Stick the Landing Read online

  The name was familiar, but Jake couldn’t place it. “Who?”

  “The swimmer. Come on, Jake, he’s a big deal. He won a bunch of medals at the last few Olympics and was on the Wheaties box and everything. Then he crashed hard. Got a couple of DUIs and went into rehab.”

  “Okay.”

  “He’s back. Cleaned up at the Olympic trials. That’s the kind of human interest story the morning show team at TBC eats for breakfast.”

  “Better him than me,” said Jake.

  “Well, look, there’s you.” Corey folded the magazine in half and displayed it for Jake.

  Jake’s official USA Gymnastics headshot was above a quarter-page box on a page headlined Athletes to Watch. He shared the page with three other athletes.

  “Did my sister get a whole article?” Jake asked.

  Corey smiled sheepishly. “Yeah.”

  Jake was genuinely happy for Chelsea. She was incredibly talented. She had a singular focus on gymnastics, she trained harder than anyone else in the sport, and she could do new skills with high difficulty levels that were pushing the sport forward. Unless she proved to be as doomed as Jake seemed to be, she could easily win five or six gold medals in Madrid, and she deserved them all.

  He loved Chelsea to bits. She was his best friend in the world.

  It was just… her shadow was sometimes a hard place to live in.

  Corey frowned. “I mean, look, none of the rest of the men’s team got any kind of write-up. You’re our best hope, apparently.”

  “It’s bullshit. This is the best men’s team we’ve had in years. I hate to say it, but some of Viktor’s crazier ideas seem to be paying off.” What Jake thought, but did not say, was that while all that was true on paper, he didn’t completely have faith that they wouldn’t all choke on game day.

  The men’s team had a pattern. The previous Olympics and every subsequent World Championship bore it out. They killed it in the qualifying round, usually entering the team competition in first place, and nearly everyone made an event final. Then everyone choked.

  Well, Jordan somehow managed to always stick his pommel horse routines, which was a goddamn miracle for a US gymnast, since the rest of them were particularly skilled at falling off when it mattered. Jake had always excelled at the bars—both high and parallel—but he was also famous for executing flawless routines and then landing terribly. Hayden was a beautiful vaulter, when he managed to stick the landings, Brad tumbled better than anyone in the world when he stayed in bounds, and Corey was freakishly strong and usually flawless on rings, except when he racked up deductions for not holding his poses long enough.

  But the thing was, they were always perfect in qualifiers, so they could be excellent. In practice, Jake stuck his landings nine times out of ten. So did Hayden and Brad. Brad only stepped out of bounds in competition because his nerves wrecked his control; when he had control, he was unbeatable on floor. Viktor had been working with Corey on timing, and he had definitely improved. And, well, Jordan just needed to stick his pommel horse routines so that it didn’t look like the US team as a whole sucked at the apparatus.

  The new guy, Paul, was something of an unknown quantity. Jake liked him, though he was young. Paul had been a junior national champion and had won a bunch of college medals, but college gymnastics were a different beast. Jake had no doubt that Paul, just like his teammates, had the goods, but Paul had never been to an international competition before, so how he would react was anybody’s guess.

  “It’s because you’re the pretty one,” Corey said, taking a closer look at the photo of Jake in the magazine. “They put your face on all the promo materials because you’re the best-looking of all of us.”

  Jake scoffed. “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. I mean, you’d have to compete with me for the honors if I hadn’t broken my nose all those times.” Corey rubbed the ridge where his nose hadn’t quite healed correctly. “And let’s face it, the TV network wants to spotlight guys with the kinds of looks that appeal to female viewers in middle America. Jordan is too Eastern European and Hayden is too black and Brad is too married. I don’t say that to be racist. I’m just pointing out the network’s Stone Age attitudes about these things. So you, my friend, as the most traditionally attractive, are our designated heartthrob.”

  “What about Paul?”

  Corey scoffed. “Paul is a fetus.”

  “If Brad is too married, how am I not too gay?”

