Chapter 19

The hotel in Glasgow has an enormous breakfast buffet, most of which Sasha and his teammates aren't allowed to eat, even though it's the morning after qualifications and they have two whole days before the team final. While their coaches strategize at the next table, Sasha pokes at his scrambled eggs, only half listening as Ilya and Oleg conspire to swipe a croissant from the buffet.

He's a lot more interested in what's happening on the other side of the dining room, where Danny's sitting in a booth with his parents. His right foot is propped up on a cushion, and a pair of crutches leans against the wall beside him, but he seems to be in good spirits, teasing his mother by stealing some bacon off her plate.

At least he isn't grimacing in pain like he was yesterday, when he'd sprained his ankle halfway through qualifications.

Sasha had been waiting for the judges' signal on pommel horse when he'd heard a gasp from the stands, the kind that meant either a fall or an injury. Normally he wouldn't look, not this close to performing; but he'd wanted to make sure it wasn't Danny, who had just started on vault. So he'd risked a quick glance across the arena, only for his stomach to drop when he saw Danny down on the mat, holding his ankle as a trainer crouched beside him.

This split-second glimpse was all Sasha had before the pommel horse judges saluted. Somehow, he'd gotten on the horse; somehow, he'd finished his routine without any major errors or form breaks. By the time he dismounted, looking over at the vault the second his feet hit the ground, Danny had already been taken away by the medics. He didn't return until the next rotation, his ankle wrapped in athletic tape, and he'd later told Sasha that the trainers had given him a cortisone shot almost as soon as they were backstage.

He'd finished the meet, limping onto the podium for rings, parallel bars, and high bar, watering down his dismounts and favoring his other leg on the landings. But he'd had to pull out of the all-around final, and his easier dismount had cost him a spot in the high bar final, too, putting him in ninth place when he needed to make the top eight.

"What are you looking at?" Kirill asks, which is when Sasha realizes he's been staring at Danny for way too long.

"Nothing," he says, grateful there's a buffet station between them and the Hartmans. "I might get some more fruit."

Kirill leans in, covering his mouth with his hand. "I'll pay you to steal a croissant so they can shut up," he whispers, nodding at Ilya and Oleg.

There's zero chance Sasha's getting involved in that, but now he kind of has to get some fruit, so he shakes his head at Kirill and stands up. As he walks to the buffet station, his back to his teammates, he can't help glancing over at the Hartmans. It's obvious where Danny gets his looks from—both of his parents are attractive in that very American way, with gleaming white teeth, suntanned skin, and athletic figures.

"I called Jim," his father's saying as Sasha picks up a plate, trying to decide between the cantaloupe and the pineapples and not actually interested in either. "We've got you in for a scan next Tuesday."

"It's just a sprain, Dad."

"Yeah, well, humor me, buddy, you've been having a lot of ankle problems. And I'm calling Rob tomorrow about your PT."

"On the bright side," Danny's mother says, "now you'll have more time to work on your research paper."

Danny groans, sinking further into the booth. "I don't even remember what that paper's supposed to be about," he replies, and then he notices Sasha at the buffet.

They make eye contact; Sasha has just enough time to realize what's going to happen next, and not enough time to stop it.

"Oh, hey! Sasha!" Danny straightens, his face lighting up as he waves Sasha over.

For a second, Sasha considers pretending not to hear him—he's not sure what part of don't hug me in front of my teammates Danny had somehow translated into please introduce me to your family in front of them—but now Danny's parents are looking at him, too, and he has no choice but to ditch his plate and approach the table, praying no one else is watching.

"Mom, Dad, this is Sasha Zakaryan, the guy from Russia I was telling you about," Danny says. "He was at the American Cup this year."

At least "the guy from Russia" doesn't sound like "the guy I'm hooking up with," but Sasha's still not convinced that this is anything less than reckless. Danny's fingers are twitching against his thighs, so he can't be that oblivious to the risk—what the hell was he thinking?

"Nice to meet you, Sasha." Danny's father reaches across the table to shake hands. It's like looking into a future version of Danny, with crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes and laughter lines on his forehead, and Sasha's caught off-guard, has to remind himself not to stare.

"Oh, you were at the world championships a couple of years ago!" Danny's mother leans over for a handshake, too, beaming at Sasha with a smile as warm and friendly as her son's. "Was it Belgium? I think I was FaceTiming Danny and you were there."

Sasha nods, impressed by her memory—and relieved, since she doesn't seem suspicious about seeing him again. "It is nice to meet you."

"That's so funny, I knew I heard your name before," Mrs. Hartman says. "Danny's been telling us we have to watch Kohei Uchimura and Sasha Zakaryan, and I could not remember why your name sounded so familiar!"

Sasha glances at Danny, who blushes a little as he grins back.

"Oh, and we saw your high bar routine yesterday, it was fabulous!" Mrs. Hartman continues. "I told Danny's father, I don't think I've ever seen a more beautiful Cassina."

Sasha doesn't know if he should correct her or not, and luckily Danny comes to his rescue, laughing as he says, "Mom, he doesn't have a Cassina. Not yet, anyway."

