Chapter 13
Danny can’t wait to go on tour.
It’s been a month since Rio, a month of telling his parents he’s fine, really, he just doesn’t feel like talking about it.
Smiling his way through the post-Olympic interviews—luckily, those had fizzled out after a few days—and then a welcome-back party at his home gym, Coach Garrett muttering apologetically that the team moms had wanted to plan something anyway.
He keeps smiling until it hurts, and then he smiles some more, because he shouldn’t be ungrateful.
When old classmates ask what it was like, when his parents’ friends come over for dinner and pepper him with questions, he tells them all what they expect to hear—“Yeah, I definitely could have done better, but it was still a great experience, you know, being at the Olympics, meeting so many people…”—and not the truth, which is that he would almost rather have not gone to the Olympics than done what he did.
His high school friends try to cheer him up, their efforts making it painfully clear they don’t understand: Patty clapping him on the shoulder (“I’m sorry, bro, that sucks”), Jess drunkenly defending his high bar routine (“Like, so what if you fell, some of the other guys did too! You totally didn’t deserve last place, those judges were so rude!
”). And then they move on, obviously, because the world doesn’t revolve around Danny, but—that’s it.
So he tries to move on, too, but none of his smiles feel real anymore.
He keeps waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to breathe, those bright-green arena walls closing in around him.
Sometimes it gets so bad, he has to go to the bathroom and lie down on the cool tile, shivering until Buddy curls up next to him.
Even his favorite spot at the beach doesn’t help, because when it’s just him and the waves, his thoughts turn like the tide back to Rio.
What he really needs is a change of scenery.
It’s not like he’ll be able to forget about the Olympics on tour, with all the promo, autograph signings, and pre-show panel discussions, not to mention the dance number on a giant replica of the Olympic rings.
But the panel questions are always softballs, ranging from “What’s your favorite food?
” to “What’s the scariest skill you’ve ever tried?
”, and half the kids won’t know or even care how he did at the Olympics, because all that matters to them are the cool flips.
Besides, tour is fun. He still remembers what a blast he had after London, performing in front of hyped-up crowds, goofing around on the bus with his teammates, sightseeing or partying on their days off.
Everyone’s sleep pattern shot to shit—leaving arenas at midnight, stumbling into hotels at three or four in the morning—and exhaustion making them all high-strung and hilarious, inside jokes multiplying like rabbits.
It’s two and a half months of go go go, of constant distractions and almost zero privacy—and that’s exactly what Danny needs right now, to not be alone with his thoughts.
To not have any thoughts at all, honestly, unless they’re about the next show or the next meal, or the next time he can talk to Sasha.
He might be looking forward to that even more than the tour itself: being able to call Sasha on days other than Sunday.
They’d had a whole conversation about it, Danny explaining that it wasn’t just the weekend shows, but the traveling, too, hours on a crowded bus with no way to be discreet about talking to your secret Russian boyfriend; and Sasha had reluctantly agreed that Danny could call whenever he had a chance, as long as he understood that Sasha might not be able to answer.
It’s a small victory, and it kind of makes him feel, well, small, having to practically beg his boyfriend for unscheduled phone time—but he’s looking on the bright side, which is that Sasha said yes.
And Danny’s willing to bet that if he makes it as close to a routine as possible, calling twice a week with heads-up texts, then Sasha will be a lot more relaxed about it by the time the tour is over, and it won’t take much to convince him they should keep doing it.
So, yeah, he’s basically been counting down the days until he can hit the road.
And even though it sucks saying goodbye to Buddy, Luna, and his parents again so soon, he’s already feeling ten pounds lighter when he boards the plane, the pressure in his chest loosening somewhere over the Rocky Mountains, easy breathing by the time the captain welcomes them to Colorado Springs.
The tour’s kicking off from the US Olympic Training Center, and with just four days until their first show, Danny barely has time to drop his stuff off at the dorms before he’s catapulted into costume fittings and choreography sessions.
He sneaks a call to Sasha at lunch—not nearly long enough, but better than nothing—and then it’s back to rehearsals, catching up with people during breaks and shit-talking Matt when he can’t hit his mark.
Everyone’s still wired after they finish for the day, and Danny ends up at a pizza place downtown with Matt, Julia, and a handful of their teammates, plus some of the tour dancers.
