Chapter 6

The Guangxi Gymnasium in Nanning is an ocean of blue mats and coral-colored chairs, the green podium skirts undulating like seaweed. It's the first day of warmups, where all the teams get to practice in the arena before the world championships officially begin, and everyone's testing out their routines, trying to get a feel for the Chinese equipment.

Danny stands in front of the pommel horse, waiting for Coach Garrett to finish adjusting the handles, and resists the urge to look across the arena at the Russian team. One of them just started on floor, but he's too far away to tell if it's Sasha.

"All right, we're good," Garrett says, and Danny orders himself to focus. If there's one event that he has to cross his fingers on every time, it's pommel horse—the men's version of the balance beam, where if you're off even the slightest bit, the consequences can be disastrous. It's unquestionably Team USA's worst event, and he knows they all need to hit if they're going to have any chance of keeping up with Japan and China.

He hops on the horse and runs through some of the elements in his routine, including the Hartman—his signature move, where his legs scissor through the air as he travels from one end of the horse to the other. He invented it a couple of years ago while fooling around in the gym, and he has to admit, having his own skill in the Code of Points is pretty freaking awesome.

It's a clean set, and he's satisfied when he steps off the mat, high-fiving Matt as they trade places. The coaches don't want them tiring themselves out, so after a few turns each, they retreat to the sidelines for the worst part of podium training: sitting around and waiting for the next rotation.

Matt plops on the folding chair beside Danny, takes a swig from his water bottle, then leans close and lowers his voice. "What about that guy?" he asks, pointing out a Swiss gymnast struggling on the rings.

Danny rolls his eyes but looks anyway, taking in the blond kid's spindly physique. "No."

"Okay, what about him?" Matt nods at a Brazilian on the high bar whose biceps are bigger than Danny's thighs.

"Yeah, no."

"What about—"

Danny elbows Matt as one of the assistant coaches walks by. "Dude."

"Sorry!" Matt whispers. "I just want to find you a man, bro."

Sometimes, Danny almost regrets coming out to his friend. They had been at a national team camp in June, playing video games in their room, and Danny had blurted out, "I think I'm bi."

"Rock on, dude," Matt had replied, his gaze never leaving the screen. "Wait, is that why you're so obsessed with Blaine Wilson?"

It had been a huge relief, finally saying it out loud. Danny had always been aware, to some extent, that he liked to look at other guys—but he liked to look at girls, too. And admiring a dude's physique didn't mean he wanted to, like, make out with him or anything, right? Or so he'd thought until earlier that month, when he'd found himself at a gay bar with his girlfriend Allie, watching one of her friends perform in a drag show.

Drag? Fun, but not his thing. The dark-haired, green-eyed bartender who'd teased him all night, starting with a deadpan "Are you lost?" Definitely his thing. It hadn't taken him long to realize he was paying less and less attention to the show, his eyes following Troy instead—but that wasn't weird, was it? He loved making friends, and Troy's jokes were hilarious; Allie was laughing right along with him.

Later that night, though, he'd stepped out to make a call and noticed Troy on his break, looking at his phone in the small alley between the bar and the next building. Danny had almost said hello, but before he could, the door to the bar opened and another employee walked out, this one tall and blond. When Troy saw who it was, he'd grinned, then pulled the blond in for a long, searing kiss.

And Danny had felt jealous. Suddenly, he'd wanted more than anything to be where that blond was: his hands in Troy's back pockets, his mouth on those quirked lips and that space under Troy's earlobe. Even though he'd quickly looked away to give the couple their privacy, the sight was burned into his brain; it stayed with him all the way back to his dorm and into the showers, where he'd jerked off imagining himself in the blond's place.

Being bisexual isn't something he'd ever expected, but he's more or less okay with it, especially since it does explain why he has so many posters of Blaine Wilson on his bedroom walls. Only… he has no idea where to go from here.

Because the thing is, he's rapidly becoming one of the faces of men's gymnastics, at least in the US—children asking for his autograph at meets, parents thanking him for inspiring their sons, USA Gymnastics featuring him in advertisements and social media posts. Since winning his second national title this summer, it's only gotten crazier; he's never been more aware of what it means to represent the sport, to have so many people invested in his career.

And he doesn't want to be the guy who confirms the stereotypes about male gymnasts, the guy who makes it that much harder for all those little kids looking up to him.

