Stick the Landing Page 7

  “I get that,” Topher said, while wondering if doing a routine with a lower difficulty score would hurt Jake’s chances to make the event final. Although the gymnastics scoring was similar to figure skating scoring in some ways, Topher still did not understand the intricacies of it. Then again, when he’d mentioned the changes from the ten-point scale, he’d started an argument between Natalie and Sam, so he’d opted to leave that be.

  What he did understand is that there were two schools of thought on scoring: people either liked the simplicity of the ten or liked the nuance of the new system. Under the old system, two gymnasts could get the same score, regardless of difficulty level, if they completed the requisite skills with no major errors. Under the new system, more difficult routines were rewarded with higher scores, to oversimplify. It incentivized gymnasts pushing the sport forward. Same with the system in skating. Whoever landed the most quad jumps generally got the highest score these days, because those difficult jumps raked in the points, so the athletes pushed themselves to do increasingly more difficult skills. Under the old skating system, the athletes received up to six points based mostly on judge subjectivity. The new system was more objective. It was better, as far as Topher was concerned. Sam seemed to disagree.

  Sam called most of the high bar routines. He seemed to be the expert, and he did actually have a lot of intelligent things to say. When Topher remarked that a lot of these gymnasts were on their second and even third Olympics, Sam pointed out that because male gymnasts tended to peak much later in life than female gymnasts did, men’s careers were a little more sustainable, although they’d be hard-pressed to find a gymnast over thirty on any team. There were a handful of outliers—Brad Porter was thirty-one; one of the Russian gymnasts was an elderly thirty-five—but Jake, for example, was twenty-six and probably anticipating the twilight of his career.

  Elite sports were so goddamn tragic that way.

  Because Sam pontificated most of the time, Topher was able to sit back and watch Jake swing around the bar. He looked good, although Topher didn’t really know what he was looking at.

  “These release moves look plenty impressive,” Topher said.

  “Oh. Yeah, they are a crowd-pleaser,” said Sam. “The thing with high bar is that the release moves are the most eye-catching, right? They look impressive to the audience. But everything else is more important. An impressive release move will raise your difficulty level, but you have to hold the handstands for the required amount of time too, and you have to do a certain number of skills with different holds on the bar. So sometimes impressive-looking routines get low scores because the gymnast failed to adequately complete the other elements.”

  Topher nodded and then murmured, “Interesting,” when he realized no one watching the broadcast could see him. “I mean, I understand all about those otherwise invisible deductions. It’s like in figure skating if you land a jump but don’t complete all of the rotations. There’s no double-and-a-half axel, you know?”

  “Yup. Luckily, that’s not an issue Jake will have,” said Natalie. “He did all of his skills well. That tiny step on the dismount will be a mandatory deduction, but that was otherwise pretty flawless. Exactly what he needed to do to help his team and qualify for the event final. We’ll see his crazier stuff then. The event finals are always ‘go big or go home.’”

  “Cool, okay,” Topher said.

  Topher spent the time during the parallel bar rotation occasionally saying, “Huh,” or “Interesting” to things Sam said while concocting schemes to talk to Jake again. Maybe, if Jake finished this qualifier well, the network would let Topher interview him again. Or maybe there’d be some kind of after-party Topher could get himself invited to.

  The Americans were in second place going into the last rotation. Natalie and Sam did most of the commentary, because the floor exercise looked like flips and cartwheels to Topher’s untrained eye. Natalie seemed particularly impressed with Brad’s routine when he finished.

  “Okay,” Topher intervened, “explain to me how that was different from what Corey O’Bannon did. Because you keep saying Brad Porter will get this huge score, but as a layperson, I can’t tell why his routine was better than Corey’s.”