  Corey grinned. “That’s a memo even Sports Illustrated didn’t get. See, it says here you’re still single and ready to mingle.”

  “It doesn’t say that.” Jake reached for the magazine.

  Corey pulled the magazine away and held it in the aisle. Jake gave up, so Corey read, “Male gymnasts tend to peak later than female gymnasts do, so this is a team not of teenagers, but of grown men. Some even have their own families of fledgling gymnasts. Mirakovitch’s teammate Brad Porter is married and has a daughter who is three years old. She has yet to grace a balance beam, but it’s only a matter of time.” Corey rolled his eyes. “Blah, blah, yada yada. Oh, here’s the part I wanted. ‘But don’t worry, ladies. Mirakovitch is still single.’ See, it’s right there at the end of the story.”

  “Why is Sports Illustrated talking about my romantic life? Why not the difficulty level of my high bar routine?”

  “That’s all here too. But see? You’re a pretty boy. Teenage girls put pictures of you in their lockers and draw hearts over your face.”

  “Gross.”

  Corey laughed. “Seriously, though, are you seeing anyone? Is there a man tucked into your luggage and packed into the cargo hold I should know about?”

  “No, of course not. When do I have time to date? I train all the time.”

  “Brad found the time.”

  “Yeah, well, Brad’s father isn’t a former Soviet gymnast.”

  “Fair point.” Corey shook his head. “I like your father, but he can be a hardass.”

  “Not news.”

  “I’m thinking about asking out Jessica. She’s twenty-two, so it’s not completely inappropriate.”

  “Yeah, I could see that. I personally don’t want to date another gymnast. I’d like to talk about other things sometimes.”

  “You have interests other than gymnastics?” Corey mock gasped.

  “A few, as it happens.” Jake rolled his eyes.

  “Good luck finding someone who gets it. I dated a girl for a while who didn’t understand why I had to train so much. She thought I was cheating on her because I spent so many hours at the gym.” Corey shook his head. “I get why gymnasts marry each other. Who else would understand the hell we put ourselves through every day?”

  It was a fair point. Jake hadn’t dated much… well, ever, but certainly not in the past few years. Since before the last Olympics, really, and even then he’d gone on a handful of dates with a few cute guys who thought it was really cool Jake was an elite gymnast with the body to match… but not so cool that he literally lived at the gym. And once Jake started explaining about Valentin and the Soviet gymnastics machine, their eyes glazed over.

  Well, whatever. He’d date after he retired.

  Which hopefully wouldn’t be for a while.

  His thirtieth birthday loomed in the future. His injured body parts had begun to ache, especially first thing in the morning and late at night. He knew from a practical perspective that his days were numbered, that soon his body would give out on him. And Dr. Ruiz had already warned him that any more hits to the head could cause permanent damage.

  But until that time, he was going to fight as hard as he could for that gold medal.

  Because Jake Mirakovitch was the best gymnast in the world who had never won an Olympic gold medal. No, he was the best gymnast in the world, period. He just had to prove it.

  TOPHER’S SEAT neighbor on the flight to Madrid was a retired gymnast named Natalie. TBC had hired her to comment over the gymnastics live feed, which would be
airing online. The same crusty old commentators were doing the primetime coverage, as Natalie explained in exasperated tones.

  “That’s one step above where I was two years ago,” Topher explained. “They had me writing cutesy articles for the network website. This is supposed to be my audition for a more regular gig. I’m hoping for primetime, but I’ll probably just get relegated to doing videos for the website.”

  Natalie nodded. “Do you have a schedule here?”

  “A rough one. My handler keeps telling me it’s subject to change.”

  “I’m trying to get a ticket to the Opening Ceremony. It’s not looking good.”

  “I clearly don’t have a prayer, then.”

  The network had paid for a chartered flight, which Topher appreciated. TBC was paying for his hotel room too, though he was on his own for meals if he didn’t eat at craft services. It wasn’t a bad way to travel, and he’d never been to Madrid. Part of his job was to be a “cultural ambassador” for the network, so he’d be touring landmarks and filming short segments about them. They had him scheduled to show up at a few events to do stories that either profiled athletes or explained how the sport worked for laypeople, which was a little more in Topher’s wheelhouse than talking about statues and art museums. His schedule was tucked carefully into his carry-on bag, so he’d worry about it when he landed.