He's pulled from his thoughts by an announcement over the speakers—time for the next rotation, and time for him to get his shit together. So when they head to the rings, and the Russians cross the gym to start on pommel horse, he doesn't glance over at them, even though their mats are barely fifteen feet apart. Instead, he chalks up and waits, watching Matt run through his routine.

"Nice, man," he says as Matt does a near-perfect dismount, a double back flip with one and a half twists and only the tiniest hop on the landing. "That's what we want on Saturday!"

"And Tuesday. And maybe Thursday and next Saturday, too," Matt points out, grimacing a little. Their qualifications, team final, all-around final, and event finals might alternate with the women's, but it's still over a week of competition, and they'll all be nice and exhausted at the end.

"Aw, come on, Grandpa. I have faith in you," Danny teases him, and then there's no more time for talking, because he's up.

"Okay, what about that dude on floor?" Matt asks when they return to their folding chairs.

Danny doesn't even bother looking. "You know I still like girls, right?"

"Yeah, well, I don't see a lot of those around here," Matt retorts, and he's right—apart from the sign-bearers bringing them from rotation to rotation, most of whom look like they're still in high school, and a handful of older officials, the arena is decidedly testosterone-filled.

Matt nudges him. "Pommels."

This time, Danny gives in to temptation. The Russian on the apparatus is doing spindles with his back to them, so Danny can't see his face, but the dark hair immediately catches his attention—could it be Sasha? But most of the Russians have similar coloring, and this guy looks a little older, with more muscle than Danny remembers Sasha having. It must be someone else on the team… someone who has a firm, lean body he can't help but admire. Not to mention incredible form—those thighs are glued together. And that toe point, Jesus.

The Russian finishes his spindles and swings off the horse, his back still to Danny and Matt as he converses quickly with his coach. Then he turns around, pushing his hair out of his eyes, and Danny's jaw drops.

"Holy shit, that's Sasha!" he exclaims, hitting Matt on the arm.

"Dude, ow! What? Who's Sasha?"

"Sasha Zakaryan. He was at worlds last year. And he was one of their alternates in London." Sasha heads back to the chalk bin, adjusting his wrist supports, and Danny can't stop staring. It's not that there's a huge age gap between them—just two years—but somehow, in Antwerp, seventeen and nineteen had seemed like a much bigger difference. Sasha had looked… well, not like a little kid, but young. And now he has a five o'clock shadow.

What the fuck?

"So that's your type," Matt says after a moment, grinning from ear to ear. "Kinda skinny Russians."

"What? No." Danny hits him again, although he's pretty sure he's blushing. "I just haven't seen him since last worlds. He looks different."

"Different, like, legal different?" Matt waggles his eyebrows.

"Shut up. No." The thought might have crossed his mind, but Danny ignores it. "He's been upgrading, shit."

Sasha hasn't said as much in their texts, but he's certain of it. Rio is less than two years away now; any serious gymnast is buckling down on their training, upping the difficulty in their routines to increase their chances of making it to the Olympics. More difficulty means more conditioning, which explains the changes in Sasha's physique.

And fuck, does Danny approve.

"Go over and talk to him," Matt says, clearly enjoying himself.

"Dude!" Danny hisses, scandalized. And maybe a little freaked out by the idea. "I can't just go over there when they're training—"

"They're done now."

Sure enough, the Russians have left the podium. Danny watches the athletes filter down into the sidelines, most of them heading straight for their water bottles. Sasha, however, lingers in conversation with his coach, the two of them looking at something on the coach's tablet—probably a video recording of his warmup. Sasha's paying close attention to whatever the coach is saying, his forehead scrunching into tiny little wrinkles as he nods, and it's so adorable Danny can't help but smile.

Eventually, Sasha returns to his chair, which just so happens to be only a few feet away from the American group. He's all alone now, unstrapping his wrist supports, so if Danny were to go over and talk to him, this would be the perfect time…

"Yo, Sasha!" Matt yells.

Sasha's head snaps up, and his eyes zero in on Danny, who is absolutely one hundred percent going to kill Matt after this.

"Hey!" he says, jogging over to Sasha. Fuck—most of his teammates are watching. And so are some of the Russians. "What's up, man?"

And without thinking, he goes in for a hug.

