Chapter 2

When Danny Hartman wakes up the morning after the vault final, it takes him a moment to remember why he feels like shit.

Then it all comes back to him: a spontaneous decision to head to the Olympic Village cafeteria for a late-night snack, a rowdy table drawing his attention. Standing there like an idiot and watching Kirill Kazakov, the third-best vaulter in the world, making fun of him in front of the entire Russian men's team. All of them laughing, except the alternate—Danny can't think of his name—who had noticed Danny and said nothing.

He grimaces, turning over on his side and squeezing his eyes shut as the memories roll through him. The first time he'd heard of Kirill was earlier this year, when Coach Garrett had shown him a video of Kirill's performance at the European Championships in April. "They're bringing him to London," Garrett had predicted, "and I don't think he's even seventeen yet. That's almost unheard of. If he can stay healthy, you'll be seeing him in Rio, too."

Long-term planning is almost impossible in gymnastics—athletes who win world medals one year can burn out the next, or suffer a career-ending injury, and be gone before the Olympics appear on the horizon. But Rio is what Danny and his coach have been aiming for all along; neither of them had expected him to make the London team, not after he'd sprained his ankle just a few weeks before the Olympic trials.

"Don't go into this thinking about medals, because you're not there yet," Garrett had warned him on the plane ride over. "This is your chance to get some international experience, meet your idols, and have fun. Once we get back, the real work begins."

And Danny had taken his words to heart. Okay, maybe he'd been a little disappointed after USA placed fifth in the team final, when it seemed like they'd had a real shot at the podium, but this was the Olympics. He was lucky to even be here, let alone qualify for the vault final. He'd known going in that his vaults weren't difficult enough to medal, so he'd walked into the arena that day simply excited to be competing alongside so many incredible athletes.

Especially Kirill Kazakov. The guy was a total powerhouse—short, compact, and pure muscle, the perfect combination for vault. At the European Championships, he'd outscored competitors with years of experience, and most male gymnasts didn't peak until their twenties. So if Coach Garrett said Kirill was going to Rio, Danny believed him.

Watching him vault had been insane—he'd barely even blinked while performing skills that Danny was still practicing into a foam pit. He may not have won gold, but Danny was already taking notes on his technique (literally, he'd written them down on a piece of paper and everything), ready to bring them to his first practice back home.

Of course, he'd noticed that Kirill hadn't seemed thrilled when Danny came over to congratulate him, but Danny had assumed he was disappointed with his score; it hadn't even occurred to him that Kirill might have been annoyed with him. He wants to crawl into a hole when he thinks about all the bros and dudes and oh my Gods Kirill had crammed into his drunken impression—is that really how he comes across to other people? Like some clueless California kid who can't go two seconds without saying like?

"Dude." A pillow hits him in the face, and he starts, almost falling out of his bed. "Are you awake?"

"Fuck off," Danny mumbles, opening his eyes and glaring half-heartedly at his roommate, Matt Miller. Twenty-two years old, with brown eyes, a shock of dark hair, and Olympic tattoos covering his arms, Matt's the team veteran. It's his second time competing at the Games, and yesterday he'd picked up their only medal, a bronze on rings.

"We're having breakfast with the Brits," Matt says, ignoring Danny's less-than-enthusiastic response. "Are you coming?"

The thought of getting out of bed isn't very appealing to Danny. His ankles are still sore from vault, and all he wants to do is pop some ibuprofen or, better yet, a sleeping pill—that might help him forget the sound of the Russian team's laughter.

"Maybe in like ten minutes," he tells Matt.

"All right, bro, hurry up if you don't wanna miss the tater tots."

The one great thing about finishing up at the Olympics: getting to eat whatever you want. The only reason Danny had even gone to the cafeteria last night was because James Smith, the vaulter from Great Britain, had absolutely raved about those stupid tots and insisted he try them before going home.

"Hey, Matt?" he asks, just as his friend is about to leave the room.

"Yeah?"

"Was I being, like… annoying yesterday? On vault?"

Matt frowns at him. "What do you mean?"