  There wasn’t anything interesting to see out the plane windows, so he opened the September issue of Vogue and began to flip through it. He glanced at Natalie, who carefully paged through a dog-eared Madrid travel guide. Topher was somewhat at the whims of the network, so he figured they would tell him where to go and what to say, and he was content to wing it otherwise.

  Natalie glanced over his shoulder—he was looking at an Anna Sui photo spread—and said, “Oh, that’s gorgeous!” She pointed, getting a smudgy fingerprint on a bohemian-style gown that Topher thought was kind of a travesty of paisley and fussy design.

  “She was better in the nineties. Anna Sui, I mean. I’m not really loving the boho trend. Everyone in this collection looks like they’re going to Coachella,” Topher said.

  Natalie looked Topher up and down. “All right. So who are you wearing? Thom Browne?”

  Topher was tickled she knew who Thom Browne was, so he said, “No. It’s a newer menswear designer named Michael Bastian. I love the print on this shirt, don’t you?” He fingered the sleeve of his shirt. It was a pale blue with little white daisies.

  “It’s pretty. I’d wear a dress with that print.”

  “I figured I’d go classy for the plane. The bright colors and sequins and things are reserved for next week.” Topher grinned. “Joanna almost sent me home when she saw how much luggage I brought. But in my defense, I’ll be in Madrid for three weeks.”

  Natalie laughed. “So if we crash into the Atlantic because the plane is too heavy, I know who to blame.”

  “I can’t repeat an outfit on-air.”

  “No, I get it. I brought three suitcases myself.”

  Topher waved his hand. “Only three? Amateur hour. I have six. I had to give the cabbie an absurd tip to get it all in and out of the car.”

  “I’m glad your priorities are sorted out.”

  “Look, I’m a washed-up figure skater headed to the summer Olympics. I have to make a splash somehow. Why not with fabulous fashion?”

  “Why not, indeed.” Natalie winked. “I think this may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, Christopher Caldwell.”

  Topher grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I agree. Call me Topher.”

  Chapter Three

  OVER BREAKFAST at the hotel where most of the TBC talent and staff were staying, Topher asked, “What is ‘podium training’? Are these gymnasts really so confident in their victory that they have to practice accepting their medals?”

  Natalie laughed. She looked cute today, in a black matte jersey jumpsuit that made her compact figure actually look long and lean. “No. It’s the official practice session before the meet. The gymnasts get a chance to run through their routines on the official apparatuses before the actual competition begins. Like a dress rehearsal, kind of.”

  “Oh, okay. I’m supposed to cover it tomorrow, and I thought it would be ridiculous if it was all, like, ‘aw, shucks’ posing and Miss America waving.” Topher cut his egg-white omelet in half with his fork. The food at the hotel was decent, if underseasoned. Topher made a killer omelet when he cooked for himself at home, so this was kind of a letdown. “You, my darling, are going to be my gymnastics translator.”

  “Not a problem. I did compete a couple of Olympics ago, you’ll recall. I have a little bit of experience. So, you have to cover podium training?”

  “Yeah. They’re streaming it live on the TBC Sports website. This is, like, the first test.”

  “I’m covering it too.”

  “Excellent!” It was a relief, in a way. Topher had taken a gymnastics class as a kid, but he knew very little about the finer points of the sport. “They didn’t tell me who else I’d be on the air with. I’m the token non-gymnast on the panel, I suppose. The audience surrogate. The dummy who asks all the questions.” Topher frowned at his schedule. “This is like the cooking show I did. In one round, they asked us to cook with this wacky fruit I’d never seen before, and I felt like such an idiot for not knowing what it was. I still have this recurring nightmare where the judge hands me a mystery box full of things I don’t know how to cook while millions of people watch on television.”