Because Danny's a hugger. Big-time. Family, friends, random people he's just met—he doesn't care, there's nothing better than hug energy. So his arms are halfway around Sasha before it occurs to him that Sasha's probably not on the same page about this, but by then he's already committed, so he just has to hope for the best.

Sasha doesn't push him away, but he doesn't return the embrace, either; instead he taps Danny on the shoulder, like he's merely tolerating this and hoping it'll end soon. Awkward, Danny thinks, trying not to wince as he pulls back. But that isn't a good idea, either, because now he's looking into Sasha's eyes—which are weirdly pretty and intimidating, especially when he's not saying anything and kind of just staring at Danny.

Silence is not something Danny is good at handling, so he says the first thing that comes to mind. "Dude, look at you! Someone's getting swole for Rio!"

He claps Sasha on the shoulder, and—oh, fuck, did he just squeeze Sasha's bicep? He's pretty sure he did, because Sasha's eyes have gone very, very wide, and he still isn't saying anything and Jesus Christ this couldn't possibly get any worse—

"Is there problem?"

Kirill Kazakov's accent is a lot thicker than Sasha's, yet there's no misinterpreting the threat behind his words as he wedges himself between Danny and Sasha. Even though he's a few inches shorter, he has no trouble getting into Danny's face—which he does, placing a protective hand on Sasha's other shoulder.

Danny doesn't need a translator to get the message. "Hi, Kirill," he says politely, letting go of Sasha and extending his hand. "You probably don't remember me, I'm Danny Hartman. We were in the vault final together in London. How's your ankle doing?"

Kirill looks down at his hand, then back up, nothing but contempt in his eyes. "What?"

Sasha finally says something, but in Russian. As he talks with Kirill, Danny lowers his arm, since that handshake doesn't seem like it's happening anytime soon.

When Kirill looks at him again, it's in pure annoyance. "Fine," he says, spitting out the word. "We are busy. You need—" He breaks off, looking frustrated, and gestures vehemently at the chairs occupied by the Americans. "Go."

Out of the corner of his eye, Danny notices Coach Garrett observing them, clearly debating whether or not to intervene; and one of the Russian coaches is drifting closer and closer, his gaze laser-targeted on Sasha. Shit. This could turn into an international incident if Danny isn't careful, and Matt would never let him live that down. "Okay," he replies, holding up his hands. "Nice seeing you."

"Wait."

It's the first word Sasha's spoken to him, and it stops him in his tracks. He watches as Sasha murmurs something to Kirill, who gives him a questioning look, then—with clear reluctance—walks back to the other Russians, leaving Danny and Sasha alone.

"Sorry," Sasha says quietly. "Coaches do not want us talking."

"Yeah, sorry, I didn't mean to get you in trouble." God, what is it about those eyes that makes Danny say and do such stupid things?

"It's okay." Sasha hesitates, then asks, "See you later?"

Danny has no idea why Sasha would want to interact with him again after this, but he decides not to question it. "Okay, yeah," he agrees, already feeling lighter—although he wonders what Sasha means by "later." Later as in, only if their paths happen to cross at the hotel or in the arena? Or later as in… they should actually arrange to meet up?

Sasha, of course, gives no sign of what he's thinking. With one last look at Danny, he turns away and walks back to Kirill, who levels another "fuck off" glare in Danny's direction before reabsorbing Sasha into the conversation.

"Making friends with the Russians?" Yulien asks, smirking, as Danny passes him.

"Hey, gotta start somewhere, right?" Danny jokes weakly.

He goes back to Matt, who's quivering with silent laughter, one hand on his head as he tries to rein it in.

"Don't even say anything," Danny warns him.

"Dude," Matt chokes out, actual tears in his eyes. "Did you seriously just feel him up in front of his entire team?"

Danny risks a glance at the Russians, but none of them are paying attention to him anymore. "I didn't mean to," he whispers, slumping over into a toe-touch stretch so he doesn't have to look at Matt. "It was an accident."

"I think the girls are less obvious than that, bro."

Danny groans. Their "women's" team is mostly teenage girls, and on the rare occasions they socialize with the men's team, there's a lot of giggling.

"Well, don't worry, you'll get him next time," Matt says, which sounds encouraging until he reaches over and squeezes Danny's bicep.

"I hate you," Danny mutters as Matt starts laughing again.