Chapter 11

By February, the birch trees at Round Lake are like skeletons, bone-white and shivering beneath grey skies. Buzzards soar overhead, circling silent grounds; most of the campus is buried under two feet of snow, with only the paths to the dormitories and training facilities kept clear.

Inside the men's gym, practice is ending for the week. The athletes assemble in front of the coaches, lining up in rows across the floor, and Sasha takes his usual spot next to Kirill, trying not to show any of the nerves racing through his stomach. Today, Maxim Obolensky, the head coach for the national team, is about to announce which of them have been invited to the Russian Championships next month in Penza.

It's the year before the Olympics, and the Russian Championships are the first in a series of competitions that will ultimately determine the final five-person team. Those who perform well will qualify for the European Championships in April, which, combined with the results from summer camps and then the Russian Cup in September, will influence the selection for worlds in October.

Faltering at any step of the way means even less room for error next year, when they'll be under a high-powered microscope from January until the moment the Olympic team is decided. Everything matters now—and if they weren't already aware of that, then Vadim Petrovich Ustinov, the Russian Olympic Committee member standing next to Coach Maxim, is there to remind them.

"Thank you, Max, for inviting me here today," says Vadim. Vadya, Irina had called him. He's a middle-aged man with grey-streaked hair and features too small for his jowly face; Sasha can barely see his eyes, nestled like beetles under folds of sagging skin. "It's a pleasure to watch such fine athletes hard at work, training to represent our great country…"

Of course there's a speech. There's always a speech.

Kirill listens with rapt attention, hands clasped behind his back, but all Sasha cares about are the names on Maxim's list. He thinks his chances of making the Russian Championships are good: he's been working upgrades day and night, boosting his difficulty scores so he can be competitive on every event, and in December he'd placed second after Kirill at the Voronin Cup, albeit not against a very stacked field.

"Just keep doing what you're doing," his coach Arkady had told him halfway through camp. "They're pleased with your progress."

Vadim eventually stops talking, and Maxim begins reading the names. Unsurprisingly, Kirill's one of the first to be called; he turns his head ever so slightly to the right and grins at Sasha, nodding as if to say, You next. Seconds later, Oleg and Ilya both exhale in relief, and Sasha holds his breath in anticipation, expecting his name to follow.

A few other seniors are called, and then a few more. Something like worry starts to gnaw at Sasha's stomach, but he tries to ignore it. They'll say his name, surely. They have no reason not to. He's been proving himself all season—

And then a junior is called.

Sasha goes numb with shock as Maxim reads through the rest of the list. Was there a mistake? Why wasn't he selected? He starts to panic as it sinks in, his breath short and sharp in his chest; but when he glances at his coach, Arkady is staring straight ahead with his usual poker face. What the hell is going on?

Maxim finishes his list and gives a lecture about the importance of their training in the upcoming weeks, but Sasha doesn't hear any of it. The second the team is dismissed, he marches straight towards Arkady—only to stop when Maxim gets there first, pulling Arkady aside for a whispered conference.

"Sasha, what the fuck?" Kirill appears at his elbow, looking nothing short of furious. "Why didn't they call you?"

"I have no idea." Sasha's voice is barely audible; he still can't make sense of what just happened.

"They must have made a mistake. There's no fucking way you're not on that list."

"Kirill," Sasha whispers in warning. Several of the coaches and trainers are still on the floor, not to mention Vadim; if anyone overhears Kirill, both of them will be punished.

Kirill goes quiet, but he doesn't leave Sasha's side as Maxim and Arkady continue their conversation. Arkady's face is impassive as always, and Sasha can't tell what's going on—all he knows is that it can't be good.

Finally, Maxim nods at Arkady and walks off the floor, not even glancing in Sasha's direction. Sasha doesn't need Arkady to motion him forward, or Kirill to nudge him; he's already hurrying over, his heart hammering in his throat.

As usual, Arkady doesn't mince words. "They're sending you to the American Cup," he says in a low voice. "In Texas."

Sasha stares at him, not understanding. He's heard of the American Cup—it's one of the only international meets the Americans host all year—but it's the same month as the Russian Championships, and he can't remember the last time someone on their team competed in it. "What? Why?"

"They want you to get more international experience," Arkady explains, and Sasha's mouth drops. More international experience? He's been to two worlds and the fucking Olympics. What in the actual fuck?

Seeing Sasha's incredulous expression, Arkady elaborates. "More international experience in the Americas."

The implication isn't lost on Sasha, and for a few seconds he's even hopeful, thinking this is a sign that he really is in the running for Rio. But the more he considers it, the less it adds up. For one thing, Arkady sounds like he's talking in air quotes. For another, aside from Kirill, who attended the Mexican Open in November, he doesn't know anyone on the national team who went to either North or South America last year—most of the prestigious competitions are in Europe. So why would Sasha be singled out now?

His eyes dart to Maxim, who's chatting with Vadim over by the vault. The two of them are laughing like old friends, and as Sasha watches them, Irina's words echo in his head: Vadya prefers supporting Russian athletes.

It had never occurred to him to wonder what, exactly, that meant.

"We'll have to petition you onto the team for the European Championships," Arkady says, interrupting his thoughts, "but Maxim assured me this won't be a problem if you continue to do well."

Sasha can't help but notice the way that if is dangling over the rest of the sentence, a promise or a threat depending on how you look at it. "Do you believe them?" he asks, lowering his voice. "About getting experience in the Americas?"

Arkady exhales. "I have no reason not to," he says carefully. "They haven't had any complaints about your performance. But I wasn't expecting this."

Sasha doesn't know how to phrase the question he wants to ask, and he's not sure it's the best idea, either—Arkady's never commented on his Armenian background, but he's been surprised by people before. Finally, he settles on, "Is someone mad at me?"