  “Let’s look at the replay,” Sam said with a grin, as if he’d been hoping Topher would ask exactly this question. “First, Brad’s base difficulty score is higher, because he does more complicated tumbling passes. So, like, here he does a round-off into this salto, and he gets his body around twice before landing, then he immediately flips again. His second pass has a specific combination called the Porter because Brad invented it. The other thing worth noting is that Brad is powerful off the floor. The height he gets is just incredible. He can jump higher in the air than anyone in this competition. His only real competition for a medal in the floor final is Daisuke from Japan, who does these incredible twists in the air. Daisuke is the reigning world champion, with good reason.”

  “So, basically, Brad does a harder routine better.”

  “That’s it, essentially. Jake’s pretty good on floor too. He’s so incredibly strong. He gets height like Brad, but his tumbling passes aren’t quite as difficult. It’s the difference between an all-around gymnast and a specialist. Jake does well on all six events, but Brad really shines here.”

  When they went off the air a half hour later, with the Americans having secured their spot in first place going into the team final and a bunch of opportunities for medals in event finals, Sam said, “Hey, it was fun doing this with you.”

  “Thanks, yeah,” said Topher. “Sorry if I sound silly, but a lot of this is new for me.”

  “No, it’s good,” said Natalie. “You asking these questions means we can explain things for the audience. Our audience is probably a good mix of hard-core gymnastics fans or Olympics fans watching the live feed from their desks in the middle of the workday, you know? Some of those people probably only watch gymnastics during the Olympics, so it’s good to remind us to explain things.”

  “Okay. Cool. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t think I was a complete idiot.”

  “Nope,” said Sam.

  “Because I can tell you a lot about figure skating. If you need to know the difference between a Lutz, a toe loop, and a Salchow, I got you.”

  “Good to know.” Sam laughed. “Listen, there’s a gymnastics party at the America House tonight. I got a text from Corey saying most of the men’s team would be putting in an appearance, plus the coaches and staff and whoever else. I don’t think the women’s team is coming because they have to compete tomorrow. Still, it should be fun. Want to come?”

  Bingo, Topher thought. “I’d love to.”

  Sam grinned. “Great.”

  Joanna walked over then and patted Topher’s back. “That was great, guys. We got a great response on social media.”

  Topher took a deep breath, mostly out of relief. “Good. Did everything sound okay?”

  “Yeah. I actually liked how you kept relating things back to figure skating. I think having you here could be pulling in part of that audience. Keep it up, okay?”

  Topher wanted to ask her a million questions about whether this had helped his chances of getting a figure skating commentating gig or if she was impressed by how he spoke or if he’d always have to be audience surrogate or if this had really been good or not. He had other opportunities on his schedule, and he supposed the “audition” would really be the aggregate of everything he did in Madrid. He didn’t want to seem too desperate or needy either. So he just grinned and said, “Yeah, let’s do this.”

  Joanna smiled. “I was hoping you’d say something like that. I know you’ve got accounts on most of the major social media sites. I think one way we could really pull in younger viewers would be for our feature correspondents to engage with the fans online. Maybe even do something creative. Post photos, talk about what you’re doing, that kind of thing.”

  Topher was a sporadic social media user; he mostly had accounts beca
use his agent insisted. But if it would help him get the job he wanted, he’d do almost anything. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “Great. You’re done for the day. Check in with me first thing in the morning at the broadcast center, okay? I have a few schedule changes for you.”

  Feeling a little dazed, Topher said, “Sure, no problem.”

  Chapter Seven

  JAKE ATTENDED the party at America House under duress. He was tired and wanted to sleep, but Corey had insisted that their finishing the qualifying event in first place was reason to celebrate.

  “I’ll celebrate when I’ve got medals hanging around my neck.”

  “Medals plural?” Corey asked as they walked across the Olympic Village.

  “Yup. I’m winning them all, Corey. Then I’ll relax.”

  “You’re a crazy person.”

  Jake shrugged.

  They arrived at the door of America House, a one-story structure that housed a bar that was the main place for the American athletes and their adoring public to meet and mingle, since only athletes were allowed in the dorms. The interior looked like every sports bar Jake had ever been to stateside: lots of wood and brass, and vintage sports memorabilia covering every available surface.

