Stick the Landing

by Kate McMurray

Nothing else mattered. He’d gone out there, put every last bit of strength and willpower he’d had into that routine, and he would leave Madrid with no regrets. If he won gold, if he won nothing, it wouldn’t matter, because there was nothing more he could have done.

  And now the entire lower half of his right leg felt like it had shattered.

  He hopped over to the sidelines on his left foot and let Alexei and Viktor help him down.

  Valentin was still there too. And he was crying.

  What was even happening right now?

  Before Jake could answer that question, he was folded up in Valentin’s arms. In Russian, Valentin said, “I am very proud of you, my son. Very proud.”

  “How is ankle?” asked Alexei.

  “Hurts like a mother.”

  Valentin helped Jake sit back on the bench. Dr. Ruiz appeared again, this time with a stool on which to elevate the bad ankle. He took the wrap off and examined Jake’s ankle. “We should really get this X-rayed to make sure you didn’t damage it further.”

  “After I get my medal,” said Jake.

  Jake let Dr. Ruiz and Valentin fret over him while he waited for the last two gymnasts to go. Jake was in first place by a wide margin; not only had his routine had the highest degree of difficulty, but he’d stuck it, with only a few tiny deductions. And apparently that had been enough to intimidate the last two gymnasts, both of whom were normally at the top of their game, but they both made major errors in their routines.

  So there it was: gold medal on high bar.

  When the final results were announced, Jake stood up on one foot and waved at the audience.

  He had no regrets. He let Valentin bully him into using the crutches to get himself over to the podium, and he let the emotional pod person who had taken over the otherwise stoic body of Valentin Mirakovitch hug him a lot more; then he propelled himself over to the dais to accept his much-deserved gold medal.

  Chapter Nineteen

  JAKE WANTED to have sex.

  The team was celebrating at America House, but Jake was on some pretty heavy painkillers and had to sit at a booth with his ankle elevated, so he couldn’t have anything to drink. But he didn’t need his ankle for sex, so he texted Topher: They won’t let me have alcohol.

  Tragic! Topher texted back.

  I don’t want to be at this party if I can’t drink. Do you know what I want?

  Topher texted back a bunch of question marks.

  So Jake texted, Sex. With you.

  Yes, please!

  Jake grinned and tried to come up with a scheme. Maybe he could get a cab to Topher’s hotel. Maybe he could sneak Topher into the Athlete Village. Maybe he could—

  If you’re serious, I’m on my way to my hotel now.

  I’m going to try to sneak out of here.

  Then, just for fun, he sent Topher an eggplant and peach emoji. That should make his intentions clear.

  He had all this energy he couldn’t do anything with, adrenaline from winning and frustration with being stuck sitting in one place. Chelsea brought him a ginger ale with an apologetic smile, and Jake sipped it resentfully.

  “Why are you scowling?” she asked, sliding into the booth seat across the table from Jake. “You won three medals today.”

  “Haha.”

  “Does your ankle hurt?”

  Jake eyed her glass. It could have been seltzer, or it could have been a vodka soda, and Jake would never know. He raised an eyebrow at her. “It’s not bad now, but I’ve got enough painkillers in me to kill a rhino.”

  Chelsea laughed. “You don’t need alcohol if they gave you the good drugs.”

  Jake sighed. “I am happy. The gold medal hasn’t quite sunk in, but holy shit, I can’t believe I did that.”

  “How much more did you fuck up your ankle on the landing?”

  “A lot. Tore a ligament.”

  Chelsea gave him a sympathetic grimace. “Been there. Could have been worse.”

  “Oh, I’ve hurt myself worse. It hurt like a mother to land on it, but not like the time I tore my Achilles. Or the time I broke my wrist.” That one had been in competition, of course. He’d done a Tkatchev over the high bar and missed the catch. His wrist had broken his fall when he’d hit the mat, and several bones in it had shattered. That had taken him out of competition for the rest of that season. Over the years he’d also broken a few ribs, pulled a few muscles, and hit his head enough that his doctor had tried to talk him out of coming to the Olympics, worried one more concussion would cause permanent damage.

  But if a torn ligament couldn’t talk Jake out of his Olympic moment, nothing could.

  He thought back to what Isaac Flood had told him. Jake had given the competition everything. He had no regrets.

  Well, he regretted the torn ligament insofar as he was currently trapped in this booth and not having sex with Topher.

  Valentin walked over, exactly the person Jake wanted to see when he was thinking about sex. He tried not to roll his eyes.

  “How is foot?”

  “It’s fine.”

  Valentin nodded. “You need rest. You too, Chelsea. Your event finals are tomorrow.”

  Chelsea rolled her eyes. “As if I’d forget.”

  “I gave you a run for your money,” Jake said, tilting his ginger ale toward her.

  “Guess I’ll have to win every final.”

