Chapter 10
I don’t even expect anything from him anymore and he STILL disappoints.
seriously!!! wtf was that!!
Y’all my grandma could do better than that routine and she died in the Clinton era
LOL rip grandma… but lowkey can she come back and save us from this mess…
Danny scrolls and scrolls, pulling his blanket tighter around him as the tweets get nastier.
He knows he shouldn’t be reading them, knows Matt would kick his ass if he found out, but…
a part of him feels like he deserves this for letting everyone down.
For letting his country down. For fucking up so badly, a newspaper that his dad reads published an article titled “Disaster for US men’s gymnastics team”—and put his picture right under the headline.
But at least while he’s reading the comments, he doesn’t have to think about his routine yesterday, because—
chest tight can’t breathe can’t—
Nope.
Not going there.
Mom: Hi honey, just checking in to see how you’re doing!
Mom: Text me or Dad when you have a chance. Breakfast tomorrow?
Sasha: Can you call me?
Danny hesitates, then swipes away the notifications.
He’s trying not to look at the number of unread texts, but—it’s a lot.
From not only Sasha and his mom, but also his dad, and Coach Garrett; and literally hundreds of other people, friends and relatives and strangers, new notifications popping up sometimes faster than he can dismiss them.
The more messages he gets, the more overwhelmed he feels, because all he really wants is a hug.
But he’d have to reply to a text for that, and he just… can’t.
So instead he keeps scrolling—and scrolling—
“Are you seriously on Twitter right now?”
The phone gets yanked out of his hand, and Danny jumps, tangling himself up in his blanket as he tries to turn around. Jesus, he hadn’t even heard Matt come into their room.
“Oh, fuck no,” Matt says, his eyes narrowing when he sees the last thing Danny was looking at—yet another retweet of that article. “Bro, you are not reading this bullshit.”
“I mean… it’s true,” Danny mumbles. He’s read it twice now, different sentences leaping out at him each time: “The US men crumbled under the pressure…” “Hartman was expected to be their ace on high bar, but he couldn’t deliver…” “His mistake cost Team USA their final chance at redemption…”
“No, it’s bullshit. Dude, this guy’s literally on his couch in his profile picture, and he wants to talk shit about you? These people can’t even do a fucking cartwheel, okay, and they’re trying to act like they know anything. Seriously, don’t listen to them. And stay the fuck off Twitter.”
“Yeah,” Danny agrees half-heartedly. He appreciates that Matt’s trying to boost him up, but it’s not just random people on Twitter—it’s the gym blogs, too. And they’re the ones calling it a pattern, bringing up his failures in Antwerp and Nanning. “Can I have my phone back?”
“No, bro, you’re in phone jail. Also, we have that gala thing.”
Danny sighs. Now that their event finals are over, the arena’s hosting an exhibition of all the different gymnastics disciplines—artistic, rhythmic, and trampolining among others—where the performers get to do fun, easier versions of their routines.
There’s also a banquet afterwards, which is the main reason most of the artistic gymnasts go, since no one’s on a diet anymore.
Until yesterday, he’d been excited to see the show (and Sasha), but now the last thing he wants to do is go back to that arena. They’ll still have the high bar set up, and he’ll have to sit there, and look at it, and think about—
can’t breathe
No.
can’t breathe
NO.
“I’m just gonna stay in,” he says quickly.
“Dude.” Matt raises an eyebrow, and that’s when Danny realizes he’s clenching the blanket so hard, his hands are shaking. Shit. Can Matt see that? “You need to, like, get out of bed.”
“I did,” Danny protests. He’d cried in the shower this morning; he’s been slinking out into the suite for food and bathroom breaks when no one’s around; and at some point he’d remembered to brush his teeth, though he couldn’t make himself care enough to put on real clothes. Whatever, his PJs are comfortable.
Matt gives him a skeptical look, but he doesn’t push it. “Okay, well, I’m gonna keep this,” he says, waving Danny’s phone before sliding it into his pocket. “We’re leaving in, like, half an hour if you change your mind.”
He closes the door on his way out, and now it’s just Danny and the voices he can’t stop hearing, circling around him like sharks.
Loser.
Pathetic.
Worthless.
He pulls the blanket over his head, but that only makes them louder.
*
Sasha hasn’t heard from Danny in almost twenty-four hours.
He didn’t respond when Sasha texted him during the medal ceremonies (after debating for five minutes between I am sorry and I am really sorry), but that wasn’t surprising; Sasha figured he was busy dealing with reporters in the mixed zone.
He didn’t answer the phone, either, when Sasha tried calling before and after dinner, but Sasha understood that, too; in Danny’s shoes, he probably would have turned his phone off altogether.
This morning, though, he’d started worrying. Not only were his notifications empty when he woke up, but he’d spotted the Americans eating breakfast in the dining hall, and Danny wasn’t with them.
Are you okay? Sasha texted, and nothing.
Danny?? an hour later, and still nothing.
Unsettled by the blank space under his texts, he’d spent all of lunch checking and rechecking his phone—or trying to, anyway.