  Corey said, “We did well today, Jake. Stop beating yourself up for bad things that haven’t happened yet.”

  “I’m not.” No, he was beating himself up for getting his hopes up that his father gave a shit about how well he performed. Probably dear old Dad was currently with Chelsea in the practice gym, making her do drills and skills. Jake didn’t blame Chelsea for that, but he wished Valentin would take some damn time to see him in competition. Jake and Chelsea were both Mirakovitch children. Just because Chelsea had those World Championship titles….

  He took a deep breath and pushed through the door.

  A party raged on inside; a huge mob of people crowded around the bar. Jake and Corey pushed through the people toward the counter, where Corey ordered them drinks—Jake didn’t hear what, but it turned out to be sparkling water—and asked the bartender what all this was for. “Not gymnastics,” Corey concluded.

  “Four American medals won today,” the bartender said, as if explaining was part of his job. “Two golds in swimming, a silver in women’s archery, and a bronze in cycling. So everyone’s here celebrating.”

  Corey sipped his drink. “Lucky bastards. Some of them are done competing already.”

  “Aw,” said Jake. “Imagine flying halfway across the world to compete for a couple of hours on the first day of the Olympics. That archer who won a silver medal is done. Full stop. Seems anticlimactic.”

  “Sure, but now she can just hang back and relax.”

  “I guess.”

  Corey slapped Jake’s back. “You are constitutionally incapable of relaxing. Come on, let’s mingle a little.”

  The women’s gymnastics team was notably absent, since they were competing the next day, although one of the alternates sat forlornly with two people who must have been her parents, probably resigned to the fact that she’d never let go of the hope she’d get to compete until it became clear none of her teammates had suffered a Games-ending injury.

  But most of the men’s team and their coaches were there. Alexei gave him the “there better not be alcohol in that glass” glare from across the room. Jake shook his head.

  Then his gaze settled on someone he hadn’t expected to see: Topher Caldwell.

  Seeing Topher was jarring, in a way. Most of the athletes gathered in the room—Jake included—wore warm-up suits or casual clothes. Jake was wearing an old pair of jeans and a band T-shirt, having happily changed out of his official clothes. And there was Topher, clad in tight purple pants that had a bit of an iridescent sheen to them and a black tuxedo shirt unbuttoned to his sternum. There seemed to be some kind of foofaraw at his wrists, feathers or faux fur; it was hard to tell from a distance. And despite how ridiculous that outfit would have seemed out of context, Topher managed to make it look sexy. Really sexy. That dip of exposed skin under his chin called to Jake. What would it feel like to run his finger along it? His tongue?

  “Earth to Jake.”

  “What?”

  Corey rolled his eyes. “There’s a table over there with Jordan and Paul. Let’s go sit down.”

  “Yeah, in a sec.”

  It was against every instinct Jake had. He was in Madrid for only one purpose: to win an Olympic medal. He planned to do everything in his power to achieve that. He didn’t need distractions. But there was Topher chatting with Natalie Pasquarella—who wore a little silver cocktail dress—and Jake just had to speak with him.

  Corey took off for the table with their teammates, and so Jake crossed the room and approached Topher. “Hi,” he said.

  Topher smiled broadly. “Hi. I was hoping to run into you. There was a ripple through the media that you all planned to celebrate a little for qualifying for the team final in first place.”

  “Yeah. A little celebrating. The only scandalous thing in my glass is the slice of lime.”

  Topher looked at the glass. “Oh. That’s a shame. This is my second martini.” He held up his own glass.

  Natalie looked between them and said, “Hey, I gotta powder my nose. Be back in a few.”

  Topher nodded but didn’t otherwise shift his attention away from Jake. “I was hoping, actually, to interview you again. The network wants me to do more on social media, so I’ve decided to make kind of an Olympics video diary. Maybe we could do a segment together? No more than a couple of minutes.”

  “Could we do it after the team final? That’s Monday.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I don’t want to speculate about our performance until after we have a chance to prove ourselves. Or fail. Could go either way.” Jake seesawed his hand.