  Jake grunted at that. The “anything you can do, I can do better” routine had been cute when they were kids, but as his foot throbbed, Jake was reminded—again—that Chelsea would always be better. She had more success, more talent, more of their parents’ love.

  Leave it to his family to make him feel awful in his moment of triumph. Jake put a hand over his eyes, which unfortunately did not actually make them disappear.

  “What did doctor say about treatment?” Valentin asked. When Jake peeked through his fingers, Valentin pointed to Jake’s foot.

  Jake shrugged. The question struck Jake as odd; Valentin had torn a few ligaments in his day. He knew how this went. “Not a ton you can do. Ice it and keep off it.”

  “No ice now.”

  “The ice pack I got at the hospital melted. It’s not like I can get up and ask for more ice.”

  Valentin stared at Jake’s foot for a beat, then walked away.

  Jake sighed and looked up at the television. Just like any sports bar in the States, all four televisions were tuned in to either TBC, TBC Sports, or the live feeds of whichever sport was happening at that moment. Competition was done for the day now, though, so most of the TVs were showing footage from earlier in the day. The TV closest to Jake showed the TBC late night coverage, which was basically just a talk show with clips. Maybe it was the drugs clouding his brain, but Jake wasted a few minutes trying to figure out if this was the live footage of what would be aired in the States later because of the time difference, and then he tried to figure out what time it was in Texas, but there was too much math involved.

  And, oh, there was Topher on screen. White text appeared in the corner and indicated this was previously recorded, but Topher—pompadour hair, eyeliner, glittery nail polish, hot pink feather boa, so unapologetically himself that Jake wanted to reach through the television to touch him—sat there and gave some kind of introduction to a video package of himself touring around Madrid with athletes identified as a rower and a weightlifter.

  “He’s an interesting guy, huh?” said Chelsea.

  Jake didn’t say anything.

  Whispering, Chelsea said, “You’re so butch. I imagined you would be attracted to guys who look more like you than like him.”

  Jake was briefly offended on Topher’s behalf, but he realized Chelsea meant well. “I can’t explain it. I really like him.” Topher was just so… beautiful. Charismatic. Whenever he was near—or on television—Jake couldn’t peel his gaze away. Topher was magnetic.

  And he was absolutely fucking sexy too. It was the little things. A close-up of his face on screen revealed a sheen of lip gloss
on his perfect, kissable lips. He had impossibly long eyelashes, blue eyes that glittered in the harsh lights of the studio, a little birthmark near his eye that made his face even more interesting. The camera panned back again, and the wide shot highlighted how smooth and graceful each of Topher’s movements were—years and years of figure skating being the cause, no doubt—and his body was lithe but strong. Jake wanted to touch him everywhere.

  He’d had the opportunity once, but it hadn’t been enough.

  On-screen, Topher wrapped up his segment, and then the host turned toward the camera and started talking. The official gymnastics symbol popped up on-screen, and Jake braced himself for what he knew was coming. There’d be some fawning piece about Chelsea, no doubt. It was just as well that the sound was muted in favor of the classic rock playing over the speakers, because Jake wasn’t in the mood to hear it.

  Except, no, there was Jake on screen, launching into the tumbling pass, under-rotating, and then the worst thing that could happen: his feet slid right out from under him—he’d hit the landing on the corner of his heel because he hadn’t quite gotten all the way around that last flip—and Jake flailing before he hit the mat. That sprain had really only weakened and aggravated him. He watched himself be escorted off the floor apparatus, hopping across the mat, his pride hurt more than anything.

  Because, God, he could do everything right, and then undo it in an instant, landing badly on a tumbling pass he’d done successfully literally hundreds of times.

  Spraining his ankle hurt, but it wasn’t anything compared to… oh, hey, here was the next clip.

  On-screen, Jake did his high bar routine, threw in the modified Tkatchev because what did he have to lose at that point? It looked amazing and he’d gotten incredible height above the bar, enough that he impressed even his own harsh inner critic—and then he stuck the goddamned landing. Pain radiated up his leg now at the memory of how it had felt when his feet hit the mat, at once the greatest moment of his life and one of the most physically painful.

  “You did that,” Chelsea said, pointing to the screen.

  “I did.”

  Corey walked over and motioned for Chelsea to move over before he dropped into the booth next to her, since Jake couldn’t exactly move over to let him sit.

  “How’s the foot?” Corey asked.

  Jake sighed.

  “He’s sulking,” Chelsea said.

  “I am not!”

  Corey laughed. “Sorry about what happened. I don’t know if you noticed, though, but that extra weight around your neck is all the medals you won today.”

  “I know, just… this is not how I pictured myself celebrating.”

  “He wants alcohol,” Chelsea told Corey. “But he’s on pain meds.”

  “We’ll celebrate properly when we’re back home,” said Corey. “I’ll be your wingman at that gay bar in Montrose and talk cute boys into buying you drinks. How does that sound?”

