Chapter 1

It's Sasha Zakaryan's last day on the Olympic stage, and he still finds himself catching his breath as he enters the Wembley Arena. Everything about it is overwhelming: the neon-pink walls, the announcements blaring in languages he doesn't understand, the jumbotrons showing the lineup for today's vault final. Then there's the crowd, a living, breathing mass unlike anything he's ever experienced before.

And, of course, the fact that it's the Olympics.

Sure, he's only here as an alternate—and since none of his teammates are injured, he won't actually have a chance to represent Russia. But he's not worried. It had always been a long shot for him to make the London team; he just turned sixteen a few months ago, and most of the other guys are in their early twenties. He has his sights set on Rio, and he'll be ready when it comes. Today, he's here to support his best friend.

Kirill Kazakov is their last hope at a medal, and he knows it. He's barely said a word all morning, except to ask if Sasha could accompany him into the arena. After a disastrous team final—the Russian men had placed sixth, behind even the Americans—and repeated failures to medal in the all-around or any of the other events, their coaches and the fans at home are fuming.

Even if Kirill can pull off a gold today, these Olympics will still be considered a disappointment. At least one of the national team coaches will probably be fired, and Sasha isn't looking forward to the reception they'll receive when they return to Moscow—but that's a problem for another day. Right now, there are eight finalists on vault, and his friend is up sixth, which means they have a long wait ahead of them.

As the first gymnast mounts the podium, Kirill paces the sidelines, hopping up and down to keep his muscles warm. He's shorter and stockier than Sasha, with brown hair just a shade or two lighter, cropped close to stay out of his face. As he stalks back and forth across the carpet, his dark eyes move restlessly around the arena, like a tiger looking for its next meal.

There's a delay on the podium, some sort of technical issue with the flashboard displaying the vaults' difficulty values, and Kirill returns to Sasha's side, grimacing with impatience. "Can you do my arms?" he asks.

Nodding, Sasha takes Kirill's right arm and begins to massage it, working up and down his friend's muscles. Neither of them speak; Sasha can tell by the way Kirill's eyes are half-closed that he's envisioning the vaults he's about to perform, honing them to perfection in his mind.

Suddenly, a loud burst of English interrupts their concentration.

"Dude, I'm totally freaking out right now."

Sasha looks up. Over Kirill's shoulder, he sees a young, excited-looking American chatting with James Smith, a vaulter from Great Britain who's on his second Olympics. Sasha doesn't recognize the American, but a quick glance at the jumbotron tells him his name is Daniel Hartman. Contrary to what he's just announced, though—to Smith and to everyone else within a five-meter radius—Hartman doesn't seem like he's freaking out at all.

If anything, he looks relaxed, like it's an off-season exhibition meet instead of the Olympics. His blue eyes sparkle as he grins and gesticulates at Smith, and his light brown hair is all mussed up, like he just rolled out of bed a few minutes ago. Although maybe that's intentional—Sasha's noticed that Americans seem to do that a lot, pretending they don't care about their appearance.

"My twisting was, like, so off today in practice," Hartman says to Smith, who clearly doesn't know what to make of his new companion. "I might have to wing it out there."

Smith snorts at that, shaking his head in a better you than me sort of way.

"Or maybe I'll just try one of your vaults, right? A double pike, how hard can it be?" Hartman winks, and Smith lets out a startled laugh. "No, for real, I think I'd die if I tried that. You're incredible, man, I hope you crush it today."

Kirill slowly opens his eyes, sliding them over to where Hartman is chatting with Smith; Sasha can feel the annoyance radiating from him.

"Do you want me to tell them to shut up?" he asks in a low voice.

For a moment, Kirill looks tempted, but then he shakes his head. "No, too many cameras."

"You know who I can't wait to see?" Hartman asks Smith. "Yang Hak-seon, his twisting is so good. Honestly, I kind of wish I was going after him, like maybe I'd get some leftover twisting vibes off the runway…"

"Are you fucking kidding me," Kirill mutters under his breath.

Fortunately, at that moment the technical issue is resolved, and the first athlete, a Romanian, is allowed to start. Everyone falls silent, even Hartman, as he salutes the judges and faces the vault. Sasha doesn't bother watching; the Romanian isn't favored to medal, and it's more important to keep Kirill's muscles loose and ready for his turn.

