Chapter 8
On Tuesday, Sasha throws on some old workout gear while Kirill dons the official uniform of the Russian team, his fingers tracing reverently over the Olympic flame on the sleeve.
They take separate shuttle buses to the arena: Kirill going in early with the rest of the team, Sasha following a couple of hours later with Misha and the girls, trying not to feel resentful as he climbs up into the stands.
The seats are surprisingly decent, tucked into a corner behind the high bar, but he still has to squint at the jumbotron when the athletes parade out onto the floor at the start of the meet.
As each name gets called, the camera zooms in for a close-up, and thunderous applause reverberates throughout the arena.
Most of the gymnasts smile and salute, but Kirill barely acknowledges the crowd; his eyes are locked on the pommel horse, Russia and Japan’s first event.
Sasha would have given anything to be down there with him, standing shoulder to shoulder in white, blue, and red.
It’s easier to watch the Americans, especially Danny, who beams when they announce his name, bright enough to be his own spotlight. He steps forward, pivoting so he can wave at everyone in the audience, and the only person who gets louder cheers than him is the legendary Kohei Uchimura.
Sasha doesn’t usually pray outside of church, but remembering what Danny had said earlier—about both of their teams winning a medal today—he finds himself closing his eyes and asking for a miracle, for either Japan or China to falter so Russia and the US can share the podium.
After all, it’s not like there’s anything else he can do from up here.
*
Two and a half hours later, Sasha groans as Felix stumbles out of bounds again, the third fucking time since his routine started. And that’s not to mention the pass he just botched, a triple twist that went so crooked it was practically sideways.
Felix is visibly flustered, red-faced as he returns to the floor. It’s bad enough doing a routine like this when you’re only torpedoing your own chances at a medal, but during a team final, when you’re dragging everyone down with you, it’s a Kursk-level catastrophe.
And up until now, Russia was almost a lock for silver.
They’d started off surprisingly strong on pommel horse, thanks to a lights-out performance by Ilya, and they’d held onto first place for most of the meet, only dropping to second after Japan came back with a thundering high bar rotation.
Coming into the final rotation, they’d known gold was out—Japan was up before them on floor and had too much of a built-in lead from their difficulty scores alone—but all they’d had to do was land each pass on their feet, and silver would have been theirs.
Watching Felix undo the entire team’s work in less than a minute and thirty seconds, Sasha should probably feel sorry for him, but all he can think of is his own floor routine, the landings he’s honed to perfection over the last year.
He could have been down there, doing his part for the team; he could have gotten a better score than whatever this is going to be.
He knows that like he knows his own name, and instead he’s sitting up here, hands balled into helpless fists.
But as bad as this meet is going for Russia, it’s been even worse for the US.
Despite the Americans’ loudest cheerleading efforts (“Come on, bro, you got this!” “Get it!” “Let’s goooooo!
”), they’d fumbled their very first rotation with a fall on floor.
Then they’d gone to their worst event, pommel horse, where they’d had several form breaks, two heavily deducted dismounts, and another fall.
As the mistakes piled up, they’d gotten quieter and quieter, until there was barely a “Yeah, baby!” to be heard.
Danny and Matt rallied them with a pep talk after rings, and they’d regained some ground (and their vocal chords) on vault and parallel bars.
But now, a third of the way through their high bar rotation, they’re still over a point behind Japan, Russia, and China—which means that if they want to medal, then Matt and Danny, the last athletes up, both have to perform the best routines of their lives and hope that someone on another team falls.
Felix might have just done the fucking job for them, though, because Sasha’s pretty sure his out-of-bounds penalties are going to add up to the same amount of deductions as a fall.
Over on the sidelines, Ilya, Oleg, and Nikanor are shaking their heads at each other, while Kirill’s visibly fuming—he’s their final performer on floor, and he’ll have to clean up Felix’s mess if they want any shot at bronze, let alone silver.
The judges take so long to return Felix’s score, Matt goes on high bar and finishes his entire routine: a superb set with a dismount that lands like an explosion, the Americans jumping to their feet and screaming for all their lungs’ worth.
His score—a 15.333—comes in at the same time as Felix’s dismal 13.
866, and when Sasha sees those numbers, he gets a sinking feeling in his stomach, soon confirmed by the calculator on his phone.
At this point, Japan’s too far ahead for the rest of the field to catch; and with Russia, the US, and Great Britain still competing, it’s impossible to know what score anyone needs for bronze.
But in order for Russia to move ahead of China—who’s currently in second behind Japan—Kirill’s going to have to pull at least a 15.
469, a lot higher than what he’d gotten in qualifications.
Granted, that hadn’t been one of his better routines, but still…
And Danny’s facing an even taller order: a 15.
992. Possible, in theory, since he was only a tenth or so off of that in qualifications…
except the judges have been brutal on high bar today, and Sasha hasn’t seen a single gymnast score above a mid-fifteen.
If anyone can do it, though, it’s Danny, looking calm and confident as he salutes the judges, his smile gleaming from the jumbotron.
Sasha’s eyes dart between him and Kirill, who’s stepping onto the floor like a boxer stepping into the ring, ready to beat the absolute shit out of someone.
The camera cuts over for a glimpse, then seems to get spooked by the cold fury radiating from his features and immediately switches back to Danny.
From Sasha’s spot in the stands, he can see both of them clearly: Danny almost directly in front of him, leaping up to catch the high bar; and Kirill right behind Danny, charging across the floor.
