Chapter 33
There’s nothing like getting to the beach before the crowds, when the world’s waking up and the sun’s still rolling out of the mountains, blinking the mist and fog from its eyes.
When the temperature’s cool enough that you need a sweater, and all the best parking spaces are wide open, because it’s just you and the dogwalkers, the seagulls, and the waves.
Plus some seriously insane surfers.
“This is crazy!” Sasha exclaims as someone wipes out on a massive swell, their board flying into the air. “Who does this?”
He’s clearly enthralled by the spectacle, even slipping back into Russian a few times, wincing and oy-yoo-ing at the nastier falls.
Watching his reactions, Danny can’t help but smile—and yawn.
Setting an alarm on a Sunday, skipping breakfast in favor of coffee, and showing up at the beach an hour before Patty and the rest of his friends, just so Sasha could see the surfers at the Wedge? One hundred percent worth it.
And way better than having a fight at a bakery.
Well, maybe “fight” isn’t the right word.
Danny can’t figure out what else to call it, though, just like he can’t figure out how he’d pissed off Sasha in the first place.
Sasha had been in a bad mood even before Danny asked him why he didn’t identify as Armenian—he’d ignored Tigran pretty much the entire time they were in the bakery, and the way he was acting, it was almost like he didn’t want to be there at all.
But that was nothing compared to how angry he’d gotten after, insisting that he wasn’t Armenian.
And although it had made sense what he was saying, about not living in Armenia or speaking the language, Danny still feels like he’s missing something.
Even if Sasha doesn’t consider himself, like, culturally Armenian, why wouldn’t he want to keep that connection to his dad? And why would he be so upset about it?
Danny might have asked, if he hadn’t thought Sasha would blow up at him again.
At least Sasha seems more relaxed now, bundled up in one of Danny’s LA U sweatshirts, his elbows resting on his knees.
He’d looked around earlier when Danny scooted closer to him, leaving less than a foot of sand between them; but he hadn’t moved, and Danny’s going to take what he can get, especially since they’ll have to play it even safer once they’re with his friends.
Checking his phone, he realizes they should probably be heading out soon—they’re supposed to meet Patty and everyone further down the beach—but he doesn’t say anything, because he’s not ready to call it just yet.
He wants to enjoy his time alone with Sasha for a little longer…
and, he has to admit, he also wants to keep watching the surfers.
“How do they balance?” Sasha asks, his voice awed. “When… how do you say… this thing they use? It has so much water?”
“Oh, you mean the surfboard? They use wax. I don’t know if it’s, like, beeswax or something—I’ve never been surfing before—but yeah, otherwise it’d be, like, super slippery.”
Sasha looks confused, so Danny pulls up a translation for the word “wax,” but Sasha’s still frowning when he hands the phone back. “You never surfed?”
“Gymnastics,” Danny says, and Sasha nods, no explanation needed; just a few seconds ago, they’d watched another surfer go down, their body crashing into the water with an audible smack. “I really wanted to when I was a kid, though.”
In fact, he’d begged his parents for lessons, but they’d put him in t-ball and soccer instead; later, he’d found out that one of his dad’s cousins had drowned in a surfing accident.
Even then, though, he’d still dreamed about hanging ten someday—at least until middle school, when his teammate Kyle had a nasty wipeout on a wave, broke his arm, and wound up missing regionals.
Back then, the thought of missing a competition had spooked Danny way more than a distant relative’s death.
So surfing went onto the long list of things he couldn’t do because of gymnastics, like skiing, snowboarding, and smoking pot; and now, every time he’s at the ocean, he looks at the waves and thinks, Someday.
“But hey,” he says, as much to himself as to Sasha, “that’s what retirement’s for, right? I’m going surfing as soon as I’m done with gymnastics. And then skiing and like, everything. It’s gonna be awesome.”
Not that he’s put a ton of thought into it, since he’s nowhere near ready to give up gymnastics…
but by default, he’s always imagined himself doing these things with Patty and the guys, or maybe Matt and Yulien and some other retired teammates.
All of a sudden, though, he’s picturing Sasha there instead, the two of them paddling out into the ocean to catch their first wave.
And he wants that so badly, it takes his breath away.
“What?” Sasha asks, frowning again.
Shit. Danny’s face must have been doing something weird. “Uh… nothing. I was just thinking, uh, we should probably get going. Time for you to meet everyone.”
“Okay,” Sasha says, but he doesn’t move an inch.
Danny stifles a smile. It’s obvious that Sasha’s nervous; he looks like Danny just told him it was time to swim through a school of sharks.
But Danny’s friends are the best—all right, maybe he’s a little biased—and he’s already hyped Sasha up to them, so Sasha doesn’t need to worry at all.
Today’s going to be awesome. He can feel it.
“Come on.” He stands up, offering a hand to Sasha. “Let’s go.”