"Well…" Danny blushes as he replays the highlights of Kirill's reenactment. "Like kissing the vault. And going up to everyone when they were done. Was that, like… too much?"

"Dude, you're way overthinking this," Matt says, raising his eyebrows. "I would have kissed the vault too after that landing. And shaking hands with everyone is, like, just good sportsmanship." Suddenly, his eyes narrow. "Why, did someone say something to you? Cause I will fuck their shit up."

"No, no," Danny quickly lies—the last thing they need is an incident with the Russians. "I don't know, it's just… everything's on camera, you know? It's a lot."

"Word of advice, dude?" Matt gives him a close look. "The Olympics are awesome, but for, like, two weeks, everyone's all up in your business. You've got the four-year fans, and the ‘gymternet,' and none of them know shit, even though they all pretend they do. And then the Olympics are over, and no one cares about men's gymnastics anymore. So don't even waste your time worrying about what other people think. It's not worth it."

Matt's speech is exactly what Danny needed to hear. So what if Kirill Kazakov doesn't like him? He just has to keep his eyes on the prize—Rio—and they'll see who's laughing then.

Suddenly, he feels a lot better. And hungrier. "Thanks, man. I'll see you guys downstairs, okay?"

"Don't be late." Matt points at him as he leaves the room, and a few seconds later, Danny hears him yell at someone, "Broski! What's up?"

Grinning, Danny pulls back the covers and sits up, testing his ankles on the floor before putting his full weight on them. Both of them are stiff, his right one especially—he'd been competing at the Olympic trials on a cocktail of cortisone and painkillers, thinking there was no way he'd make it onto the team even as an alternate. Now, just a few weeks later, he's an Olympian.

"And this is the breakfast of champions," he says to himself in a mock commercial voice, opening a pill canister on his nightstand and swallowing the maximum recommended dose of ibuprofen.

When he looks up, the alternate from Russia is standing in his doorway.

"Hello," he says, glancing uncertainly at Danny, then at the bottle of pills. "Is this bad time?"

Danny wants to die of embarrassment. Whoever he is, the alternate clearly knows enough English to have understood him—as if he needed to give the Russians another reason to think he's an idiot.

But then he remembers Matt's speech. He's not the one who should be embarrassed here; he's not the one who was drunk out of his mind yesterday, falling over his teammate in the middle of the cafeteria. So he lifts his chin and shrugs, as if he couldn't care less that the alternate just caught him quoting a Wheaties slogan to his Advil. "What's up?" he asks.

The alternate takes a single step into the room, clasping his hands behind him like he's about to present to the judges. He's shorter than Danny by an inch or two, with a slender build—probably not known for his power like Kirill, but rather for his elegance, if the way he carries himself is any indicator. Dark brown hair frames a narrow face, with thick eyebrows and a dimpled chin; his eyes are a shade of green that Danny's never seen before.

And he cannot, for the life of him, remember who this guy is.

As he starts running through the Russian team's roster in his head, the alternate clears his throat and says, "I want to apologize for Kirill. He was very… drunk last night. This was not good of him."

There's a part of Danny that wants to ask why Kirill isn't here himself, if he's really making an alternate run errands for him. But it's still early—if Kirill's awake by now, which seems unlikely, he's probably dry-heaving into a toilet somewhere. Hell, if he was that far gone when Danny saw him, he might not even remember the incident.

He looks at the alternate, who to his credit doesn't fidget or blink. He wonders if the guy is here for Kirill, or for himself, and if he would have said anything if their eyes hadn't met in the cafeteria. But does it matter? Whatever his reasons, he's still here, apologizing in a foreign language—that takes guts. And humility.

He exhales, and he lets it go. "Thanks, man, I appreciate it. We're cool."

"We're ‘cool'?" The alternate frowns, looking so serious that Danny can't help but smile.

"Yeah, man, we're good. It's okay. Thank you."

The alternate nods, and for a moment Danny thinks that's it—he's said his piece, thank you, goodbye, see you at worlds next year. But although he takes a step back, he hesitates, and finally he asks, "Why do you congratulate all athletes? On vault? This is not normal."