There’s outdoor seating, and the waiters rearrange the tables so they can all be together—the best kind of tight squeeze, Danny almost as much in Matt’s lap as Julia, knees and elbows knocking as they argue over pizza toppings (“Get the fuck outta here with that pineapple shit, bro”).
Matt had been evasive earlier, when Danny asked if he’d ever figured out what was bothering Julia at the Olympics; but it’s none of Danny’s business, and they seem solid now, roasting each other over their topping choices and making him play referee.
The evening passes in a blur of laughter, selfies, and stories, the girls pulling on sweaters as the sky deepens into a velvet blue, everyone talking about the cities they’re looking forward to, the memories they’re about to make.
Danny soaks it all in, grateful to be here, surrounded by old friends and new ones.
His calendar locked and loaded with distractions, glittering on the horizon just like the stars above.
He glances up at them during a lull in the conversation—wondering briefly if they’re different for Sasha, or maybe not, is that a Southern Hemisphere thing?
—and he takes a deep breath, because he’s good, it’s all good, and it’s only going to get better.
The next day, a newspaper he’s never heard of publishes an article about a doctor.
*
“How is he?”
It’s been a week since Kirill moved in with them, and this is how Sasha and Alina greet each other now, in hushed voices, swapping the question back and forth whenever one of them has to leave the apartment.
Today, it’s Sasha returning from the pharmacy, handing over a bag of painkillers for her inspection.
“He just woke up,” Alina replies, her brow wrinkled as she sorts through the boxes. “He says he’s feeling better, but—oh, good, you got my text about the analgin.”
Sasha’s phone battery had dwindled down to the single digits that afternoon, his own fault for neglecting to charge it the night before, so he hadn’t actually taken it with him; he’d just happened to remember her complaining that the pharmacy near her office was all out.
But he nods anyway, since it’s not really worth correcting her and then having to explain.
“Why don’t you go check on him,” Alina suggests. “I’m making fish soup for dinner, it’ll be ready in an hour.”
Sasha drops the painkillers off in the medicine cabinet, then cautiously nudges at his door.
The lights are off, but the blinds are slanted, casting thin stripes of fading sun over where Kirill’s sitting up in Sasha’s bed.
His shoulders are hunched over, his head between his knees; he doesn’t stir when Sasha steps into the room.
“Are you okay?”
Kirill makes a noise, the kind that falls somewhere between Yes and No, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Rubbing his forehead, he asks hoarsely, “Did I take any analgin after lunch?”
“Yeah, you had two of them.” Sasha frowns, hoping Kirill’s just groggy from a nap. “Do you want more?”
Kirill considers the offer for a moment. “I’ll wait,” he decides, and then he looks up.
The sight’s not as shocking as it was last week, when he had blood in his eyes and a bright-red handprint on his throat, yet Sasha still has to fight not to flinch.
The worst of the bruises are draining now, collecting in a dark pool along Kirill’s jawline, but others are lingering: a mark on his cheekbone from Vladimir’s ring, the lone imprint of a finger on his neck.
And every last one of those injuries is Sasha’s fault.
If he hadn’t convinced Kirill to go behind Irina’s back, if he hadn’t pushed and pushed after Alina warned him not to, then Kirill would be…
well, not safe. Not in that apartment, where he was always within arm’s reach of Vladimir.
But he wouldn’t have turned up on their doorstep half dead, sobbing so hard he couldn’t speak, his blood dripping onto the welcome mat as he collapsed into Alina’s arms.
His father wouldn’t have fucking strangled him.
Sasha’s still replaying that awful night, feeling guilty and useless all over again, when he realizes Kirill’s saying something.
“Someone keeps calling you.”
Sasha blinks, then stiffens, fear trickling like ice water down his spine.
His eyes dart to the nightstand beside his bed—Kirill’s bed now—where he’d stupidly left his phone to charge, turning it facedown and somehow thinking that was enough.
As if, in a dark room, it wouldn’t be the easiest thing for Kirill to reach for his own phone and grab Sasha’s instead.
“Yeah?” he asks, mouth dry, thanking his fucking stars that Danny’s name isn’t in his contacts anymore. He’d deleted it in a panic the day after Kirill moved in, leaving only an anonymous number.