Veronica Blake. It seemed everyone's eyes ricocheted off of the splotchy beige walls, the tattered black mats they deemed 'floors,' and the lockers, which were a hue deafening to the eyes. They sprung off of the normal landscape, the normal amenities, the normal everything, and onto her.
It seemed everything here was normal, and normal was boring. Well, normal other than the fact that she was the only one who knew the precise coordinates of their location. She’d decided fairly early on that the show she was running didn’t need an audience and that any questions regarding ethics could be resolved with the latest technology. It wasn’t like she didn’t have the money. Still, the place was in awful shape and in desperate need of a serious rehab. As usual, it seemed the only person out of their mind enough to handle doing such a saintly, merciful act was Veronica herself: a multi-millionaire who'd achieved fame via the rink she’d recruited today’s stars from. A multi-Olympian turned television reality star, but not without deception, trickery, and a whole lot of drama. She seemed to know the hidden algorithm for messing with people's emotions, with their lives; she seemed to know the perfect concoction to get a 'yes' from everyone.
"Ah, Jerry, stop now. Don't act like I'm not the best in the business." The aging woman shot her manager a pointed glance, icy eyes holding no question. After some half-attempt at a reply, she slandered him once more, finally causing a silence to erupt as she continued down the hallway of the rink, fur-lined boots clicking as she walked. Her coat showed a matching ebony trim, the faux fur making the statement, 'I'm rich and I know it, now you know it too.' She finally paused at the end of the hallway, taking a deep, dramatized breath before marching into the room like an unprepared soldier headed into his first battle.
The room was a sea of cameras, the same decrepit ruins as the part of the building she'd come from. There was less hustle, less bustle, but many, many more familiar faces. And, many, many unfamiliar faces. It'd seemed that the skaters had been shut into this room, a flurry of fashionable winter coats and vests with a hint of light conversation and an air of prestige. These skaters seemed to be holding nothing but illusion on their future competitors, allowing a cheaply-constructed facade to take hold of the character they were creating of the ruins of their true personalities, an attempt at a one-up rather than a genuine graciousness. In the room beside, nothing was seen of the contents, the only guess at its use a piece of white laminated paper revealing, 'confessional room.' From what she knew of the layout, the hockey players were in the room adjacent, the only link between them the mystery behind the closed oak door.
Assumably, the crew were doing as they were told, calling names from both rooms and recording their reactions as the partnerships were revealed. The details were something the woman had never been truly good at, the drama the only remedy for the ongoing headache. It'd seemed to many that to become a gold medalist, she'd pulled on the heartstrings of the judges and her long-time partner, a now divorced man with an obliterated societal standing.
"Is everything going fine over here, gentlemen?" Upon the bewildered nods, she cleared her throat poignantly, leaving little warmth to draw from. "Very well. Go back to work, I won't keep you."
The aging woman prepared to leave the room of talented competitors, but she didn't leave without hearing the next name called, that of a girl she'd actually recognized the name of. A true competitor with a heart of stone, said some. Others dismissed her distant, unapproachable aura for the sake of all of the accolades she’d achieved in her short life. Either way, the former gold medalist recognized another gold medalist when she'd heard one. And she was partially intrigued enough to turn opposite of the direction of which she had intended to head, traveling straight to the overview lounge where what was being recorded was viewable. The name rolled off of her lips once, a silent sound, more thought than voiced. "Natasha Petrov."
…
Natasha Petrov | Russian Figure Skater | Veon McCulloch | M: Veon
Having heard her name called by the producers, the young blonde stood up and made her way across the room in haughty, lengthy strides, not so much as breathing in acknowledgement of all of the stares she received. Of course, she was the Natasha Petrov, this was a regular Tuesday for her. It would have been stranger if she wasn’t the magnet attracting everyone’s stares. Still, not everyone had arrived yet, and there were certainly some colorful characters that were rumored to be joining the already star-studded cast here. Among them were two names she recognized for very different reasons: Ori Lark and Ares Garcia. Ares was a controversial skater known for all sorts of public stunts, including but not limited to multiple disqualifications for public nudity and choreography that had been described as “vulgar.” This was not to mention the time he starred as himself in a movie about the life of Jesus Christ with a plot that Nat couldn’t even begin to understand. When they were younger they had a fierce rivalry, but it blossomed slowly into a friendship that neither expected.
On the other hand, the Russian skater had the same perception of Ori Lark that most of the world had regarding Ares: he was the world’s largest asshole. Well, maybe second to whichever parent suggested they name their child Orpheus, if that was even his legal name. And, to her knowledge, he’d never skated a day in his life. Yet, he was theoretically supposed to be teaching–not preaching–whichever poor, unlucky hockey player the producers despised for whatever reason. The idea of him being a real person that really existed was awful enough, let alone someone who was going to be on the set of this reality competition show with her. That was unbearable.
Still, the knowledge that she wouldn’t have to be skating with him was enough security to allow her to walk into the room they were filming in without hesitation. She’d already completed her first round of confessionals, in which she’d been prompted to say a lot of things she didn’t believe. She’d been told the type of character they wanted to mold her as, and she refused to follow through with it. The vow of silence she took could have made a monk proud.
As she walked into the studio, she was almost immediately met by an overwhelming urge to critique the aesthetic of the room. The walls were wooden, but the color belonged to an entirely different aesthetic than the tile flooring. The few pieces of furniture that were strewn around the room were equally out of place, and her desire to rearrange the room nearly caused her to miss the figure standing across from her. Or perhaps it was just a tactic of hers, and she was doing it entirely on purpose.
“Cut,” came the sound from one of the producers. “Good, Nat, but this time, a little less Russia’s Top Studio Makeover and a little more excitement to see him, okay?”
Without so much as a twitch of her eyebrow, the young woman was ushered back to the doorway before the cameras started rolling once again. During the pause, she studied the man’s expression and watched as he withered under the intensity of her gaze. She didn’t think she was imagining the fleshy, uneven tones his skin had taken on since they’d been in the room together. If she wasn’t so determined to make the producer work for his money, she might have even curled her lips upward in the slightest smirk. Still, her eyes danced around his body, examining everything from the color of his eyes to his general physique. Everything needed to have an aesthetic, and she couldn’t curate it without knowing every inch of her new partner.
On cue, Natasha walked forward confidently, studying his expression. She knew each of them had been assigned some sort of persona, and she wondered if any of his behavior was a sign of his. His face looked familiar, but she played the part of an ignorant individual quite well. She knew he hadn’t been in the news in a long time, and whatever she knew him for, it had nothing to do with hockey. She wondered briefly if he’d bribed someone to be partnered up with her, or if she was the truly unlucky one. It was obvious he was one of those there’s-good-in-the-world types that never got into any trouble and, thus, never got recognized for any talent he may have had. This challenge was going to prove more difficult than she originally expected.
Extending her hand, she mumbled a greeting. “Privyet.” It was more of a statement than a greeting, her tone deep and impersonal. She was certain he knew who she was, but she wondered if she could fool him into thinking she didn’t speak English very well. If she wasn’t obligated to speak to him, perhaps their partnership would be slightly less disastrous than she originally thought.
Spring 
Day 
