The Favorites

by Layne Fargo

The name Rocha was Spanish in origin, or maybe Portuguese—the only solid clue he had to his heritage. Most people in the Midwest took one look at Heath’s brown skin and dark hair and assumed he was either Mexican or Middle Eastern (then made other, less charitable assumptions accordingly).

He was also used to anything that seemed too good to be true—anything that seemed good at all—being ripped from his grasp as soon as he touched it. No wonder he held on to me so tightly.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care he was unhappy. I just thought he would get over it. Once we started winning, he’d see all the long days and hard work and sacrifice had been worth it.

A snow-white convertible, the top lowered to reveal an interior the color of raw meat, idled in front of the building.

“Don’t tell me you thought this sport was fair,” Ellis said. “That’s adorable.”

Heath had a bottomless pit inside him too, but it had nothing to do with ambition. No matter how much love I gave him, it would never be enough. He wanted to be everything to me, the way I was everything to him. And I would always want more.

“Heath, please. We’ve made it this far. This is our dream, our—” “No, Katarina.” He sighed and slipped his hand into mine. “It’s your dream.”

And if Heath wanted to see me again? He could watch me on television, winning goddamn gold medals with Garrett Lin.

Her betrayal stung, but his was worse. Because Heath hadn’t simply improved since leaving me—he’d transformed. He wasn’t the same skater he’d been when we were together. He was the skater I’d always dreamed of him becoming. His love for me hadn’t been motivation enough to reach his full potential. His hatred, though? That made him capable of anything.

But anyone who knew Bella knew she’d always choose skating over everything—and everyone—else. And if their positions were reversed? I’m sure Kat would’ve done the same.

“Our friendship never meant anything to you, did it?” I asked, though I wasn’t expecting an answer. “All you care about is winning.”

“That’s all we both care about.” Bella turned away, busying herself with stowing brushes and palettes back in her custom monogrammed makeup case. “That’s why we’re friends.”

Veronika Volkova: It is a special talent some men have: they stare into your eyes, and you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. These men must never be trusted. Because if they can make you feel that way, they can make any woman feel that way.

Ellis Dean: Look, women supporting women doesn’t get clicks. I didn’t invent misogyny, I just shamelessly profited from it.

Don’t throw up. That was my first thought when I realized what Heath was doing. Then I thought: No. Please, no. Not like this.

I hadn’t thought we needed to discuss it. Heath knew me better than anyone, so he should have known there wasn’t a single maternal thing about me.

Let me in? I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream at him. Lee’s death was the least of the things we didn’t talk about. Why should I be the one to open up and make myself vulnerable, when Heath’s past was still a sealed vault?

Then I saw the look on his face, and I realized: I didn’t know Heath Rocha at all.

“All you care about is winning.” Heath spoke calmly, evenly, like he was trying to gentle a wild animal. “So I turned myself into someone who could win. Someone worthy of you. But I guess that wasn’t enough either. Nothing’s ever enough for you.” “That’s really what you think of me?” “That’s who you’ve always been, Katarina. And I’ve always loved you anyway.”

“You wanted to get back at me. You wanted me to suffer too. That’s not love, Heath.” “My love isn’t good enough for you either. Got it.” “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” “Then tell me, Katarina.” He sunk to his knees in front of me. “Tell me what you want from me. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.” Despite the contrite posture, his expression was defiant. I buried my hands in his curls. “There’s nothing you can do,” I told him.

“Everyone was talking. It was only a matter of time before you found out, and I figured you’d rather hear the news from your best friend than from—” I laughed. “My best friend? We’ve barely spoken in years, Bella.”

“Can you believe her?” I said. “She purposely messes with my head before the biggest competition of my life, then has the audacity to act like—” “You won an Olympic medal today. You know that, right?”

“And yeah, okay, Heath did some screwed-up things. But he loves you so much. The way you two torture each other, it’s…” Garrett trailed off with an exasperated shake of his head. “Do you know what I’d give for even a taste of what you’ve got together?”

“Shit.” I set the cup down and reached toward him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean t—” “Of course you didn’t mean to, Kat. That would require thinking about someone other than yourself for one goddamn second.”

He still hadn’t chosen to confide in me. And now I’d lost him and the gold, in the same damn day. No, not lost him. Thrown him away.

Garrett Lin: No, Kat did not throw a chair. A dark object blurs past, colliding with Heath. In the background, a voice says, “Oh shit!” Garrett Lin: It was a stool.

I couldn’t remember anything I’d said, except my final words, meant for both my fiancé and my friend: we’re done.

the first and only time she actually thinks of him as her fiancé is when she dumps him ☠️

“So it’s all my fault? You were my coach.” And you wanted me to fail. Even after everything, I couldn’t bring myself to voice my suspicions about Sheila throwing Heath and me to the wolves so we’d pose less of a threat.

“No,” she said. “It’s my fault—for allowing you into the Academy in the first place. I let my children convince me that training with you and Mr. Rocha would drive them to greater heights. Instead you dragged them down to your level.” “Sorry to be such a disappointment,” I spat. “I’m sorry too.” She stared out the window again, but her eyes were unfocused, no longer taking in the view. “This was my last chance.”

Dropping a tell-all article right before the Olympic final seemed like a classic Sheila Lin chess move. But there was only one way she could have known so much about Heath’s lost years. Only one reason she would have passed over her Rolodex full of reputable reporters in favor of Ellis Dean, who was more than happy to post first and ask questions later. She was the one who had sent Heath to Russia in the first place.

“I figured a few days under Veronika’s medieval training methods and he’d give up for good. Turns out Heath was the toughest competitor of you all. If only he wanted to win as much as he wanted you.”

He was right: that’s who I was. But it wasn’t who I’d always been. It was who I’d become, after a lifetime spent striving to be just like Sheila Lin. Like her, I’d discarded my past, my home, my family. I’d convinced myself if I became the best, it didn’t matter who I hurt, because in the end, it would be worth it. Even if I hurt myself most of all. For all the years I’d spent obsessing about Sheila—first watching her on television, then skating for her, pushing myself to extremes for crumbs of praise—I’d never truly seen her. Not until that night, drinking in the dark in a Vancouver hotel room. And all I saw was misery.

Love like a steady, warming campfire that keeps you alive in the cold. Love like a raging blaze that burns down everything in its path until nothing but ash remains.

“But I also made my whole existence about you, for far too long.” Heath’s words came out in a rush, as if he’d been storing them up for ages. “I grew up without a family or a culture or anything of my own, so when I found you…it wasn’t fair to either of us. I had to figure out my own passion, my own purpose in life.”

Francesca had grown up watching me, like I’d grown up watching Sheila. She said I was inspiring, but what had I inspired? There was no joy left in her, no light. Those smiles were a mask, concealing a molten core of grasping ambition.

I meant every word. I didn’t care about the medals anymore. I didn’t care if we were immortalized in the record books, or forgotten tomorrow. A bunch of washed-up bureaucrats in some bland Swiss conference room didn’t get to decide if we were champions or not. I decided who I was. I decided what I wanted.