"Oh! Well, whatever it was, Sasha, it was very nice."

"Thank you," Sasha replies, managing to keep a straight face.

"Now, what about your family? Are they here?" Mrs. Hartman looks around, as if eager to meet them, too.

A lot of things about Danny are starting to make sense, and Sasha has to hold back a smile as he shakes his head. "My mother does not like to travel alone," he explains. "Sometimes my uncles can go with her, but not always. She sees on television."

He can tell Mrs. Hartman noticed that he didn't mention his father, but she doesn't blink. "Well, she must be so proud of you. I mean, it's just amazing what you and Danny are doing! The amount of strength you boys need for something like the rings…"

"Incredible," Mr. Hartman chimes in. "I'm always impressed by the high bar, myself, but I might be a little biased." He winks at Danny. "What's your favorite event, Sasha?"

"Uh… vault?" Sasha really shouldn't be surprised anymore by how friendly Americans are, especially if they're related to Danny, but he's still a little stunned that the Hartmans seem perfectly happy to spend their breakfast chatting with a stranger.

"Sasha made the vault final," Danny announces. "Second year in a row."

He grins at Sasha without a trace of resentment, as if he hadn't fallen on that very same event. His parents are equally sincere in their congratulations, and Mrs. Hartman even promises Sasha that she'll be cheering for him.

"Wow, Mom, betraying your country," Danny says, pretending to be wounded.

"Oh, and Isaiah, of course," Mrs. Hartman hastens to add. "One of Danny's teammates made it in, too," she explains to Sasha.

Sasha already knows that, just like he knows Isaiah Thompson has more difficult vaults than him, but with sloppier landings. They'd qualified in fourth and fifth, Thompson not even a tenth higher—and since Ri Se-gwang from North Korea's the overwhelming favorite, with Kirill just behind him, Sasha has a feeling Thompson's the one he'll have to beat to get on the podium.

Mrs. Hartman doesn't seem to be aware of this. "I guess I shouldn't be rooting for you in the team final," she tells Sasha jokingly, "but we'll see you there, too! What events are you—oh, is this one of your teammates?"

Before Sasha can turn around, Kirill's hand comes down on his shoulder. "Coach Yuri wants talk," he says in loud, halting English.

Sasha looks at him, startled; he even forgets to panic about Kirill and Danny being this close to each other. All he can think about is what Yuri had said in Nanning, that he would "take care of it" if Danny distracted him again. Talking at breakfast isn't a crime, but what if Yuri complains to the American team anyway?

Or what if he tells head coach Maxim—less than a year from Rio, when every impression matters—that Sasha isn't taking the competition seriously?

Danny clears his throat. "Mom, Dad, this is Kirill—well, that was Kirill Kazakov," he amends as Kirill abruptly turns around, walking away without a single word to the Hartmans.

"Friendly fellow," Mr. Hartman remarks.

There's no real rebuke in his words—if anything, he sounds amused—but Sasha still flushes, embarrassed by Kirill's behavior.

"Oh, no, uh, I don't think he understood me," Danny says quickly, shooting an apologetic look at Sasha. "His English isn't, um, super great."

Sasha's face burns with shame. He knows Kirill had understood Danny perfectly, and he's pretty sure Danny does, too. "Please, excuse me," he tells the Hartmans, hoping their opinion of him hasn't lowered because of Kirill. "I have to talk to my coach."

"Sasha, it was lovely meeting you," Mrs. Hartman says. "Good luck on vault!"

"And watch out for those landings," Mr. Hartman advises.

"Dad. Sasha gets way more air than me, he's gonna be fine." Danny grins at Sasha, then raises his eyebrows. "See you later?"

Sasha doesn't think he's imagining the suggestive tilt beneath those words, but he can't handle that right now—he needs to face Yuri first. With just a nod at Danny, he leaves the Hartmans to their breakfast, his heart racing as he returns to the other side of the dining room.

He scans the coaches' table for Yuri, slowing down when he doesn't see him. But there's an empty chair next to Maxim—is Yuri waiting for him in the hallway?

"Sasha, what are you doing?" Kirill asks from their table, and Sasha looks over in confusion.

"Where's Coach Yuri?"

Kirill exchanges a glance with Ilya and Oleg, and all three of them start snickering. "I don't know, I was just saying that so you could get out of there," Kirill replies, peeling back the lid of a yogurt cup. "Why the fuck does that idiot think you want to meet his parents?" He stabs his spoon into the yogurt, scorn rippling across his features. "He's such an American. I can't stand him."

Something tightens in Sasha's chest as he listens to Kirill, and he's mortified when he sees Danny watching them, his brow furrowing as he realizes Sasha isn't talking to his coach. Luckily, Mr. and Mrs. Hartman are discussing something on the menu, but if either of them glances up… if they think Sasha was making an excuse to sneak away from them…

He looks back at Kirill, and he knows he can't keep doing this anymore. He's already let it go on for far too long.

"We need to talk," he says before he can lose his nerve.