  “You’ll be fine. I’ll give you a primer before we get to the venue. I’m guessing there are a lot of parallels with figure skating.” Natalie popped a piece of melon in her mouth. “Did you get an Opening Ceremony ticket?”

  “Nope. There was a brief shining moment in which it looked like flight delays would keep Mary Ruggiero at home and they’d let me have her seat, but it looks like she’ll arrive in Madrid in time after all.” Topher sighed and looked back at his schedule. “I’m also supposed to do a short interview with a gymnast named Jake Mirakovitch. Do you know him?”

  “Yeah. I’ve met him a few times.” Natalie grimaced.

  “What? Is he awful?”

  “No, not at all. Super sweet guy, actually. Smoking hot.”

  Topher didn’t even know what he looked like, so he nodded. “Okay, I hear you. Why the frown?”

  “There are two important things to know about Jake.” Natalie held up her index finger. “First, he comes from this gymnastics dynasty. His parents were Soviet gymnasts who won a bunch of gold medals in the eighties. And his sister is the world champion. I mean, literally the whole Mirakovitch clan lives and breathes gymnastics. And, well, they’re all kind of intense about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Second.” Natalie held up another finger. “He’s fucking amazing. He can do skills no one else in the world can do. He flies higher on the high bar than anyone in the competition.”

  “Huh. So why have I never heard of him?”

  “He always chokes in international competition.”

  That surprised Topher, although he supposed it made some sense. There were plenty of talented athletes who just couldn’t get it together on the world stage. Topher knew something about that. He nodded. “I guess the network is optimistic that he’ll do well here.”

  “Sure,” said Natalie, although Topher suspected she was actually thinking, Or not, if they’re sending you to talk to him.

  But whatever. Topher didn’t want to waste the opportunity. “I think Joanna assumes skating and gymnastics have overlapping fan bases, so she thinks I’ll have some affinity with the gymnasts.” Joanna was Topher’s handler. She had some official title that Topher could never remember, but her job mainly seemed to be telling the junior talent what to do. “Or, I don’t know. I sometimes feel like the resident clown.”

  Natalie tilted her head. “They wouldn’t have hired you if they didn’t think you’d be good on-air. My guess is they think you’ll bring in the Winter
Olympics fans.”

  Topher suspected TBC thought he made good television, not necessarily that he was talented. But he nodded, not wanting to get into it.

  Natalie seemed to sense that, and she asked, “So, who are you wearing today?”

  Topher grinned and launched into an exegesis on that day’s outfit. Figuring he’d ease into the fashion, today he had on a short-sleeve button-down tucked into dark skinny jeans, although the shirt was bright pink, and he’d put a little extra whimsy in his hair. He’d let it grow long on top so he could fashion a little pompadour. He’d gone light on the makeup too, just eyeliner and lip gloss, but he’d packed his whole kit. TBC had their own makeup people, but Topher hadn’t decided if he trusted them yet.

  Natalie gestured at her own shirt. “Not gonna lie, this was one of those big-name-designer collections for Target. This shirt was, like, twenty bucks. It’s cute, though, right?” She picked at the shoulder. It was a blush pink lace top, and it was pretty cute.

  “I like it, yeah. I won’t tell anyone you bought it at Target.”

  Natalie took a bite of potato. “Serendipitous that we were seated together on the plane. We could be a good duo, you know.”

  Topher grinned. “I do know.” He paused. “This Jake fellow. On a scale of, like, one to Matt Bomer, how hot is he?”

  Natalie rolled her eyes. “You’ve got a phone, don’t you?”

  Topher pulled it out and Googled Jake Mirakovitch. And…. “Jesus.”

  “Photos don’t even do him justice.”

  “How it is possible to have a face that pretty on a body that muscular?”

  Natalie laughed. “Oh, sweetheart. Welcome to men’s gymnastics. It takes a tremendous amount of strength, so they all have sculpted bodies like that, and most of them are short. You can’t tumble as well if you’re tall.”

  “I’m not exactly a giant.” Topher gestured to his own five-eight frame.