Page 43 of Hate You Most

“The 2014 Olympics,” Viktoriya said and that she was actually sure of. She'd won gold that night, and then her rival had fucked her senseless on the ice after they'd said goodbye to each other. It had been one of the best nights of her entire life. “I won gold for Russia in figure skating. Best night.”

Beside her she felt Dakota go completely still. The color drained from her face and in an instant she looked as pale as a ghost.

“And that's the last thing you remember?”

Viktoriya nodded. She knew she had stayed in Russia after the games, but her memories after that were out of reach and muffled behind a wall of pain. The 2014 Olympics was the only clear thing she could grasp onto without tears forming in her corners of her eyes.

The nurse gently patted her shoulder again. She looked like she wanted to ask her another question, but instead the nurse told her she was going to get the doctor and left the room fully.

Viktoriya and Dakota were alone in the small hospital room.

“That was the wrong answer, I’m guessing,” Viktoriya attempted to joke but Dakota didn't laugh.

“Is that really the last thing you remember?” Dakota looked frightened.

“Yes.” Whatever joke she wanted to make next didn't seem appropriate. This was really starting to freak her out. Clearly something was very very wrong, else her parents would've been here, or her coach—not her rival. “How wrong am I? What year is it?”

“It's 2022.”

Viktoriya gasped, and the movement of her jaw sent a burst of pain up the side of her neck. An eight year difference—she was wrong by eight whole years. She tried to think back to anything that would've happened after the Olympics. Anything from 2015, or from last year. Last week. From yesterday. It was completely pointless to try as it only made her head hurt more.

She groaned and tried once more to massage the pain away at the back of her head. “What day?”

“It's uhm, October,” Dakota said. “It's October 16th today. You've spent the last eleven days unresponsive, and four of those in a coma.”

Shit. She needed Sanchez to stop talking immediately.

This was some sick and twisted prank she'd put on because she didn't win gold, because she lost. She was jealous and hurt and this was how she'd chosen to show it. Would she do that? No, Dakota wouldn't do that. Which meant she was telling the truth and Viktoriya really had lost the last eight years of memories.

This would definitely keep her off the ice for much longer than just a couple of days. Okay. So she didn't remember much, but she could still skate. Probably. She could probably still skate. She hadn't thought much past winning the Olympics, and she'd succeeded in that. There were still competitions she could win, cities where she would skate against Dakota again. Or had she done that already?

Shit, eight years she couldn't remember. For a moment she wondered what her life looked like, almost a decade older. Was that why Sanchez was there and why nobody had notified her parents yet? Maybe the nurses had, and they decided they just weren't coming.

Her heartbeat quickened and the monitor connected to her began to beep loudly. She winced, the beeping drilled itself into her skull.

Dakota looked alarmed. She tried reaching a hand toward her, but she pulled her entire body away with such force that the world spun around her.

She was going to throw up.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she snapped and tried moving herself even further away. What was Dakota doing here? She shouldn't have been here. If anyone with a camera saw her like this—after a head injury with her rival right beside her—it would become a massive scandal.

Nearly a decade. She couldn't remember nearly a decade of her life.

The beeping got louder, and within a second, a doctor alongside half a dozen nurses rushed into the room. They tilted the bed back to horizontal and told her at the same time that she needed to relax.

“We’ve contacted your parents,” one of the nurses said, probably in an attempt to calm her. “And they say they can’t catch a flight from Moscow, but they send their wishes and say to call them once you're better.”

That was typical. Even after missing eight years of memory, and apparently being in a coma, her parents still wanted nothing to do with her. If it wasn't convenient for them, or involved a large amount of money, or attention of some kind, they were staying away.

“Viktoriya,” the doctor said, his tone the furthest from loving. “I'm sorry to say this, but you are exhibiting symptoms of retrograde amnesia. It's likely caused by your head injury after the car accident you were in eleven days ago. The year is 2022, dear, not 2014.”

Viktoriya couldn't listen to this, it was too much. She needed something else to focus her energy on, and luckily for her, Dakota was still in the room.

“Why is she here?” Viktoriya asked and tried to look Dakota in the eye, but she could only see the doctors and nurses that were crowded around her. “She shouldn't be here. You tell her to leave, now.”

The doctor looked down at her over his glasses. “Who?”

“Sanchez,” she forced out. “Dakota Sanchez. What is she doing here? This is private information, a head injury. We’re competitors—if the press find out…” She was almost choking on her words. The world spun into a blurry mess.