  “I think this is your time.” Topher grinned.

  “Yeah?” Jake was not at all certain, but he liked Topher’s attitude.

  “Yeah. So who all is at this party? Your family and friends here?”

  “Well, most of my teammates seem to have settled into that corner over there.” Jake hooked his thumb toward the table where Corey sat now. “The older guy with brown hair wearing the white windbreaker? That’s my coach, Alexei. He won an Olympics all-around gold medal for Russia in the ’90s.”

  “Okay.”

  “He’s a good coach, but he’s tough. From the Soviet system, you know?” Jake smiled and shrugged. “Anyway, my family is not here. They’re all either in the gym or sleeping so they’ll be ready for Chelsea to kill it tomorrow.”

  “Yeah? I’ve been reading up. She’s the favorite for the all-around medal.”

  “And she deserves it. I’m not just saying that. She’s super talented. Does things I’ve never seen other gymnasts do. And my father is a good coach for her. Loving, but tough. Always challenging her but never pushing too hard. You know?”

  “Sure. I had a relationship like that with my skating coach. Also a Soviet, by the way. Magda Kagan. She moved to the States from Ukraine in the ’70s. Her family was Jewish.”

  “Ah.”

  “She was on a trajectory to be a great Soviet skater before her family defected. Moving to the States took all their money, so she never really competed much after that, but she got into coaching and took me on when I was, gosh, eight? Remarkable woman. Great coach. She was like a mother to me, but she never let me get away with anything. No slacking. I did drills until I thought my feet would fall off. I got kicked in the head by another skater one time and had this huge gash in my forehead. It wasn’t that deep, but head wounds can bleed, so I thought I was dying. She basically slapped a Band-Aid on it and told me to keep going.” Topher chuckled softly. “I’m so grateful to her, because if she hadn’t pushed me, I never would have gotten as far as I did. She was also one of the first people I ever came out to. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

  Jake appreciated Topher speaking, though. He liked the cadence of Tophe
r’s voice, felt drawn in by it. He looked Topher up and down. His creamy skin was a little flushed, probably from the martini, and his clothes hugged his body. From a distance, Topher looked willowy, but up close, his strength was more obvious. The round muscles of his arms and chest strained against his shirt, and Jake wanted to run his hands over them. There was a slim line of skin exposed at Topher’s throat. Jake wanted to lick it.

  What had they been talking about? Oh, right, Topher coming out. Jake cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow. “No offense, but I don’t think you’d really fooled anyone.”

  Topher laughed. “I know, right? But you know how it is. Figure skating is one of the most homophobic sports there is.”

  Jake knew something about homophobia in sports that were generally considered “girly,” but he balked and said, “Figure skating? Really?”

  Topher held up a finger. “See, that’s exactly it. Everyone assumes that if you don a frilly figure skating costume, you must be gay. So all the male figure skaters are always overcompensating and try to prove their masculinity. It’s less true now, I think, but when I was skating competitively, the last thing you wanted to be was gay.”

  Jake slid onto the stool Natalie had vacated because he saw her strike up a conversation with someone near the restrooms, probably to give him and Topher a little more privacy. To what end, Jake didn’t know, but he didn’t mind her keeping her distance.

  Topher also smelled amazing; his cologne had some kind of minty undertone. Jake started to lean close to try to smell him better but caught himself before he did anything inappropriate.

  Topher didn’t seem to notice. He said, “I used to tamp it down. Try to make myself ‘normal.’ Tried to make my voice deeper, tried not to move my hands too much, tried not to seem like I was anything but straight as an arrow. That shit is exhausting.”

  Jake met Topher’s gaze and saw the sadness there, the struggle Topher had likely dealt with most of his life. Jake could relate. He didn’t think he ever acted like anything but himself, but he still wasn’t super eager for his sexuality to be public knowledge. He’d been in situations in which he’d consciously tried to deflect attention or otherwise not stand out in any way, and it was exhausting.