He hears everything, though: the Romanian's feet pounding down the runway, followed by the distinctive smack of the springboard and a quieter, split-second touch of hands on the horse; and then the pause, in which the entire arena seems to hold its breath, until the Romanian lands on the mat, taking what sounds like a couple of small steps before he comes to a stop.

The crowd applauds the effort, and the Romanian goes back for his second vault. Every competitor gets to perform two, each of which receives a score from the judges that takes into account the difficulty of the vault as well as the athlete's execution of it, and the final score is the average between them. Instead of looking to see what the Romanian got on his first vault, Sasha switches from Kirill's right arm to his left and continues working.

Another vault, another round of applause, and the Romanian steps off the podium, looking pleased with himself. He gets a hug from his coach and a polite high-five from the next gymnast in line, then sits down to wait for his score.

Suddenly, there's a red, white, and blue blur in the corner of Sasha's eye, and Daniel Hartman bounds over to the Romanian, holding out his hand.

"Congrats, man, that was great," he says.

Surprised, but obviously flattered, the Romanian thanks him, and Hartman grins before jogging back to his spot in line. A few of the gymnasts exchanged confused glances—it's not unheard of for an athlete to congratulate someone from a different country, especially if they're standing next to each other in the corral, but Hartman was nowhere near the Romanian. Jesus, is this his first international meet?

To Sasha's surprise, however, a gymnast from Chile looks back at Hartman and then hesitantly approaches the Romanian, offering his congratulations; a second later, so does a young competitor from Ireland. Kirill rolls his eyes at them and stays exactly where he is.

"Shoulders?" Sasha asks, and Kirill nods.

The vaults continue, one athlete after another attempting the world's most difficult skills in their quest for gold. No matter how well they perform—whether they stick the landing or stumble, ashen-faced, off the mat—Daniel Hartman is there to greet them with a handshake and a compliment.

"Dude, that Tsuk was insane," he tells the Irish gymnast, who's struggling not to cry after falling on his second vault, an ill-advised Dragulescu. "I want to see you again in four years, okay? You've got some serious power, man."

It's total crap, but the kid from Ireland actually looks comforted by it, and he even manages a teary-eyed smile. Sasha doesn't know whether to feel annoyed or begrudgingly impressed—there's nothing wrong with sportsmanship, of course, and obviously it's nice and all, but… does Hartman have to be so chipper about it? And how has no one told him to fuck off yet?

Hartman himself is up right before Kirill. As he mounts the podium, Sasha, Kirill, and their vault coach Grigori position themselves beside the stairs, ready to go. Grigori's busy muttering last-minute instructions in Kirill's ear, and Sasha finds his attention straying to Hartman, who's bouncing up and down as he waits for the judges. He can't help but wonder if the American has any talent to back up all his talking.

The judges salute, and Hartman sprints down the runway, hitting the board and launching himself into the air. It's a clean, double-twisting vault, with a step on the landing that'll cost him a few tenths—it's not bad, Sasha has to admit, but it's also not as hard as some of the other vaults, Kirill's included. Hartman seems happy with it, though, smiling as he heads back to the end of the runway.

His second vault is even easier; the difficulty value that appears on the flashboard is one of the lowest they've seen so far that day. But he makes the most of it, flying through the air into a double front flip, keeping clean form throughout. And this time, he sticks the landing.

The sound of his feet hitting the mat reverberates through the arena, and the crowd roars in delight. There's nothing better than a stick, especially for Olympic-only fans who don't understand the scoring system, but no one's more excited than Hartman himself. After he salutes the judges, he fist-pumps the air like he's won the gold, when in reality he only performed two moderate-difficulty vaults—he won't even make it onto the podium unless everyone else falls.

And then, just when Sasha thinks the celebrations are done, Hartman bends over and kisses the vault, winking at the audience before hopping off the mat.

Even though Kirill makes a disgusted noise, Sasha still can't believe that just happened. Fist pumps are one thing, especially from an American, but kissing the vault? Who does that? And yet the crowd's eating it up, cheering Hartman on as he jogs over to the stairs where Kirill and Grigori are waiting.