He leans forward, silently urging them on, hoping against hope that they can get the scores they need to knock China off the podium.
When Kirill sticks his first tumbling pass, it feels like a good omen, but they’re nowhere near done yet.
Sasha doesn’t move or even breathe, watching Danny take off for his Cassina, soaring over the bar like a stunt plane—just as Kirill slams his double front flip down on the floor, feet planted into the carpet like a fuck-you to Felix—a split second before Danny grabs the bar again, nice and smooth, circling around for his next release—
And Sasha dares to think maybe, at the exact moment Danny throws his Kolman, a full-twisting double back flip over the bar, and misses one of his hands on the catch.
He hangs on, but barely. The audience gasps, his teammates groaning as he careens around the bar, having all but guaranteed that the US won’t get a medal now.
“Fuck!” Sasha hisses, and Misha looks at him strangely—Kirill’s just stuck his third pass in a row.
Swallowing his disappointment, he forces himself to focus on Kirill, making sure to call out “Davai!” when everyone else does.
But he keeps Danny in the periphery of his vision, enough to see that Danny finishes the routine without another mistake—not that it matters anymore.
And Danny knows it, too, judging by the tired smile he gives Matt when he comes off the podium, the apology Sasha can read on his lips.
But Kirill’s still going, and Christ, he’s not letting the judges take anything away—least of all on the landings, his fifth pass finishing with another stick.
Sasha can’t even imagine how his ankles are feeling right now, but he’s pretty sure Kirill’s telling the pain to fuck off, and not just because of his determination to win a medal.
No, this has spite written all over it, Kirill purposefully emphasizing his landings to show Felix how it’s done.
His final pass is a triple twist, and when he drills it right down to the floor, Sasha jumps up, roaring with all the other Russians in the stands.
He’s seen Kirill pull off some incredible feats, but sticking every single pass—under the kind of pressure that would have crushed almost any other athlete—is something else, even for him.
They’ll be broadcasting this on primetime back home, guaranteed, and Sasha wouldn’t be surprised if it inspires a whole new generation of Russian gymnasts.
Let Irina Kazakova try to find something to criticize about that.
For once, Kirill’s smiling as he returns to the sidelines, accepting shoulder claps from Ilya, Oleg, and Nikanor; but Sasha notices that he walks right past Felix, pretending not to see his outstretched hand.
And when everyone else huddles together, waiting anxiously for the score, Felix somehow winds up boxed out, hovering behind Kirill, Oleg, and Ilya until Nikanor takes pity and slings an arm around his shoulder.
Sasha almost feels bad for him, but then Kirill’s score comes in at a 15.600—and Russia wins the silver medal.
The crowd erupts, everyone around Sasha screaming their heads off. And fuck it, he’s screaming, too, jumping up and down with Misha and the girls, snapping pointless and blurry photos of the results on the jumbotron: Japan in first, Russia stealing second, and China settling for third.
“We did it!” Misha yells at him, caught up in the excitement. “We fucking did it!”
And just like that, Sasha’s good mood vanishes, slithering into a hole in his stomach. Because Misha’s wrong—there’s no we here, not in the gulf between champions and spectators.
Kirill did it. Ilya, Oleg, and Nikanor did it.
Sasha didn’t fucking do shit.
Suddenly, he can’t bring himself to watch his teammates celebrate.
(Not your teammates today, whispers a small, nasty voice in his head.) Needing a distraction, he looks for Danny and finds him slouched over on a folding chair, talking quietly with his coach while he puts away his grips.
The other Americans are just as subdued, glumly packing up their gear; they’d wound up finishing fifth, after Great Britain had a massive run on pommel horse.
The second Danny pulls out his phone, Sasha sends him a text.
It doesn’t feel like enough—all he can think of is I am sorry—but Danny immediately looks up, his eyes searching the stands.
Sasha had told him last night where the Russian team would be sitting, so it only takes a few seconds for them to make eye contact; they’re just close enough that Sasha can see Danny swallow before he texts back.
Danny: Wasnt our day
Sasha stares down at his phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as he tries to think of a comforting reply. He doesn’t know what the right words are for something like this; Danny’s the one who’s always been good at that, not him.
Danny: You okay?
The words hit him in the chest, a one-two punch of grief and guilt.
Russia just won its first team medal since the days of Alexei Nemov, and his best friend is the reason it’s silver instead of bronze, yet here he is feeling sorry for himself because he had to watch from the sidelines.
He should be proud of what the team accomplished, and thrilled for Kirill—but looking at Danny, all he can muster is a shrug.
There’s no judgment in Danny’s eyes, only sympathy.
Before he can text anything else, however, his coach taps him on the shoulder, motioning for him to finish packing up.
With one last glance at Sasha, he puts his phone away; a few minutes later, the Americans make a quiet retreat, bags slung across slumped shoulders as they follow the other defeated teams out of the arena.
A shout goes up on the floor, and Misha and the girls start cheering again.
Sasha glances over in time to see Oleg and Ilya unfurl a giant Russian flag, stretching it between them while the team poses for pictures.
Kirill’s right in the center, chest puffed, looking happier than Sasha’s ever seen him; when he raises his fist for the camera, the others follow suit, their faces flush with victory.
And Sasha watches from his seat, so far away that he might as well have never come to Rio at all.