Chapter 13

Sasha's first impression of America is that it's not really that different from any other country he's traveled to for gymnastics: a busy airport, a taxi to a nondescript chain hotel, and then a short walk past a McDonald's to the arena. Sure, there's a lot of people wearing cowboy hats (although none of them look as good as Danny), and he's heard a few accents he still can't quite believe are real, but somehow he was expecting a little more.

So far, the most remarkable thing he's seen is the arena itself: a massive silver structure in the shape of an American football, where the Dallas Cowboys routinely play in front of nearly a hundred thousand spectators—or so Sasha and Arkady were told by their taxi driver. For the American Cup, though, entire sections of the stadium have been blocked off with dusty black curtains, and of the remaining seats, Sasha doubts even half of them will be filled.

It's a Friday afternoon, the day before the Cup, and Sasha and Arkady have just arrived for podium training. Arkady has to file some paperwork, so he heads to the judges' table, leaving Sasha to make his way to the floor where the other athletes are stretching. Two distinct groups have already formed: the Japanese delegation, conferencing with their coaches in a corner, and a larger, much louder circle on the opposite side of the floor, where several gymnasts from different countries are chatting with each other like old friends.

Sasha doesn't even have to look to know that Danny's right in the middle of this second group, and sure enough, there he is: foam rolling his calves next to another American Sasha doesn't recognize, the two of them deep in conversation with James Smith of Great Britain and one of the German gymnasts from the party in Nanning. As Sasha watches, Danny throws his head back, laughing at something James just said. "Dude, you just gotta go for it! Ask her out, man."

Sasha hesitates, debating whether or not to join them. He's a little worried about Danny hugging him, or saying something that makes it obvious there's more between them than a casual acquaintance, and what if Arkady needs to talk to him? Maybe he'll just find a spot on the side, somewhere he can still see and hear Danny—

"Sasha! Hey!"

It's too late: Danny's waving him over, a broad grin splitting across his face. Sasha has no choice but to approach the group, praying Danny doesn't jump up for a hug.

"Hello," he says, looking around at everyone when all he wants to do is stare at Danny, who's fortunately stayed put on his foam roller.

"Sasha, you remember James and Jan," Danny says, and James and the German gymnast both wave. "That's Taras and Mateo over there"—a Ukrainian and a Puerto Rican glance up from comparing ankle braces—"and this is my man Noah Park."

He claps the shoulder of his teammate, a small, slender gymnast who looks like he's barely passed the minimum age requirement—sixteen—to be a senior elite. His hair is unusually well-styled for an American, shaved close at the sides and then cresting over the top of his head in jet-black waves; his brown eyes catch the overhead lights when he nods at Sasha. "Sup."

"It's his first American Cup," Danny explains as Sasha sits down across from them, "but it's not gonna be his last, I'm telling you that right now. This kid is insane."

Noah laughs and shakes his head, although Sasha can tell he's pleased by the compliment.

"Just wait til you guys see him twist," Danny promises, reminding Sasha of a proud parent boasting about their child. "It's like spin city over here."

"Aw, I thought it was tornado alley," Noah says. "I liked that one."

Danny chuckles. "Yeah, that was a good one—but you guys don't know what tornado alley is, right?" He looks at Sasha, James, and Jan, who all glance at each other and shrug. "Well, anyway. Noah, I can't teach you shit about execution, but if you want someone who can—" He points straight at Sasha. "Sasha Zakaryan's your man."

It's Sasha's turn to feel both embarrassed and flattered by Danny's praise. Jesus, he's like a compliment factory. And he actually, sincerely means it.

"Oh yeah?" Noah asks, intrigued.

"Legit the most beautiful gymnastics I've ever seen in my life," Danny says, and he's grinning at Sasha with such open admiration, it's like he's forgotten they're surrounded by people.

Sasha flushes, bending over to touch his toes so no one can see his face. "Not true. There is Kohei Uchimura," he mutters, trying to deflect Danny's attention.

"Well, Kohei's Kohei, but I don't know, man, I think I like watching you better."

Danny says it casually, one "bro" to another, but when Sasha looks up at him, he fucking winks.

It's horrifying. And a little thrilling. But mostly horrifying, because Danny clearly thinks he's being discreet and that's not at all what's happening right now. He might as well have just announced it on the jumbotron, because there's no way the others—oh, fuck, the German's definitely noticed, he's opening his mouth to say something…

"Your last name. Zakaryan. That's Armenian, isn't it?"