"Hey, man," Hartman says to Kirill, still beaming. "Good luck!"

Sasha watches Kirill's jaw muscles tighten as he nods, brushing past Hartman without another word. Hartman doesn't seem phased by it; he just grins and jumps off the stairs. For a moment, he looks like he's about to make eye contact with Sasha, but Sasha quickly angles himself to face Kirill, who's walking to the end of the runway.

Behind him, he hears the Romanian congratulating Hartman, and that's the last time he thinks about the annoying American. As he watches Kirill wait for the judges, he sends a quick prayer for his friend to do well—not just by the judges' standards, but by his own, too.

The light turns green, and Kirill starts running. Sasha holds his breath as he hits the springboard, then blocks off the vault, propelling his body into the air. He grabs behind his knees, pulling himself into a piked position as he flips once, twice, and then touches down on the mat, taking only a tiny step on the landing.

"YES!" Sasha yells, his voice immediately swallowed up by the crowd. He's seen Kirill do this vault thousands of times in practice, but this was near perfection—just that one step, and there haven't been a lot of sticks today. The judges seem to agree, flashing a 16.433: the highest score of the event so far. If Kirill can do as well or even better on his second vault, he won't just be on the podium—he'll be in the running for gold.

After a quick conference with their coach, Kirill heads back to the end of the runway. "Come on," Sasha whispers under his breath, adding another prayer just in case. "Come on, come on—"

This time, Kirill does a round-off onto the board, diving backwards onto the vault; at the last second, he does a half turn and pushes himself into the air, twisting and flipping all at once. But something's wrong—Sasha can tell right away he's going too far off to the side, and when he lands, he's off-balance, having to take a giant step backwards to prevent himself from falling. As his arms flail in the air, the judges scribble furiously on their pads, deducting precious tenths of a point for every break in his form.

And Kirill knows it, too. His eyes are dark when he comes off the podium, and he doesn't say a word to Sasha or their coach as they walk back to their seats. Apart from a Ukrainian competitor, who merely nods at him, no one tries to offer their congratulations—the look on his face is enough of a warning.

To everyone except Daniel Hartman, that is.

"Hey."

Kirill's barely had a chance to catch his breath before Hartman is in front of them, holding out his hand. "Great job, man, that double pike was incredible."

Kirill stares at him, clearly about two seconds away from committing murder on live television, and somehow the American doesn't notice. Instead, he just stands there, smiling like he doesn't have a care in the world. He reminds Sasha of a big, dumb dog wagging its tail for attention.

"Cameras," Sasha mutters in Russian.

Kirill reaches forward and shakes Hartman's hand for half a heartbeat, then drops it. Seeing Hartman open his mouth again, Sasha intervenes.

"Let's look at your ankle," he says to Kirill, switching to English so Hartman will take the hint. "Come on, sit down…"

Kirill plays along, allowing Sasha to guide him to his seat even though his ankle is perfectly fine. Apart from a curious look, Hartman doesn't linger, and within seconds he's happily chatting to the gymnast from Great Britain again.

"Bro, are you doing anything tonight? You guys should totally come and hang with us, we're all gonna break our diets after this."

"What the fuck," Kirill growls through a plastered-on smile. "Are we at the Olympics, or is this a fucking slumber party?"

"Same thing, for the Americans," Sasha replies. "Have you seen their swimmers?"

Kirill grunts in response. His gaze is fixed on the scoreboard, which has yet to show the number for his second vault. It's rarely a good sign when the judges take this long, and sure enough, the score that eventually flashes on the jumbotron is a mere 16.100. His average for the two vaults is a 16.267, which won't be enough to overtake the Ukrainian gymnast—gold is out, and there are still two more athletes to go. If both of them score higher than Kirill, he'll be knocked off the podium entirely.

There's nothing either of them can do but wait.

The next gymnast, a competitor from Chile, falls short of the mark, his vaults averaging out to 16.183. But then Yang Hak-seon, the gymnast from South Korea, steps up to the runway. His first vault is a massive triple twist, its difficulty outweighing a rough landing; and his second vault ends in a perfect stick, sending the crowd into a frenzy. Everyone in the arena knows he'll be the winner, and as he comes off the podium, several of the athletes reach out to shake his hand.

