls had already slipped loose as she warmed up. Her mouth was too expressive for someone about to compete at this level. Her posture on the ice wasn’t rigid or careful; it was almost careless, as if she trusted her body to catch up with her ambition.

Dakota Sanchez.

Viktoriya looked away immediately, told herself firmly and decisively that she didn’t care in the slightest. She was not interested in Americans with careless smiles or skating that relied too heavily on feeling rather than discipline. She had seen dozens of girls like that come and go before their careers even started—why should this girl be any different? The only reason Viktoriya cared to remember her name was her coach's constant reminders that she could become a problem.

Right now, Dakota wasn't a problem. With such loose skating, she definitely wouldn't stand on the podium by the time her song finished. She was going to lose, and a more experienced girl would take her place. Viktoriya never bothered to memorize their names. There was no point. They were as temporary as bruises.

That would not be her.

The walls around her were plastered with sponsor logos and event posters, a blur of color she’d learned to ignore. Everything she needed to focus on was already decided. Her job was finished. She had done what she came here to do, and she had done it to perfection.

She sat with her hands folded in her lap, face carefully composed. The cameras pointed at her and waited for something human to leak through the cracks. Viktoriya gave them nothing.

The music for the next skater started, and she did not turn her head. She kept her eyes locked straight ahead as she exited the kiss and cry.

Backstage, the noise from the arena shifted—applause and music was replaced by the dull hum of movement, doors opening and closing, quick footsteps on the concrete floor. The air was warmer here, less controlled. She sat down without really feeling the chair beneath her, put her headphones in and reached for her skates with mechanical precision.

She’d done this a million times, and it was exactly the same process as getting into her skates. Music blasting in her ears as she did her best to tune out everyone around her. She had no need for others' nervous energy or excitement. She knew she’d skated perfectly, and with the scores she’d gotten, there was no way any of the other skaters could beat it.

The laces came undone one pull at a time, tight knots giving way with reluctant resistance. One foot came free, then the other.

She didn’t look up while she worked.

Black leggings were pulled on over tights that still clung to her skin with cold. A jacket followed, zipped up slowly. Each layer warmed her up from the inside.

She finished, and the moment she pulled off her headphones, applause poured through the backstage TV, louder than it had been for any skater before her. Viktoriya's jaw tightened. She told herself it meant nothing, the audience simply liked novelty. They liked girls who smiled when they skated, who looked as if they were enjoying themselves.

She refused to look.

The song ended, the skater moved to the kiss and cry, and the applause turned into something more dangerous. Viktoriya felt physically ill as she looked over at the screen. Her name was still at the top of the board, but the margin beneath it had narrowed. The numbers beside the American’s name kept climbing steadily as the scores finalized.

It climbed way too high.

Her coach walked over and murmured something sharp and disapproving under his breath, but Viktoriya barely heard him. She watched as the standings shifted—one line of text sliding past another.

Second place.

The American stood on the ice below, hands pressed to her mouth in disbelief, eyes bright with something dangerously close to joy. Her coach pulled her into a hug. The cameras absolutely loved it. The crowd roared.

Viktoriya did not move.

Second place was still failure. She had known that before she'd ever stepped onto the ice. Knowing it did not soften the blow in the slightest.

As she rose from the bench, the medal ceremony announcement echoed faintly through speakers in the backstage area. A familiar sense of control flowed through Viktoriya’s body. This, too, would be accounted for. This, too, would be corrected.

She took one last look at the scoreboard, at the unfamiliar name now sitting above her own. Dakota Sanchez.

This would not happen again.

When the medal ceremony began, she stepped onto the podium and accepted the silver with steady hands. The metal was cold against her skin, heavier than it should've been. The cameras flashed and she forced a tight smile. A silver medal was not something she should ever be proud of.

Viktoriya kept her gaze fixed forward.

She did not look at the American who stood on the podium above her. There was no need, this result was an error, not a pattern.

Viktoriya was halfway down the backstage corridor, its flickering lights casting uneven shadows across the walls, when she heard footsteps quicken behind her.

“Hey—wait up!”