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Chapter 4

Danny's first step into the ice bath on Wednesday night hurts like hell, but it's nothing compared to how he's feeling.

The all-around final ended a few hours ago, and he's still trying to make sense of what happened. Everything had been going so well—he'd cruised through his floor routine, gotten pommel horse out of the way early, taken only the tiniest of hops on his rings dismount, done one of the cleanest vaults of his career, and swung the parallel bars like it was nothing. He'd been feeling it, the crowd had been feeling it, and from his scores the judges had been feeling it, too.

By the time he went into the last rotation, high bar, he was in second place behind Kohei Uchimura. There was no chance of him overtaking the Japanese gymnast, but if he made it through his routine without any major errors, that spot on the podium would be his—and high bar was his best event. He could practically taste the silver as he stood on the mat, waiting to salute the judges.

And then, in less than a minute, it had all gone to shit.

He'd made it through his biggest releases, no problem: the Cassina and the Kolman, two full-twisting double back flips over the bar, one with his legs straight and the other in a tucked position. That'sit, he'd thought, flying through a pirouette, you've got this—but then there was a slight form break on a handstand, his legs separating when they were supposed to be glued together. Okay, not the end of the world… but then another handstand that wasn't even close to where it should have been, right over the bar pointing to midnight—more like ten o'clock.

Even with those mistakes, he might have gotten bronze. But then he'd stalled on another handstand, and worse, his arms had given out, sending him plunging towards the bar. He'd managed to muscle himself back up into the handstand, but barely, racking up deduction after deduction as he kicked and straddled his legs in a desperate attempt to generate momentum.

Just like that, it was over. No silver, no bronze, and no clue where it had all gone wrong.

He'd put on a smile for the reporters afterwards—win some, lose some, you know how it is. He'd even joked about looking forward to having some Belgian waffles before flying home. But it fucking hurt.

"You're being too hard on yourself," his father had told him on the phone half an hour ago. "You're sixth in the world, Danny. That's incredible. Your mom and I are so proud of you."

Danny just wishes he could be proud of himself, too.

He stays in the water until the ice starts melting, trying to figure out how his routine imploded so quickly, but he's no closer to any answers by the time he gets out of the tub. As he's toweling off, the door to the conference room opens, and he glances up guiltily, expecting to be shooed out by one of the hotel employees.

Instead, Aleksandr Zakaryan slips inside. He's dressed head to toe in Russian red, white, and blue, presumably to support his teammate, Ilya Baranovsky, who also competed in the all-around today and placed twelfth. His dark hair is combed back, away from his green eyes, which are so bright that Danny can see them across the conference room.

(Is it normal for him to be noticing someone's eye color this much?)

"I thought I will find you here," Aleksandr says, taking a few steps into the room. "How are you?"

Part of Danny—the part that's conscious of the cameras and the fans and potential sponsors—instinctively wants to smile and brush it off like it's nothing. "Oh, you know, a little disappointed, but hey, that's motivation for next year, right?" he could tell Aleksandr, just like he'd told the reporters.

And he wouldn't be lying, exactly. He really does try to keep a positive attitude about gymnastics, because this isn't a sport where you can dwell on the past. He'll probably feel more optimistic once he's had eight hours of sleep and some Belgian waffles. But tonight, he and Aleksandr both know it's bullshit.

"Honestly, not great," he admits, exhaling. "Just… let it slip through my fingers."

Aleksandr doesn't try to console him; he doesn't say anything like "next year" or "still in the top ten." Instead, he tells Danny, "You rush your routine. After Kolman. You were thinking about finish and not handstands. This is why you make so many mistakes."

This short, simple assessment hits Danny in the chest like a bad landing on a tumbling pass. Because now that Aleksandr's said it, it's so obvious—he was speeding through his routine. In qualification, he'd paced himself, making sure to hit every handstand, but in the final he'd hurried through his skills, so eager to claim silver that he'd lost his focus.

He stares at Aleksandr, who shrugs. "I have done it, too. You have to go back to gym and work harder."

"Yeah, you're right." Danny feels relief sweeping through him. It all makes sense now—he was so caught up in the excitement of potentially winning a medal at his first worlds, he'd forgotten to be in the present moment. Total rookie move, and next year, he'll be damn sure it doesn't happen again.

"Alexei Nemov has best high bar videos," Aleksandr says. "You should watch them."

"He won Sydney, right?" Danny frowns, trying to remember. "And wasn't there, like, some controversy in Athens? On high bar?"

"He is greatest Russian gymnast ever. Gold medal was stolen in Athens." Aleksandr's eyes flare with passion, and Danny bites back a grin—he can't help but feel like he's finally getting a glimpse of what's behind that stoic curtain. "It was horrible. Everyone in Russia knows he deserves this medal."

As an American, Danny doesn't quite feel the same level of outrage, but that doesn't matter—he just wants Aleksandr to keep going. He's about to say something to set him off again when the light in Aleksandr's eyes abruptly dims.

"But many videos are Russian. Maybe you cannot find them."