Hartman actually hugs him, for fuck's sake.

Sasha looks down at Kirill, wishing there was something he could say or do to make bronze sound like anything other than a consolation prize. Kirill's grimacing with disappointment, his eyes half-closed again, and Sasha can tell he's replaying the landing on his second vault that cost him gold.

He wants to tell his friend it's okay, that he's an Olympian regardless and he should be proud of his medal, but he knows Kirill won't want to hear it. So instead, he clears his throat and puts a hand on Kirill's shoulder.

"Come on," he says. "Photos."

As they walk over to where the cameras are flashing, they hear Hartman telling Yang Hak-seon, "That was awesome, dude!"

*

The bus ride back to the Olympic Village is a long, uncomfortable affair; Sasha spends most of it staring at the seat in front of him, memorizing the pattern on the cushion as Grigori screams himself hoarse at Kirill. When they finally get to their room, Kirill pulls out his phone and shows Sasha the screen, which has three missed calls from his father.

Sasha winces—both of them had been expecting it, but Kirill's father makes Grigori look like a friendly housecat. "Ignore him," he says, even though Kirill never does. "Oleg texted me, he's having a party tonight."

Their teammate Oleg Samarin's end-of-competition parties are legendary. Somehow, no matter what country they're in, he always manages to smuggle a cache of brandy from home, and he doesn't skimp on the quality. As long as no one gets arrested and the hotel staff don't complain, their coaches look the other way and pretend not to notice that they're all hungover the next morning.

"I wish," Kirill groans, flopping backwards onto his bed. "He wants me to see them. He's sending a car."

Sasha sighs. Kirill's parents are staying at a hotel just a few blocks away; they've attended every session so far, even the events where Kirill wasn't competing, and they routinely text him critiques of his performances, as if Kirill isn't already aware of every bent knee or flexed toe. They're not allowed to visit him at the hotel—none of the gymnasts' parents are—but after what happened today, the coaches aren't going to intervene on Kirill's behalf.

"When's it getting here?" Sasha asks.

Kirill flings his arm across his face. "Fifteen minutes," he replies in a muffled voice.

There are so many things Sasha wants to say. He's seen how Kirill's parents treat him when only Sasha's around, and as bad as that is, he knows it's even worse when he's not there. He would give anything to take Kirill away from them, to ban them from ever attending a meet again—they don't deserve his gymnastics, and they don't deserve him.

But he shoves his anger down, because it won't help his friend.

Kirill lies still for another moment, then heaves himself up and disappears into the bathroom. With nothing else to do, Sasha sits on his bed and checks his phone, unable to stop himself from googling today's competition.

"Kazakov falters, coming in third" reads one headline from a gymnastics website; "Stumble from Kazakov costs him gold" says another. The comments sections are filled with their usual bullshit, people who haven't done gymnastics since they were children complaining that Kirill couldn't control his landing. Why is he even on the team? someone asks. At least Aleksandr Zakaryan can stick a vault, they should have picked him instead!

"Oh, go fuck yourself," Sasha mutters. He may have better execution, but Kirill has more difficulty in his routines, and his scores are almost always higher. This person has no idea what they're talking about.

He hits the back button, leaving the website behind; he's about to close the browser when another headline grabs his eye. "Hartman brings sportsmanship, positive energy to vault finals," declares a gym blog he's never heard of before. "Plus, how cute is he?!"

Sasha clicks on the website. There's a photo of Hartman hugging Yang Hak-seon, and another of him kissing the vault. It's a total fluff piece—most of it is devoted to a drooling appraisal of his arms—and the comments are equally banal. omg I've never even heard of this guy, one of them says, but he's my new fave. Love to see the athletes supporting each other. Go Daniel!!

kind of obnoxious tho… typical american,another user replies.

Can he kiss me instead of the vault???someone asks.

Out of idle curiosity, Sasha decides to read up on Hartman's career. He finds his Wikipedia page and scrolls through it, somehow not surprised to learn that Hartman is from California—the land of movie stars and surfers, if American shows are to be believed, and also the land where people say "dude" and "bro" a lot, apparently.

