Chapter 9 #2
He sends the Cassina and the Kolman on a prayer, one long chant of please make this please make this please make this as he soars into the air for each full-twisting double back flip, the Cassina with his body straight and the Kolman with his legs tucked up underneath him.
Miraculously, he catches both of them—but it costs him almost all the oxygen he has left, and even after he switches to some of the easier elements in his routine, he can’t seem to regain his breath.
Then he gets to the Tkatchevs.
The first one is simple: he flings himself up and backwards over the bar, keeping his body in a straight line before grabbing the bar on his way down.
The second one is where it gets tricky, because this time, he does a half turn and catches the bar backwards, almost blind.
If he’s an inch too far away, he falls; if he’s an inch too close, he kills his swing and gets hammered by the judges for muscling himself back around. He has to be perfect.
He can’t fucking breathe.
But he doesn’t need to breathe, he just needs to catch the bar.
And that’s exactly what he does for the first Tkatchev—got it—ignoring the tightness in his chest as he swings up and lets go again—holy shit, why can’t I breathe—and twists—forget about that, just catch the fucking bar, where is it, okay, come on, grab it—
—and the bar slips right through his fingers.
*
Sasha’s heart stops as Danny hits the mat, landing on his hands and knees to a disappointed groan from the crowd. The jumbotron camera immediately zooms in for a close-up, letting everyone in the arena see his bowed head, a fluttering of lashes as he blinks at the ground.
“Oh, shit, is he hurt?” Ilya asks in a hushed voice.
Danny shouldn’t be injured—it was a safe fall onto a crash mat—but he’s clearly winded, the stars and stripes on his leotard trembling as he takes deep, gulping breaths.
The crowd goes quiet when his coach kneels beside him, murmuring something in his ear; Danny nods, then shakes his head, still not looking up.
Sasha hates every second of this, watching Danny try to compose himself in front of fifteen thousand people, camera crews leaning over the sides of the podium for a better view of his face.
Even Kirill’s grimacing in something like sympathy—it’s bad enough falling at a regular meet, when only gymnastics fans care, but it’s unspeakably worse at the Olympics, your lowest moment livestreamed and broadcast for the entire world to see.
“It’s okay, Danny, you’ve got this,” Matt shouts from the sidelines, and the rest of Team USA takes up the call, their cries of encouragement echoing from the stands.
Sasha cringes, wishing they would shut up—they have to know that Danny doesn’t got this, no matter how good the rest of his routine is.
He’s already lost a point from the fall; he has no chance of winning a medal now.
Slowly, Danny pulls himself to his feet.
The audience applauds, showing their support, and he acknowledges them with a smile Sasha doesn’t recognize, lips pressed tight in a line that never curves.
After chalking up again, he salutes the judges and remounts, pausing for a split second with his hips balanced on the bar.
When the jumbotron shows a close-up of his face, Sasha can’t see anything in his eyes at all.
Danny starts swinging, and within seconds it becomes clear that he’s going for the Tkatchev again, hoping to get credit for the skill.
But as soon as he soars into the air, Sasha knows he’s mistimed the release—trying not to miss the bar, he’s over-corrected, not giving himself enough space.
As a result, he’s far too close when he makes the catch, his elbows bent at almost ninety degrees when they should have been fully extended.
The mistake kills his momentum, and instead of swinging around the bar like he’s supposed to, he stalls out and has to swing back down before he can try again.
Sasha winces when he finally makes it over the bar, rushing into a stoop half turn even though the next move in his routine was a Zou Li Min; then he winces again when Danny goes back for the Zou Li Min and has to add another half turn to get himself into the right position.
“What the fuck is he doing?” Kirill’s eyes are narrowed at the jumbotron, his expression baffled. “Did he forget his routine?”
It’s the worst high bar work Sasha’s ever seen from Danny.
Deduction after deduction after deduction, the kind of routine you watch through your fingertips, just praying for it to be over—and God, Sasha wants it to be over for Danny’s sake, because there’s no salvaging this.
The crowd is muted in horror, but Matt and the rest of Team USA are still screaming, like if they yell hard enough it’ll cover up all the errors Danny’s making.
“COME ON, DANNY! FINISH STRONG! YOU’VE GOT THIS!”
Finally, Danny does his dismount, wobbling a little on the landing but managing to keep himself upright.
The arena gives him their loudest round of applause yet, a collective show of respect and relief; and he acknowledges them with a wave, the gesture almost mechanical-looking, his eyes completely vacant.
As soon as he steps off the podium, his coach pulls him in for a hug. After, Matt takes him under his arm and starts talking, his lips moving too quickly for Sasha to read on the jumbotron. “It’s okay,” Danny tells both of them, teeth flashing white, an empty echo of a grin. “I’m okay.”
“That sucks,” Ilya remarks next to Sasha. “He would have won, right? If he’d just done his qualifying routine?”
“Not the first time he’s choked in a final,” Kirill mutters, and Sasha has to dig his fingers into the backs of his knees to stop himself from saying something he’d regret.
When Danny’s score comes in, it’s—well, it’s last place, is what it is.
Sasha watches Danny take a breath. Stitch on a smile, tight and taut like a stranger’s.
Wave at the crowd one more time, thanking them for their support, before turning to Matt and clapping him on the shoulder.
“Congrats, man,” he says, Sasha squinting at the jumbotron to follow his words. “You got bronze!”
It takes several seconds for Matt to register that he’s won a medal, and as Danny slips away, he stares awkwardly at the ring of cameras, like he doesn’t know if he should look happy or not.
But then Danny comes back with an American flag, draping it around Matt’s shoulders and nudging him towards the floor, where the German and British gymnasts are already posing with their own flags.
“Go,” he says. “It’s your moment.”
So Matt climbs the podium, joining the other winners for a group photo, and the audience cheers them on, applauding their skill and good fortune.
But all Sasha can see is Danny, who’s standing very still behind the cameras, that horrible smile frozen on his face as he watches Matt celebrate a medal that could have so easily been his.