Chapter 17
“I still can’t believe you’re going to be training with Hartman for two weeks,” Kirill says, downing the last of his beer with a grimace.
“Me neither.” Sasha feigns a helpless shrug, as if he has no idea how any of this happened. Which isn’t a lie—he really can’t believe it all worked out, just like Danny promised.
Back in February, he’d fed Kirill the story about messaging Danny for recommendations, only to receive a coaching invitation instead (“…and I was trying to figure out how to say no, but then he called me—yeah, I gave him my number at the American Cup, but I didn’t think he’d actually use it”).
To his astonishment, Kirill had swallowed the whole thing, though he’d wasted no time informing Sasha that it was his own fault.
“You didn’t tell him to fuck off, and now he thinks you’re friends, because he’s a fucking American and that’s what they do.
Jesus Christ. Can you imagine inviting someone to stay at your house and you don’t even know them?
And what, like you don’t have anything better to do than coach at his gym?
See, this is what happens when you’re nice to these people. ”
As convenient as it would have been to recycle the same excuses for his mother, however, Sasha didn’t want her to think that Danny was an annoying American who wouldn’t accept no for an answer.
Instead, he’d nervously explained that Danny was someone he’d been running into at competitions for a few years…
that he seemed nice… and that he happened to live near Los Angeles, so when Sasha had mentioned the trip to him… etc.
At first, he’d worried that he hadn’t been convincing enough, because Alina had looked extremely taken aback by the news. After a long silence, she’d asked if he was sure about this; and when he’d nodded, not trusting himself to speak, she’d startled him by requesting to see a picture of Danny.
He’d fumbled for something online, showing her Danny’s Wikipedia page and a YouTube clip of his high bar routine at the American Cup. But when the video finished playing, all Alina said was, “I’d like to meet him.”
Sasha’s been trying not to panic about this, because Danny had gotten the biggest grin on his face when he’d heard, and he’d promised—before Sasha could even ask—that he wouldn’t do anything to give them away.
So Sasha keeps reminding himself that he trusts Danny, if not Danny’s idea of discretion; he’ll just warn his mother in advance about how touchy-feely the Americans are, and that should smooth over any awkward moments. He hopes.
Besides, everything else had come together over the spring, like puzzle pieces snapping into place: his coaches’ approval to take extra time off (only given, Sasha’s sure, because they’re still three years out from Tokyo); the visa paperwork; the plane tickets; and an itinerary for the first half of the trip, a sprawling list of hotels, public transit options, and sightseeing activities (to which Danny had helpfully contributed about fifty links with emoji-ridden commentary).
Now summer’s here and there’s nothing left to plan, no more days to count down on the calendar.
Tomorrow, he’ll be boarding a flight to the US, and in two weeks, he’ll be seeing Danny for the first time since the Olympics.
It’s hard to believe he’s so close—he’s practically vibrating in his seat, imagining the moment he’ll finally get to kiss Danny again.
Well. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s mostly imagining the moment he’ll finally get to lose his virginity.
Somehow, despite all their conversations about his visit, they’ve never actually talked about having sex—Danny hasn’t mentioned it, and without an opening, Sasha’s been too embarrassed to ask—but he’s positive it’s going to happen.
He still remembers the last time they’d discussed it, in Rio, and how Danny had been the one to suggest getting a hotel room at the next World Championships.
Which means Danny’s ready, and no surprises there, considering how many ex-girlfriends he’s mentioned in passing.
Sasha tries not to let himself think about those parts of Danny’s life, because he doesn’t want the details, but—well.
After all the comments he’s heard from Kirill and Oleg about the things they’ve done with their girlfriends, it seems pretty safe to assume that Danny’s done anal before, and now he’s just waiting for Sasha to be ready, too.
And Sasha is ready, has been for a really fucking long time—all those nights he’s spent scrolling through Danny’s #noshirtsaturday photos, embarrassed by how desperate they make him (but not embarrassed enough to stop reaching for that jar of petroleum jelly).
He’s probably even been ready since before Rio, though he doesn’t regret not trying to have sex in the Olympic Village; it would have been far too risky, and he never would have been able to relax.
But now they’ll be in Danny’s house, and both of Danny’s parents work, so…
“You know he’s going to be talking the entire time you’re there, right?”
The question yanks Sasha out of a rapidly forming daydream, back to the crowded bar where Kirill, Ilya, and Oleg had insisted on taking him to celebrate his last night in Moscow.
“Yeah, probably,” he agrees, giving Kirill another what can you do shrug.
Before Kirill can say anything—he’s still frowning, like he’s about to try and convince Sasha to cancel the whole trip—Ilya chimes in, leaning over to snag some fried brown bread from a platter in the center of the table.
“Danny’s really nice, though. Did I ever tell you guys he gave me a protein bar at the all-around in Rio?
I forgot mine and I was starving, and he was just like, ‘Here you go,’ even though I was, like, two-tenths ahead of him. ”
Kirill rolls his eyes at Sasha, who quickly hides a smile behind his beer.
Ilya likes anyone who shares their food with him, so it’s not much of a recommendation, but Sasha’s also certain Kirill wouldn’t have done the same thing in Danny’s shoes.
For him, yes; for another teammate, maybe; but for anyone else, zero chance.
“I think it’ll be cool to see how the Americans train,” Ilya continues, his mouth now full of bread. “They don’t have a place for their national team, right? Aren’t they all at their own gyms?”