Arkady's response is swift and stern. "Forget about that. You need to focus on your gymnastics. Unless I hear otherwise, we're assuming this is an opportunity for you. Do you understand?"

Sasha nods.

"Good. Now the Cup is on March seventh, so we'll have to adjust your training schedule…"

*

Kirill pounces on Sasha the second he returns to the locker room. "The American Cup?" he repeats, outraged, after Sasha fills him in. "What the fuck? Since when do we ever go to that?"

"I don't—"

"And now you have to petition to go to Euros? When you could have just qualified at the Championships?"

Kirill's whisper-shouting is starting to make Sasha nervous. "It's okay," he mutters, trying to calm his friend before someone overhears them. "Arkady said it won't be an issue—"

"Arkady doesn't know anything," Kirill replies dismissively, sounding so much like his mother that Sasha just stares at him. After a few seconds, Kirill seems to realize what he's said, and his voice softens. "I'm sorry. He's a good coach, but… you're his first gymnast here. If something's going on, they won't tell him. And then you'll get screwed."

Sasha isn't sure what to think. Of course there's politics at Round Lake, there's politics everywhere, but he hasn't done anything wrong. He doesn't goof off during practice, he hasn't fallen at a major competition recently, he's been upgrading all his routines—so why would there be any problems?

Unless…

"Look, I'll talk to my coach," Kirill says quietly. "He's friends with Coach Maxim, he'll know if—"

Sasha cuts him off before he can go any further. "No."

"It's fine, I'll—"

"Kirill, I'm serious, don't." There's an edge in Sasha's voice that wasn't there before, and Kirill hesitates, falling silent. "Whatever's going on, don't get involved. You're just going to get yourself in trouble."

As if on cue, the door to the recovery room opens, and a dour-faced trainer scowls at them. "Kazakov, that's enough stalling. Get in here."

Sasha gives Kirill one more look, and Kirill finally relents. "Okay. Fine," he says to both Sasha and the trainer, holding up his hands. With a glare at the trainer, he walks into the recovery room and sits down on one of the massage tables, pulling his shirt over his head.

"Sasha, whenever you're ready," the trainer adds.

Thanks to a timely distraction—one of the seniors is showing everyone pictures of his girlfriend—Sasha's able to slip into the showers without being accosted by Ilya or Oleg. He washes off quickly and then returns to the recovery room, grabbing the table next to Kirill. His friend is lying face-down, tensing as the trainer performs a none-too-gentle massage on his lower back.

Sasha doesn't bother making conversation; they never talk in the recovery room. Instead, he stretches out on the table, and another trainer comes over to get started on his shoulders. With his face nestled into the cushioned gap in the table, he doesn't have to look at anyone, and he allows himself to think, for the first time, about the fact that the American Cup is in Danny's country.

He has no idea if Danny will be there. Arkady had mentioned in passing that the Americans would be sending two athletes to compete, but he hadn't said who, and Sasha wasn't about to ask. He tries to tell himself it would be better if Danny doesn't go, because he can't afford distractions right now—except it's total bullshit, and he already knows he'll be devastated if Danny isn't on the roster.

Mostly because he wants to kiss him again.

Even now, four months later, the memory is as raw as if it were yesterday. He still flushes every time he thinks about Danny's lips pressed against his, and the clumsy way he'd kissed him back (so fucking embarrassing). Although Danny hadn't seemed to mind—he'd looked at Sasha like he wanted even more, and Sasha had almost leaned in again before the sound of footsteps had shocked him back into his senses.

He'd spent the entire fifteen-hour flight back to Moscow freaking out, afraid that somehow his teammates or his coaches would find out what he had done. Even though no one had treated him any differently than usual, he couldn't stop bracing himself for an accusing look or a whispered pidor, and he'd almost had a heart attack when Ilya pulled him aside at the airport (which turned out to be so he could show Sasha all the Chinese snacks he'd brought home).

Then, a few days later, Danny had called.

Sasha had been alone in the apartment, procrastinating on his phone instead of doing his laundry. When the incoming call signal started pulsing across his screen, he'd panicked—because he knew Danny wanted to talk about what had happened in the stairwell, and he wasn't ready for that. So he hadn't answered, and he hadn't returned the call, either.

Danny must have gotten the hint, because he didn't try again. The next day, he'd sent a picture of his dogs, and Sasha had responded with a thumbs-up emoji, and just like that everything was back to normal. (Although he's not sure how normal it is to be constantly thinking about kissing someone whenever they text you, which is a lot.)

He still feels guilty about that call, but it's probably too late to apologize, and he wouldn't know what to say if it weren't. The worst part is, he doesn't think he'd mind talking to Danny on the phone, as long as they could just… not discuss Nanning. Danny could go on about his dogs, or his training, or what he ate for breakfast that day, and Sasha wouldn't even have to speak at all.

Technically, he has a reason to call Danny back now. He could ask if he's going to the American Cup, if he's ever been to Texas before, if they actually have cowboys there or if that's just the movies. Maybe if he kept Danny busy with those questions, they wouldn't have to talk about what happened at worlds, or more importantly what's going to happen next; and then he wouldn't have to make any decisions, because the only thing he knows he wants is more kissing.

But maybe Danny wouldn't pick up. Maybe he's still texting Sasha but he's found someone else, someone who answers his phone calls. Maybe Sasha's already lost his chance.

"Okay, we're done," someone says, and Sasha looks up, but it's the other trainer talking to Kirill. "Next time, we'll focus more on your shoulders—"

"Whatever," Kirill replies, grabbing his shirt and leaving the room before the trainer can finish speaking.

The trainers exchange exasperated glances, and Sasha turns his face back into the cushion so no one can watch him think about Danny.