Chapter 4 #2
He doesn’t hear a word of the speeches—not from Coach Maxim, and not from Vadim Petrovich Ustinov, the Russian Olympic Committee representative overseeing the selection ceremony.
Eventually, he gets nudged by the other alternate, Misha Belov; they’re being called to the front of the floor, where the real team is already lined up, shaking hands with Coach Maxim and Vadim.
Sasha stands where he’s told, ignoring Kirill’s attempts to make eye contact—which thankfully end when Vadim swoops in, crying “Kirill!” in a voice as warm and effusive as if Kirill were his own son.
Whatever Kirill says in response, Sasha doesn’t hear it; he’s too busy staring straight ahead, fighting every muscle in his body not to cry.
A shadow shifts in his peripheral vision, and then Vadim steps in front of him. “Aleksandr Ishkhani,” he says softly, with a smile that barely leaves a ripple on his face. “Congratulations.”
Even if Sasha had made the team, the last thing he’d want to do is smile back.
“Ishkhani. That’s one of those Armenian patronymics, isn’t it?
” Vadim had asked, wrinkling his nose when Kirill introduced them at a reception the year before.
As if the name of Sasha’s father was something that should have been tossed out with the garbage.
“My ex-wife is Armenian. Her whole family, too. Miserable people. Can’t get a single one of them to do an honest day’s work. ”
Sasha could quote it from memory like his mother could recite the Lord’s Prayer.
At least Vadim moves on to “Belov!” quickly. Sasha watches them shake hands, and he has the fleeting thought that Vadim might have skipped that part with him on purpose; but when Coach Maxim tells everyone to start packing their bags for Rio, he can’t bring himself to care anymore.
Somehow, he ends up in the locker room: Oleg putting a hand on his shoulder as he walks past, Ilya hovering in front of him and not knowing what to say, Kirill trying to catch his eye over a swarm of juniors offering their congratulations.
He leaves as fast as he can, yanking his clothes on over his leotard and slipping through the door while Kirill’s still shaking off the juniors.
He’s barely made it outside the building when he hears running footsteps behind him, and the only reason he turns around is because Kirill will chase him to the dorms if he has to.
“Sasha—”
Sasha shakes his head. He already knows what Kirill’s going to say, fuck Felix and fuck Coach Maxim, and he can’t talk about what just happened. Not when it’s still hitting him in waves, each one worse than the last, and all he wants is to get to his room before he drowns.
Thankfully, Kirill doesn’t argue. Instead, he pulls Sasha into a quick, hard hug, the kind that makes it impossible to breathe or cry. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Before the banquet.”
Sasha winces. He’d forgotten about the banquet, a lavish, speech-ridden affair hosted by the Ministry of Sports for the men’s and women’s gymnastics teams, alternates included.
It’s going to be a whole fucking week of dinners and send-offs, culminating in a farewell ceremony with the president, and Sasha’s going to have to sit there and smile through every last one of them.
He can’t think about that right now. He just nods into Kirill’s shoulder, and as soon as Kirill lets him go, he turns away, walking back to the dorms on autopilot.
Blinks and he’s climbing up the stairs, no memory of entering the building.
Blinks again and he’s in the middle of his room, looking down at his shaking hands, couldn’t even guess how long he’s been standing there.
He didn’t make the team.
It’s nothing like last time, his first year as a senior with no expectations, happy just to have a ticket to London.
This time, he’d wanted it enough to bleed for it.
Had bled for it, bruises all over his body, skinned knees and shredded palms, scraps of him left behind on every piece of equipment and none of it mattered because they didn’t pick him.
The worst part is, he’d actually thought they would.
Waiting on the floor for Coach Maxim to go through the list, convincing himself that fourth place at the Russian Cup was enough, that he’d proven he could hit when it counted.
In that split second before the last name was announced, he’d even dared to imagine celebrating with Kirill afterwards, Alina and Danny’s reactions when he told them the news…
Fuck. He has to call his mother now, before they make the announcement online.
The thought of saying it aloud makes him feel sick, but he forces himself to pick up his phone. He hasn’t checked his notifications since the afternoon practice started, and his stomach clenches when he sees a new message from Danny.
Danny: How did it go??
Right below is the good-luck text he’d sent that morning, the one Sasha hadn’t opened because he’d wanted to keep seeing the notification whenever he looked at his phone.
His eyes start blurring, all the words on the screen sliding into each other, and it takes him twice as long as it normally does to make the call. Alina answers right away, sounding breathless, hopeful.
“Sasha?”