Caught off-guard, Sasha stares blankly at Jan, then realizes they're having a completely different conversation. "Yes," he replies, wondering where this is going.

Jan nods. "That's what I thought. My mother's family is from Armenia, too—their last name is Badalyan. Do you speak Armenian? I'm terrible at it."

Sasha can feel Danny's eyes on him as he shakes his head. "No. Only Russian. And English."

For a moment, Jan seems like he's debating whether or not to say something. Finally, he asks, "Is it true that Armenians aren't treated well in Russia?"

Sasha gives an uneasy shrug. He's not sure how much he wants to be talking about this with a stranger, or in front of Danny, who looks startled by what he's hearing.

"It's just what I've heard them say," Jan explains apologetically.

More to stop Danny from asking all the questions that are clearly burning on his lips, Sasha sighs and answers, "Sometimes, yes. People make comments."

Like Kirill's mother, eager to remind him that he's only half Russian. An old schoolteacher, surprised that he could read and write just as well as anyone in the class, because "your kind usually can't." His uncle Dmitry, drunk when Sasha was thirteen and telling him, "You're better off, anyway. I don't know what your mother was thinking, marrying one of those mountain people."

Shaking away the memory, he tells Jan, "But there is ignorance in every country. I am Russian. I compete for Russia. This is only what matters."

"Yeah, man, we get that shit in the US, too." Noah looks like he's been bursting to speak. "Like my family's Korean, but I was born here, and like a week ago some dude told me to go back to where I came from in a freaking Wal-Mart. Like, I'm literally representing my country on the national team, you know?" He shakes his head, anger rippling across his face. "It's so bullshit."

Danny's been nodding in sympathy with Noah, but his eyes are still fixed on Sasha. "I didn't know you were dealing with that," he says quietly.

Sasha shrugs again. "It is not important."

Danny and Noah give him skeptical looks, but before either of them can say anything, Noah gets called off the floor by his coach. In the brief silence that follows, Jan glances at Sasha and then changes the subject, asking if anyone knows who's judging parallel bars.

The conversation retreats to neutral ground—the arena, the food at the hotel, jet lag—until Jan and James drift away to their coaches, saying goodbye to Sasha and Danny. When Taras and Mateo wander off, too, Danny looks up from his straddle stretch and shoots a mischievous grin at Sasha. Spreading his palms on the floor, he leans forward and presses himself into a handstand, his legs gliding towards the ceiling in glorious slow-motion.

Sasha doesn't stare, because he has more self-control than that, but he does lean back a little and start rolling his neck in circles, which allows him to keep his gaze more or less on Danny's ass and thighs. After holding the handstand for several seconds, Danny ducks his head and drops into a forward roll, landing right in front of Sasha.

"Hi," he says, looking very pleased with himself for this maneuver.

"Hello." Sasha tries to bite back a smile, but he must not have succeeded, because Danny's grin widens.

"You know what I love about the American Cup?"

Sasha glances around, but Arkady's talking to one of the officials on the sidelines, and no one else seems to be paying attention. "What?"

Danny's eyes sparkle, like sunlight dancing on the sea. "We're all on the same event. Which means I can watch you as much as I want."

Trying to ignore the effect this has on a certain part of his anatomy, Sasha mutters, "You know we are supposed to focus on gymnastics, yes?"

"Oh, it's okay, I can multitask," Danny assures him.

So casually, so easily, like it's a game instead of a gamble—like their entire careers wouldn't go up in smoke if a camera caught the wrong look between them. And maybe for Danny, the consequences would be minimal, although Sasha's noticed he doesn't seem to be publicly out yet. But Sasha doesn't have the same luxury, and he needs Danny to know that.

He opens his mouth—

"Danny!" his coach calls from the vault, waving him over. "Let's get a look at these settings."

"Okay, I'm coming!" Danny grabs his foam roller, then accidentally lets go of it and has to lunge forward to stop it from getting away, a mishap that somehow ends with him crouched on the balls of his feet right next to Sasha. "By the way," he murmurs, "I really want to kiss you again, but I'll wait until after the meet. So you're not distracted."

Sasha stares at him, heat slowly pooling in his cheeks, and Danny winks before standing up and strolling over to the vault. "Do we need the extra spring?" he asks his coach.

Fuck.This is exactly what Sasha was afraid of. And exactly what part of him wants, even now, with his concentration shot to shit right before a competition training session. Which is exactly why it has to stop.

He'll tell Danny.

As soon as the Cup is over.