He just turned eighteen, so he's a couple years older than Sasha and Kirill, and he'll be starting at Los Angeles University in the fall. Sasha's eyebrows raise when he sees that the American sprained his ankle right before the Olympic trials; that stuck vault seems a lot more impressive now.

On a whim, Sasha goes back to Google and clicks on the images tab. There's already several pictures of Hartman kissing the vault, plus a bunch of promo shots for the Olympics. In one of them, he stares at the camera, his arms folded to show off an admittedly spectacular set of biceps; in another, he's grinning and giving two thumbs up, as if he's already won the gold for Team USA.

It's kind of annoying how attractive he is, with his perfect teeth and that stupid, tousled hair. Very… What do they call it… Sasha has to think for a moment before it comes to him: all-American. Like he belongs on one of their cereal boxes.

The bathroom door opens, and Sasha quickly closes the browser window. Kirill walks out, pulls some clothes from the closet, and starts changing into them in front of Sasha, who doesn't so much as blink. Between locker rooms, showers, and hot summer practices, he's seen all of his teammates in varying states of undress at least a hundred times, and it barely registers anymore.

Although, as Kirill finishes getting ready, Sasha finds himself wondering what Daniel Hartman looks like under his leotard…

"Okay?"

Kirill spreads his arms for an outfit inspection, and Sasha's suddenly very grateful for an excuse to be thinking about literally anything else. "Yeah, that's good," he replies, giving Kirill a thumbs-up.

For a moment, Kirill has the strangest expression on his face—almost like he's about to cry. Finally, he says, "Thank you for today."

"Of course." Sasha keeps his tone light; with Kirill, he knows better than to linger on an emotional moment. "See you at Oleg's tonight?"

"Yeah," Kirill says, his gaze not quite meeting Sasha's. "Sure."

*

Kirill shows up to Oleg's with a red face and a black eye, and no one, not even Sasha, says anything about it. Instead, Oleg passes him the brandy, and someone else pulls an ice pack out of the minifridge. Kirill shakes his head at the ice and tips the bottle down his throat, swallowing several mouthfuls before he motions to Oleg for a red cup.

The brandy gets passed around again, and when it's Sasha's turn, he declines. He can already tell from the look in Kirill's eyes that someone's going to be helping him puke into the toilet later tonight, and that someone is pretty much always Sasha.

"You know what I really, really want right now?" asks Ilya Baranovsky, shouting to be heard over Oleg's music. He's one of the shortest members of the team, with elfin features and mischievous grey eyes, and he can always be counted on to cause chaos. "I want the little potatoes from the potato place."

Everyone immediately knows what he's referring to: the potato bar in the Olympic Village cafeteria, one of the many stations their trainers have decreed off-limits until after the competition is over. For the past two weeks, they've watched the swimmers, weightlifters, and basketball players stroll up to this station, some of them just taking the potato but others piling theirs high with toppings: shredded chicken, bacon, even butter and sour cream.

"Those aren't little potatoes," Oleg reminds Ilya. "They're regular potatoes."

"No, the little ones," Ilya says, spreading his fingers about an inch or so apart. "From the potato place."

"Ilya, what are you talking about? There are no little potatoes."

"The little potatoes!" Ilya insists.

Because they are all drunk—even Sasha, who was just starting to feel a pleasant buzz when Kirill showed up—it takes them far longer than it should to realize that Ilya's talking about something the British apparently call "tater tots," which are at the station next to the potato bar. The whole time, Kirill doesn't say a word; he just drinks and drinks, with the same single-minded determination he usually reserves for gymnastics.

"Ilya, you fucking idiot," Oleg finally says, draining his cup and tossing it in the general vicinity of the trash can. "Let's get the man some potatoes!"

A loud cheer goes up in the room. Before they leave, Kirill pours the contents of his cup into an empty water bottle, humming to himself as he adds more brandy. Sasha watches him and sighs, hoping they can get some food into him as quickly as possible.