“Mom—”
And then he’s bawling like a fucking baby, crying so hard he can’t stand, has to stumble over to the bed and sit, shoulders bowed, elbows braced against his knees.
It’s ugly and humiliating, snot running down his lips as he gasps for air, chest tight, his mother’s voice a low, comforting murmur in his ear.
Eventually, he chokes out that he’s an alternate.
He almost wishes he hadn’t, because Alina tries to cheer him up, saying things like, “Well, maybe you’ll still have a chance to compete,” and he has to grit his teeth so he doesn’t snap at her.
The only way he’s making it onto the roster now is if one of his teammates gets injured, and he won’t hold his breath, not even for Felix, since it could just as easily be Kirill.
While he’s trying to figure out how to politely ask her to stop, his phone chirps. It’s Danny, and Sasha’s throat tightens as he declines the call.
“Oh, Sashenka,” Alina’s saying when he’s able to pay attention again, “I know you’re disappointed. But at least you’ll still get to go with your friends.”
That’s not the fucking point! Sasha wants to shout.
He won’t be on the floor with them, won’t be on the podium if they win a medal, won’t even be in the team photo that gets hung in the locker rooms at Round Lake.
For the rest of their lives, Kirill, Ilya, and Oleg will have the right to call themselves Olympians, while he’ll have to explain to everyone that yes, he was there, but no, he didn’t compete.
“Mom, I think—I think I’m going to go to bed,” he mumbles, pressing his fingertips against his temples and taking a slow, unsteady breath.
Alina pretends to believe him, even though it’s barely six-thirty. “Of course, dear. Get some rest, and we’ll talk later. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he says around the lump in his throat.
When he hangs up, three more messages from Danny are waiting for him.
Danny: Sasha I’m sorry
Danny: I just saw the news
Danny: Here if you want to talk
Sasha rereads the texts, vacillating. He doesn’t want to talk, not to anyone, but maybe with Danny he won’t have to.
Otherwise, he’ll just be alone in his room all night, going over every routine, every workout, driving himself crazy trying to pinpoint the mistake that made Coach Maxim cross him off the list.
He wipes his tears on the back of his hand, cleans the rest of his face with a tissue. Then, before he can lose his nerve, he plugs in his headphones and hits the call button.
Danny picks up even faster than Alina. “Hey, Sash,” he says softly, and fuck, Sasha’s eyes are watering again. “I’m really sorry.”
Sasha couldn’t piece together a coherent response if he tried; the best he’s able to manage is a feeble “Thank you.”
“I don’t understand,” Danny says after a moment, sounding genuinely bewildered. “I mean, Felix keeps making all these mistakes, and you’ve been so consistent this year.”
Sasha swallows, staring at the threadbare carpet beneath his feet. “He is still better on high bar.”
It’s the only thing he can think of, grasping for an explanation—that Coach Maxim’s decided they have a better chance with a stronger high bar lineup, and pommel horse is no longer a priority.
“Yeah, but it’s not even worth taking him for that!” Danny argues. “Like, you’re scoring fifteens on your vault, right, and he’s doing what, thirteen on high bar? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Anger flares in Sasha’s chest, and he has to bite his tongue before he says something he’ll regret.
He doesn’t want to have this conversation, doesn’t want to debate with Danny about why he was left off the team—because the fact is, he’ll never fucking know.
And he’s the one who’s going to have to live with that, not Danny.
After a few seconds of silence, Danny seems to realize he’s pushed too far. “I’m sorry. I just… I really thought it was gonna be you.”
As quickly as it came, Sasha’s rage disappears. All he has now is misery—the kind that burns in his throat, at the corners of his eyes, until his whole face is screwed up against it.
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
Sasha doesn’t even care how pathetic he sounds, he’s so desperate to make this pain go away. “Can you… can we talk about… not gymnastics?”
“Yeah, totally,” Danny agrees, and Sasha’s never felt more indebted to anyone when he asks, “Did I tell you I decided what Buddy and Luna are being for Halloween this year?”
Sasha blinks through his tears. He knows Danny likes to dress up his dogs—any American holiday seems to be an excuse for at least a bandana—but he hadn’t realized there was this much advance planning. “Uh… no?”
“Okay, so, last year they were sharks, and this year I was like, what about ghosts, but then I was talking to Patty, you know, my high school friend, and he was like, ‘Dude, what if they were bananas…’”
As Danny describes his attempts at getting Buddy and Luna to wear the banana costumes, Sasha curls up on his mattress, letting the words wash over him.
When it all becomes too much, he presses the mute button on his phone; and then, once he’s certain Danny can no longer hear him, he turns his face into his pillow and cries until there’s nothing left.