*
Sasha was liking this beach day a lot better when it was just him and Danny, but it’s too late to cancel the rest of it now, so he reluctantly lets Danny pull him to his feet. He’s rewarded with a grin and a view, Danny tugging off his sweatshirt and stuffing it into his Team USA backpack.
“You should put on some sunscreen,” he says, tossing a bottle to Sasha. “You’re gonna get crazy burned.”
Sasha immediately forgets about skin cancer when Danny takes off his shorts.
He’s wearing a speedo underneath, the black fabric clinging to his ass and skimming under his hipbones; there’s barely enough of it to be considered decent, let alone conceal all the muscles on mouthwatering display.
And Sasha knows they’re in public, knows he shouldn’t be staring like this, but… Jesus Christ.
Of course Danny notices, his grin widening. “You like the speedo?” Luckily, he doesn’t wait for an answer, because Sasha couldn’t string two words together right now if he tried. “It’s actually from a Halloween costume. Me and Patty went as Spartans one year—did you ever see that movie 300?”
Sasha manages a nod. He’d watched a dubbed version once with Kirill, Oleg, and Ilya; it was about three hundred Spartan soldiers defending their land against the Persian army, or something.
He wasn’t really paying attention to the plot, because all the warriors had eight-pack abs and thighs of steel.
But those photoshopped physiques had fucking nothing on Danny Hartman.
“I can do some squats if you want,” Danny offers.
Sasha flushes, quickly shaking his head, and groans when Danny bends down anyway. But he still looks.
Once Danny’s had his fill of being an exhibitionist, they leave the surf spot, dropping by the car so Danny can pick up his beach chair (“You sure you don’t want one?
My back starts killing me after like ten minutes”).
Then they set off again, the sun hot on their shoulders, Danny explaining that he and his friends usually meet up somewhere between the Newport and Balboa piers.
The beach is getting crowded now, umbrellas popping up everywhere, children shrieking as they run into the waves.
Danny and Sasha walk along the shore, ankle-deep in the surf, and Sasha tries to focus on where he’s putting his feet instead of where they’re going.
Maybe they’ll just hang out with Danny’s friends for a couple of hours, and then they can do something else instead…
although he has a sinking suspicion that “beach day” actually means all day.
“I wish you could have met Patty and the guys this week,” Danny says. “It’s so hard planning shit with people. Everyone has a job now, it sucks.” He frowns, then looks curiously at Sasha. “Have you ever had a job? Like, besides coaching?”
Sasha shakes his head. No one on the national team works; they’re too busy training. All of their gymnastics and medical expenses are paid for, anyway, and they get a stipend on top of that, plus whatever extra money they earn from competitions and endorsements.
“Yeah, me neither. It’s weird, though. Like, I don’t really want a job, but… I don’t know, all my friends are, like, starting their careers or whatever and I kind of feel left out, you know?”
Sasha doesn’t know, but then again, he doesn’t have any friends outside the gym, either.
“Have you ever thought about it? Like, what you want to do after gymnastics?”
Sasha shrugs. There’s no point in trying to plan that far ahead, since he won’t have to worry about it until at least Tokyo—maybe even Paris, if he’s lucky. And 2024 feels like a whole lifetime away.
But then he remembers something, a long-ago conversation in the dorms at Round Lake. “Kirill wants to buy gym,” he says, forgetting the word for own.
Danny tilts his head like he’s waiting for more information, but there wasn’t much else to it; just Kirill talking late one night, sketching out a floor plan, the team leotards, and the warm-up jackets. Sasha assumes it’ll happen someday, though, because Kirill usually gets what he wants.
“Yeah?” Danny finally says. “But, like, what about you? What do you want?”
Sasha shrugs again, wondering why Danny keeps asking. He can’t predict what’s going to happen in three years, let alone seven. “I don’t know. If Kirill has gym, I will work there.”
“Oh.”
Danny seems disappointed, which is weird; Sasha’s not sure what he was expecting. Plenty of retired gymnasts stay in the sport, and Sasha enjoys coaching, sometimes even thinks he might be pretty decent at it. Besides, what else would he do?
“I want to open a gym, too,” Danny says after a moment. “Like, not right away, cause I want to get coaching experience first, but… yeah.”
Sasha can see it. Aspiring athletes would jump at the chance to train at an Olympian’s gym, and Danny’s not just any Olympian—he’s the best male gymnast in the country.
There’d probably be a line out the door, Danny standing right there to greet everyone, charming the parents and high-fiving the kids.
It’s a nice thought, but Sasha’s stomach tightens, because he’ll be long out of Danny’s life by then.
“Hey.” Danny nudges him. “I could use a vault coach.”
Annoyance flares through Sasha. It’s not like Danny to be a dick, so why is he joking about a future they’ll never have? This is all going to be over once they retire, and Danny fucking knows that.
When Danny realizes Sasha isn’t going to respond, he clears his throat. “Well… keep your options open, I guess.”
Sasha’s almost relieved when he hears someone calling Danny’s name.