The Danish men’s handball team had decided to join their table, which meant that Kirill, Ilya, and Oleg kept asking him to help translate.
After the fourth or fifth nudge from Kirill—who was chatting with the very blond Danish captain, attempting to explain how gymnastics scoring worked—Sasha had sighed and put away his phone, resigning himself to actually having to pay attention to the conversation.
Now, back in the dorms with nothing better to do while Kirill’s in the shower, he’s resorted to stalking Danny’s Instagram.
That hasn’t been updated, either, although people are commenting on his photo from yesterday morning, the one with a caption about being excited to compete in the high bar final.
Most of the remarks are supportive, praising Danny for being a class act and always having a smile on your face no matter what; but some are downright brutal, and the thought of Danny reading them makes Sasha’s blood boil.
I thot u were good bro wtf happened
Scowling, Sasha opens WhatsApp again. Scrolls through all his unanswered texts.
Sends another, this time asking Danny to call him.
He knows it’s pointless, knows Danny won’t respond until he’s ready and blowing up his phone won’t change that, but…
he’s worried. Danny hasn’t gone a whole day without contacting him since—Sasha can’t remember.
Probably since they’d first hooked up at the American Cup, and that was over a year ago.
His thumbs twitch, but he manages to refrain from texting again. Hopefully, Danny will show up at the gala this afternoon, or at least the banquet. Sasha doesn’t care about either event, but he’d told Ilya and Oleg he’d go with them, just for the chance of seeing—
Danny: hi sasha
Sasha sits bolt upright on his bed, staring at the typing dots. Something’s different, he thinks vaguely; Danny usually texts Hey Sash or the extra-smiley emoji.
Danny: its matt
Danny: can you come over
Danny: dannys not in a good place
Caught off-guard, Sasha blinks at the texts, then frowns when he rereads the last one.
Sasha: Where is he?
Danny: in our rooms
Sasha wonders what’s so bad about the Americans’ rooms—maybe they’re having some of the plumbing issues other teams were complaining about at the start of the Games? But before he can ask, Matt messages him again.
Danny: everyones going to the gala
Danny: theyre not coming back for awhile
Danny: i can let you in
For a moment, Sasha hesitates. Why is Matt texting him instead of Danny?
Or what if it’s not Matt, but someone else, and this is all a trap?
He has to admit, though, that doesn’t seem very likely—and besides, he wants to see Danny badly enough that he’ll risk it.
If it is a trap, well… he can just say he’s supporting a friend, which isn’t exactly newsworthy.
While he’s replying to Matt (or so he hopes), Kirill comes back from the shower and starts getting dressed, giving Sasha an appraising once-over as he pulls on his shorts.
“I told you that was better.”
Sasha glances down at his white shirt, the one Kirill had tossed him after raising an eyebrow at his other white shirt and asking him if he was really going to wear that to the gala.
Both of them looked exactly the same to Sasha, but Kirill had gone on about the fit, or the fabric, or whatever; Sasha stopped paying attention at some point, and now he’ll never know.
“Yeah,” he agrees anyway, because Kirill’s probably right, and then he feels a little less ungrateful for saying, “I don’t think I’m going to go.”
“Oh, come on,” Kirill groans, although he doesn’t look at all surprised. “We’re at the Olympics. All you’ve done since we got here is go to the gym, go on walks, and call your mom.”
Since this is basically a list of the excuses Sasha keeps making to see Danny—interspersed with actual calls to his mother, so she won’t get suspicious if Kirill mentions something later—he’s not in the best position to argue.
“Well, you’re not going,” Sasha says, which is true.
“Yeah, cause I’m fucking someone,” Kirill replies, which is also true; he’d downloaded Tinder on the bus back from the vault final, his silver medal still hanging around his neck, and he’s been matching with a steady stream of blondes ever since.
“Is this the Swedish swimmer?”
Kirill snorts, like he knows full well that Sasha doesn’t care and is just trying to change the subject. “No, this one’s from Denmark. Handball, actually.”
Sasha tilts his head, remembering something the Danish captain had said at lunch. “I thought their women’s team didn’t qualify?”
For a moment, Kirill looks thrown off; then he shrugs, turning around to dig through his wardrobe for a shirt. “I don’t know. Whatever. We were texting in English, I probably didn’t read it right.”
Sasha laughs. “Are you sure she’s even an athlete?”
“Don’t worry,” Kirill says, glancing back at him with a smirk. “I saw the pictures.”
Sasha could pretend to show more interest, could at least ask to see her profile like Ilya or Oleg undoubtedly would if they were here; but Matt’s just texted that the Americans are leaving for the gala, and right now all he cares about is making sure Danny’s okay.
Luckily, Kirill doesn’t linger after he gets dressed. Grabbing his phone from his nightstand—along with two condoms and a packet of lube—he heads to the door, pausing only to glance back at Sasha and ask what he’ll be doing while everyone’s out.
Sasha just shrugs, and Kirill sighs. “Well, at least download Tinder or something.”
“Yeah,” Sasha says, like he’s actually thinking about it.
Then he waits five minutes before following Kirill out of the apartment.