Danny almost chokes on his laughter. He's sure the alternate didn't mean it in a bad way, especially since English isn't his first language, but his blunt delivery of "This is not normal" was pretty funny. "I don't know, man," he says, trying to stifle a giggle—he can tell the other guy has no idea what he's cracking up over. "I mean, we're all here, right? We might as well have fun."

"Fun," the alternate repeats, like he's never heard of the concept.

"Well, it's not always about winning," Danny says, cringing as the words come out of his mouth. God, the Russian probably thinks he's a total ditz. They live and breathe gymnastics over there—he's heard rumors about the Round Lake training facility they have outside of Moscow, with all the latest equipment and a full team of medical staff on the premises. Gymnastics isn't "fun" for them, it's a job.

Trying to think of something to say that won't make him sound like a dumbass, he starts word vomiting instead.

"I mean, the whole point of the Olympics is to, like, bring all the countries together, right? So obviously you want to win a medal, but, like, you get to meet all these other athletes, and learn new things about other cultures…"

Oh, God, what is he even saying? Could this get any worse?

"It's like Friday Night Lights, you know, the movie? Where it's, like, not even about the game at the end but, like, the team? And, like, their memories and stuff? And then the guy throws the football and it's, like, passing it on to the next generation?"

The alternate is staring at him, those unsettling green eyes darting back and forth as he tries to make sense of whatever it was Danny just said. The room is painfully, horribly quiet.

"Do you watch football?" Danny hears himself ask.

Dark eyebrows raise. "No. I do not have time to watch your country sports."

You stupid fucking American,he might as well have added.

Danny decides to cut his losses before things get any worse; he's pretty sure he'll never be able to remember this encounter without wanting to slink into a cave.

"Well, uh, thanks for apologizing," he says, and the alternate nods, looking relieved that he doesn't have to be here any longer. "Sorry, uh—what's your name again?"

"Aleksandr. Aleksandr Zakaryan."

"Aleksandr Zakaryan," Danny repeats, tripping over every single syllable. There's something different about that Aleksandr—a rolled r, maybe? Shit. He sucked at those in Spanish class. "Do you go by Alex?" he asks hopefully.

"No."

Okay, Danny deserved that. "Right. So… Aleks—Aleksandr. Got it."

Hearing himself, he winces—whatever just came out of his mouth, it definitely wasn't the same thing Aleksandr had said. But Aleksandr doesn't even bother correcting him; he just takes a half step backwards, like he's waiting for the exact second when he can leave.

Danny knows he should end it there, except everything about this is awful, and he has a terrible habit of talking too much when he's anxious, so of course he chooses that moment to blurt out, "How's Kirill's ankle?"

Aleksandr blinks. "What?"

"Um, Kirill's ankle? It was bothering him on vault?" Danny distinctly recalls hearing Aleksandr tell Kirill to sit down so they could look at his ankle—but that can't be right, wouldn't they have been speaking in Russian?

Aleksandr frowns at him for what feels like an eternity before his expression clears. "Yes. Ankle is good. Thank you."

"Oh, good. I sprained my ankle like two months ago, it really sucked."

"I know," Aleksandr says, taking Danny by surprise—and then he flushes, as if he hadn't meant to let that slip.

Danny wonders if the Russians have a file on all their opponents, because otherwise he can't imagine why Aleksandr would know anything about him. He hasn't had any international experience, and he wasn't expected to win a medal here, so there's no reason for him to be on anyone's radar. But maybe the Russians are just that dedicated to the Olympics.

"I have to go," Aleksandr says suddenly. "Goodbye, Daniel Hartman."

"Goodbye, Aleksandr Zakaryan." He almost gets the pronunciation right this time, and Aleksandr must have given him a pass on that rolled r, because his green eyes flicker with approval. Grinning, Danny asks, "See you at worlds?"

"Maybe."

And then Aleksandr is gone, and Danny's not entirely sure what just happened, but he thinks he might have made a friend. Or a fool of himself.

One of the two.