"Okay, sure." Kirill waits for him to speak, but when Sasha tilts his head towards the doors, he frowns, holding up his half-finished yogurt. Sasha just stares at him, and finally Kirill sighs, putting down the yogurt and following Sasha into the hallway. "What?" he asks once they're alone.

And even though this conversation was going to have to happen sooner or later, and Sasha's been aware of that fact ever since the American Cup, none of the words he's practiced in the mirror are coming back to him now. His throat is dry, fear clawing at his stomach; and it's a thousand times worse than anything he's ever felt on the podium, because he's never had a gymnastics meet more important than this moment.

"Danny doesn't annoy me as much as he annoys you," he finally manages.

It's the most pathetic, prevaricating thing he can possibly say, and Kirill squints at him, looking lost. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Think.Sasha takes a deep breath, choosing his words like he's navigating landmines—one wrong move, and his entire life blows up in his face. "You didn't need to come over when I was talking to his family. I was fine. And…" He hesitates, but Kirill's still staring at him, like he's speaking in another language. "You didn't need to be so rude to them."

"I wasn't rude to them," Kirill immediately objects. "I didn't even talk to them."

But Sasha's on firmer ground here, and he's not going to let this one go. "Kirill, you knew he was trying to introduce you," he says, and Kirill just shrugs, his expression one of total indifference. "And then you lied about Coach Yuri, even though we're right there and it's obvious I'm not talking to him—"

"Oh, come on," Kirill scoffs. "Hartman's an idiot, he's not going to notice."

"Stop calling him that!"

The words fly out of Sasha's mouth before he can catch them, and that's what finally gets Kirill's attention, his eyes narrowing in a way that freezes Sasha in place.

"Wait, you actually like him?"

Sasha tries to backtrack, his pulse hammering against his eardrums. "Well, I don't hate him," he mumbles, but Kirill isn't buying it.

"Since when?" He's gaping at Sasha now, his forehead scrunched in disbelief, eyebrows almost touching. "The American Cup? When he was being a dick to you at the awards ceremony?"

"He wasn't—" Sasha breaks off, sighing. Somehow, if anyone else had hugged him, he doubts Kirill would have thought they were being a dick, but he's not going to get into that right now. "Look, he's really not that bad," he says instead, trying to convince Kirill without incriminating himself. "When we had podium training, he was introducing me to everyone, and he kept complimenting me. He even told one of his teammates he should watch my execution."

And he didn't make fun of me for not having any experience. And he kept asking if I was okay.

"Sasha, that's what Americans do," Kirill says in exasperation. "Everyone's their best friend and, ‘like, so totally awesome.' It's bullshit. You know that, right?"

Sasha's not going to pretend the same thought hasn't crossed his mind—but that was before the kiss in Nanning. Before the hotel room in Texas. And before an entire summer of texts and calls, Danny always eager to hear from him, never brushing him off or claiming to be too busy.

For fuck's sake, he just introduced Sasha to his parents.

But of course, he can't tell Kirill any of this. "Who cares? He didn't have to include me, but he did. And he didn't have to compliment me, either."

Kirill starts to say something, then thinks better of it. For a long moment, he stares at Sasha, who tries not to flinch or look guilty; finally, he asks, "So that's why you're following him on Instagram?"

Sasha blinks. "I—how do you know that?"

For the first time since they came out into the hallway, Kirill seems embarrassed. "Well, he followed me, so I looked at his profile," he admits. "And I saw you liked some of his pictures. I thought you were just being nice to him."

"He—he followed you?" Sasha hopes he doesn't sound as panicked as he feels, because if this happened recently… if Kirill's talking about Danny's #noshirtsaturday photos… fuck. He's going to have to stop liking those.

"Yeah, a while ago," Kirill says, frowning. "He keeps liking my posts, too. It's really annoying."

Sasha almost laughs, he's so relieved. "Did you follow him back?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

"No. Why would I do that?" Kirill looks absolutely revolted. "I'm not following him," he adds before Sasha can even open his mouth.

"I didn't say you should."

"And I'm not being friends with him," Kirill insists.

"You don't have to." As far as Sasha's concerned, the less Kirill and Danny interact with each other, the better. "But can you just… not be a dick to him?"

Kirill wrinkles his nose, like a child biting into a lemon. "What, like you want me to talk to him?"

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," Sasha says, smiling despite himself, "but you don't have to jump down his throat every time he tries to talk to me. It doesn't… it doesn't bother me."

For a moment, he thinks he's said too much—but after scrutinizing him for several seconds, Kirill sighs in resignation. "Okay. Fine. I'll try not to be a dick to him."

It's hardly a concession, at least on the surface; but knowing Kirill, and knowing how much he despises Danny, it's enough for Sasha. "Thank you," he says, exhaling.

Kirill does something that might be either a nod or a grimace, Sasha can't tell which. "But if he tries to hug me, I'm going to fucking murder him," he warns as they return to the dining room.

And while Sasha's pretty sure Danny can read the room on that one, he makes a note to remind him before the team final.

Just in case.