Luckily, Ilya and Oleg are on a mission, and they shepherd everyone down the hall with dogged efficiency. The whole team piles into the elevator, laughing and shouting "Potatoes!" at random, and Sasha gets wedged into a corner with Kirill.

"Sashka!" Kirill cries, flinging an arm around him. He's reached a happy stage of drunkenness, and normally Sasha enjoys this side of his friend, but there's nothing funny about it today. Not when he can see how bad Kirill's eye looks up close.

"Sashka, I love you so much," Kirill says, pressing a sloppy kiss against Sasha's cheek. "Why aren't you drinking? Here, have some of mine—"

He tries to pour the brandy into Sasha's mouth, but misses and splashes it all over Sasha's shirt. "Oops," he giggles, attempting to wipe it off with his sleeve. "Sorry, so sorry—"

"Why don't you wait until we get some potatoes," Sasha says, stopping Kirill as he tries to lift the water bottle to his mouth again. "Then you can drink some more."

"POTATOES!" Kirill yells, and the rest of the team roars in approval.

By the time they get out of the elevator and stumble into the cafeteria, Sasha's head is pounding, and the glare of the overhead lights doesn't help. Even at this hour, the cafeteria is fairly busy, with small groups of athletes dotted around the dining tables that take up half the room. They all look up as the Russians burst inside, whooping when Ilya spots the fabled potato bar.

Thirteen potatoes, seven sodas, and two extremely confused cafeteria workers later, the team is gathered around a table and digging into their forbidden food. Ilya weeps with joy as he shovels tater tots into his mouth, and Oleg and Kirill are singing an off-key rendition of an old pop song, forgetting half the lyrics and warbling through anyway.

Sasha's headache continues to grow, and after about fifteen minutes of this, he pretends to take a phone call. Ducking out of the cafeteria, he finds the nearest bathroom and splashes his face with water from the sink, thinking longingly of the ibuprofen in his room. He's tempted to go back up and get it, but knowing his teammates, they'll wander off to a club while he's upstairs.

When he returns to the cafeteria, Kirill's standing at the head of the table, one foot propped up on his chair while his arms gesture wildly. The others are all laughing at something he's saying, and as Sasha comes closer, he realizes Kirill's recounting the vault final.

"So then there's this fucking American, right?" Kirill says, rolling his eyes. "Daniel Hartman or whatever. And every word out of his fucking mouth is—" He switches to English, doing a vicious yet accurate impression of Hartman. "Bro, oh my God, you so awesome! Dude, you so cool!"

Ilya spits out a mouthful of tater tots, and the team collapses into hysterics.

"Bro!" Kirill throws his arms open, preening to an imaginary audience. "Oh my God, I am big idiot American, Daniel Hartman. Look, I kiss vault—"

He bends over and kisses the dining table, and the entire team loses it. Ilya pounds his fist on the table so hard that the rest of his tater tots fall onto the floor, and Oleg is crying with laughter, tears streaming down his bright-red face. Even Sasha has to admit it's pretty funny…

…Until he glances past Kirill and sees Daniel Hartman standing just a few dining tables away from them, watching Kirill's performance with a stunned look on his face.

"Oh my God!" Kirill yells, spotting Sasha and waving his hands around like an overexcited fan. "Yang Hak-seon! Dude, you so amazing!"

He lunges forward and wraps Sasha into a bear hug, then falls to his knees and pretends to kiss Sasha's feet. The team is howling with laughter, and all Sasha can do is look at Hartman, shame twisting in his stomach. He may have found the American annoying, and in all honesty he probably would have laughed if Kirill had imitated him in private, but no one deserves to be humiliated like this.

And now Hartman is staring right at him. For a split second, Sasha can see the hurt in his bright blue eyes; then he forces a small, stiff smile, one that doesn't show any of his teeth. With a nod at Sasha, he turns around, leaving the cafeteria before anyone else on the team notices him.

"Sasha, help," Kirill croaks from the floor. He grabs Sasha's legs, slipping back into Russian as he tries to pull himself to his feet. "Don't—don't feel so good—"

As he doubles over and vomits brandy and potatoes onto Sasha's brand-new sneakers, Sasha doesn't know who he feels more sorry for: Hartman, Kirill, or himself.