“Who cares?” Oleg elbows Ilya, then pats him on the back when he almost chokes on his food. “I’d rather spend time with the American girls. My cousin went to Texas a few years ago and he said they’re so fucking easy, you don’t have even have to do anything.”
“Yeah, until they try and shoot you…”
Sasha starts tuning out the conversation.
It’s the same stupid shit he’s heard a million times before, and he’d much rather think about a miraculously empty house in Newport Beach, Danny’s parents gone for the afternoon, clothes coming off between kisses.
Danny asking if he wants this, if he’s ready, if he’s sure he’s ready, the answer always yes, Sasha hard and breathless on his hands and knees, waiting for Danny to—
“Sasha, I bet Danny could hook you up,” Ilya says, and the bar blinks back into focus, Sasha instinctively nodding as if he’s been paying attention this whole time. “He probably has tons of girlfriends, have you seen his Instagram? With all those shirtless photos? His comments are crazy.”
“Oh, really?” Like Sasha hasn’t noticed. Like he isn’t the reason Danny’s been posting those pictures, one #noshirtsaturday a week.
But any amusement he might have felt vanishes when Ilya tilts his head, looking at him with sudden curiosity. “You’ve never had a girlfriend, have you?”
The innocuous question turns Sasha’s stomach inside out, and for a horrible moment he’s convinced the truth is stretched across his face, like an animal skinned and strung up for display.
He knows he needs to do something, shrug or make a joke, play it off, anything other than sitting there, frozen—but one second passes, then another, and he can’t think, his mind still peeling itself away from Danny…
“When the fuck have you had a girlfriend?” Kirill scoffs at Ilya. “You know they actually have to respond to your DMs first, right?”
Everyone winces at the reference to Anastasia Kozlova, the former Olympic figure skater Ilya had tried to hit on at a gala earlier this year.
Even Sasha could tell she was out of his league, the “siren of Sochi” with her flaming red hair—but Ilya had still begged Kirill to be his wingman, pulling him over to chat with Anastasia and her friend while Sasha and Oleg bet each other on how long he’d last.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, Anastasia hadn’t outright rejected Ilya.
Instead, she’d given him her Instagram handle (“Her public Instagram,” Kirill had pointed out) and told him he was “sweet.” Which meant that for the next two weeks, they’d all had to put up with Ilya asking if they thought she’d seen his messages yet, or if he should send another one, until Kirill had finally snapped at him to stop embarrassing himself.
“Fuck you.” Ilya’s voice trembles as he pushes his chair back and storms off to the bar, wine-stain red blotches on his cheeks.
Oleg gets up, too. “Sasha?” he asks, gesturing at what’s left of their beers.
Sasha nods, trying not to show his relief, and Oleg’s gaze shifts to Kirill, dropping pointedly to the empty glass in front of him before he looks back up and says, “Don’t be a fucking dick.”
“Fuck off,” Kirill replies, which is pretty mild, all things considered, and Oleg seems to decide it’s not worth the argument. Shaking his head, he walks away after Ilya, leaving Sasha and Kirill alone at the table.
“Thanks,” Sasha mutters awkwardly. He wishes Kirill hadn’t been quite so brutal about distracting Ilya from his lack of a girlfriend, but he’s more relieved that it worked.
Besides, at least Kirill hadn’t told Ilya that Anastasia had messaged him after the gala.
“Don’t worry about it.” Kirill shrugs, unfazed and unrepentant; Sasha knows he won’t apologize to Ilya, but the next time they’re at the gym, he’ll find a way to toss him an extra compliment, or a pointer, and Ilya will latch onto it like the bone that it is. “He’s an idiot. You’ll find someone.”
Sasha flushes, fiddling with his napkin.
Kirill has no idea that he’s already found someone—let alone that it’s Danny, the person who always seems to be on his last nerve—and Sasha doesn’t want to think about what would happen if the truth ever came out.
In fact, even not-thinking about it now makes his stomach twist, like he’s eaten too much fried bread.
Luckily, Kirill gets distracted by a notification on his phone—or maybe not so luckily, because he stiffens when he reads it.
“What?” Sasha asks, though he already knows the answer: there are only two people in the world who can make Kirill’s face freeze like that.
After a long moment, Kirill shows him the text.
Unknown: Please call me back, Kiryusha. It’s been too long. I love you.
“Kiryusha?” Sasha echoes, wrinkling his nose. It’s a normal enough diminutive for Kirill’s name, but Kirill hates that shit, has never answered to it for as long as Sasha can remember—which Irina should know damn well. “Is she serious?”
Kirill shakes his head, then taps at the screen and blocks the number. “Anyway. What were we—oh, yeah. You’ll find someone.”
“Yeah.” Sasha feigns interest in the drinks menu. “Sure.”
“Hey.” Kirill nudges him, eyes glinting. “How about a nice, quiet American?”
For about three seconds, Sasha looks at Kirill and Kirill smirks back; then they both burst into laughter, each for a completely different reason.
They’re still catching their breath when the others return.
Ilya’s cheeks are their usual color again, and Oleg’s carrying drinks for everyone except Kirill, who takes his punishment with good grace.
As the conversation resumes, Sasha leans over, sliding the snack plate with the last piece of fried bread over to Ilya.
“Thanks, Sasha.” Ilya gives him a grateful smile, then raises his glass. “To happy journeys.”
“Yeah, to happy journeys,” Oleg echoes, joining the toast. “And to happy American girls.”
Sasha and Kirill’s glances meet; Kirill rolls his eyes, and Sasha stifles a grin behind his drink.
“To happy American girls,” he agrees.