Danny grins as he gets an idea. He's not sure if Aleksandr's ready yet for the next level of their friendship, but he's going for it anyway. "That's okay, why don't you just send them to me?"

"Uh… what?" Aleksandr blinks, visibly thrown off, and Danny's enjoying every second of this.

"Yeah, do you have WhatsApp? Or do Russians use something different?"

"WhatsApp, yes. I have that," Aleksandr says warily.

"Great, can I see your phone?"

Aleksandr gives him a look of such confusion and dismay that Danny laughs. "Dude, I'm not gonna snoop or anything, I'm just gonna give you my number."

Clearly overwhelmed by the power of friendship, Aleksandr surrenders his phone, and Danny looks at it—only to realize there's a slight problem.

He can't read Russian.

He tries navigating by the icons on the screen, which gets him as far as the new contact form; but then the keyboard pops up, and he finds himself staring at a bunch of characters he's never seen before, none of which remotely resemble the letter D.

"What are you doing?" Aleksandr asks suspiciously.

"Sorry! I forgot you guys have a different alphabet…" He cringes at Aleksandr's incredulous look—talk about a dumb moment. Or a "Danny moment," as his family calls it. "Um, which one's the D?"

Aleksandr huffs with impatience and yanks the phone out of his hands, muttering something in Russian that sounds suspiciously like "Americans." "What is your number?"

Danny gives it to him. "What does my name look like in Russian?" he can't resist asking, and Aleksandr wordlessly turns the phone around. "Oh, the D's that little house thing… sneaky."

"No, not sneaky. Cyrillic."

It takes Danny a second to realize Aleksandr is fucking with him, a tiny glint in those green eyes. He laughs, startled, and Aleksandr smirks back, looking pleased with himself. As he should be, honestly—Danny took three years of Spanish in high school and barely made it past "What time is it?", never mind cracking a joke.

Feeling emboldened, he asks, "Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?"

The smirk drops from Aleksandr's face. "What?"

"I'm gonna get a group together to go for some waffles." Danny just decided this two seconds ago, but he's rolling with it, the details coming together like magic. "It's probably gonna be, like, me, Matt, Yulien, Ethan, and Isaiah"—he rattles off the guys on his team—"and maybe James Smith and some of the other Brits. You should come."

Aleksandr just stares at him. "You have high bar on Sunday."

"Well, yeah"—shit, he'd almost forgotten about event finals—"but our flight leaves early on Monday, so we won't have time to get waffles then. It's okay, we have two days to burn them off." Aleksandr still looks skeptical, so he adds, "Hey, maybe we can get Epke to come."

"You are not friends with Epke Zonderland."

"Not yet," Danny says cheerfully, thinking back to his interactions with the famous Dutch gymnast, who had won gold on high bar in London and was heavily favored to win again this year. "But I practiced with him when we got here and he's really nice. I might have to look up the Dutch word for ‘waffles,' though."

"You are—" Aleksandr pauses in search of the right word, his thick brows furrowed in concentration. "Very strange," he finally says.

Danny grins. The more Aleksandr insults him, the more he's convinced that he's slowly winning the Russian over. "Yeah, well, could be worse. So are you coming tomorrow?"

Aleksandr hesitates, then shakes his head. "I can't. Sorry," he says, with something that almost sounds like regret.

He doesn't offer an explanation, and it's hard to tell if he already has plans, or if breakfast with a bunch of Americans is too far out of his comfort zone. But Danny doesn't push it—he'll settle for exchanging phone numbers. For now, anyway.

"All right, I should probably get back to my room," he tells Aleksandr. Not that he wants to leave, but he suspects he's been gone for a lot longer than he intended to be, and Matt or his coach might come looking for him soon. "Night, Aleksandr."

He's almost at the door when Aleksandr blurts out, "Sasha."

Huh?Danny turns around, but Aleksandr doesn't say anything else, and… oh man, this is awkward. "Uh. It's Danny, actually."

Aleksandr stares at him, looking just as confused as Danny feels. "What? No, I am Sasha."

At first, Danny thinks Aleksandr's fucking with him again, but then he remembers Alexander Artemev from the 2008 team, who also goes by Sasha, and—wow, that was definitely another Danny moment.

"Oh shit, sorry! That's, like, kind of a girl's name here. I mean, I don't know about here, like, in Belgium, but, like, in the US it is. But I know another guy named Sasha, too—"

Aleksandr—Sasha—raises his eyebrows, and Danny shuts up. "Sasha is, what is the word, little name. Like… Danny."

There's a silent question in the tilt of Sasha's head, thank God, because Danny's so ready to change the subject. "Yeah, Danny. No one calls me Daniel. Unless it's, like, my mom and she's pissed off."

"Okay." Sasha pauses. "How do you write this? D-A-N…?"

Danny spells it out for him, Sasha frowns at his phone, and a few seconds later, Danny gets a text from a new number.

Unknown:Good night Danny

Danny laughs, then quickly replies.

Danny:See you next year

Danny: Sasha

He swears he sees Sasha smile as he leaves the room.

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