  It sounded pretty good, actually, but Jake made a show of being pissy and said, “Oh, all right.”

  “Can I come?” asked Chelsea.

  “Turn twenty-one first,” said Jake.

  “Hmph.” Chelsea glanced at the TV. Some bit of understanding passed over her face, but she shrugged it off.

  “Actually, there’s a bar downtown that’s all ages on Thursdays,” said Corey.

  “Don’t encourage her,” said Jake.

  “Your brother and I used to sneak out at night to go to this place. It was kind of equal opportunity there—whoever you wanted to make out with. Girls, boys, anyone. Jake lost his virginity to a guy we met there.”

  “Ew!” said Chelsea at the same time Jake said, “Dude!”

  “TMI, Corey,” said Chelsea.

  “Just saying,” said Corey. “Or, forget Jake, I’ll happily escort you there myself.”

  “Over my dead body,” said Jake. “You touch her and I will throat-punch you.”

  Corey held his hands up. “It’s not like that. You know I love Chels like a sister.”

  Chelsea grinned. “I don’t know if you knew this, but until Jake pulled that Kerri Strug move today and landed his high bar routine despite a sprained ankle, I was the most famous gymnast in the world. I don’t see myself having a problem finding someone to make out with. Jake, though….”

  “Oh, here we go,” said Jake.

  “I saw your ankle, buddy.” To Chelsea, Corey added, “It swelled up like a grapefruit.” He mimed holding a sphere big enough to be a basketball. “That’s not sexy.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “I told you he was sulking,” said Chelsea.

  “Leave me to my suffering.”

  “No such luck,” said Corey. He looked up at the TV. “Are they just going to keep showing you sticking that landing on a loop?”

  “It was pretty great, wasn’t it?” Chelsea asked.

  “It was. I’m proud of you, Jake.”

  Jake scanned the room for his father, who was standing at the bar chatting with one of the gymnasts from the women’s team instead of being over here, helping Jake. Valentin had been proud of Jake, or so he’d said, but that was clearly short-lived.

  In his peripheral vision, Jake saw Chelsea and Corey follow his gaze. Corey pressed his lips together, probably because he was familiar with Jake’s status as the second-best Mirakovitch child.

  “I know what’s going on here,” Corey said. “You do a thing spectacularly a hundred times, but the one time you fuck it up is the one that sticks with you.”

  “Look, Jake,” said Chelsea, “I don’t care how many medals you have. I don’t care if you’re the most famous gymnast in the world or the most obscure. You’re my brother, and I love you. And what you did today was something really special. You pushed past that injury and got your routine done, even though I’m sure you were in a lot of pain. I’m not sure I could have done what you did today.”

  “You don’t generally injure yourself in competition.”

  “No, but… you remember that World Cup when I missed the high bar and landed on my ass?”

  Jake did remember. He nodded. But Corey said, “What happened?”

  “I broke my tailbone, of all the dumb things.” She turned back to Jake. “I dropped out of the competition rather than try to finish it. And, like, I broke my radius falling off the balance beam in practice once, so I’m no stranger to injuries either. But it never occurred to me to push through the pain and finish the competition. There’d be another after I healed.”

  “This is probably it, you know,” Jake said. “There probably won’t be another chance for me. Definitely not another Olympics. So I had to finish this one.”

  Chelsea nodded. She opened her mouth to say something, but then Valentin appeared at the table again, this time holding a towel and a plastic baggie full of crushed ice. “Ice for foot,” he said as he examined Jake’s foot. He wrapped the towel around the baggie and placed it on the injured part of Jake’s leg.

  The gesture struck Jake as so odd that he didn’t know what to do with it. “You got ice for me?”

  “Of course. Best treatment for torn ligament is ice. I want you to recover quickly.”

  “So I can get back in the gym?”

  “So you don’t hurt anymore.”

  Oh.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  The clip rolled on TV again and Valentin watched it. He turned back to Jake and said, “I’m sorry you got hurt, but I am proud of what you did today.”

  “Sit, Mr. Mirakovitch,” said Corey, shoving Chelsea over in the booth to make more room.

  And Jake’s father sat. Jake glanced at his phone, at a Hey, r u coming? text from Topher, and he mourned the fact that he would not be coming inside Topher anytime soon. Then he turned his phone over and focused on having a drink with his father, his sister, and his best friend. They meant well, and he loved them. What had he been thinking? It wasn’t like he could go anywhere without help anyway. So he smiled and tried to push Topher out of his mind.

>   TOPHER DEBATED how much of himself to strip off in anticipation of Jake arriving at the hotel. He hung the feather boa in the closet and washed his face; then he combed his hair back into place, although he’d be willing to bet it wouldn’t last. He changed out of his on-air costume and slipped into a white T-shirt with a bit of iridescent sheen to it and a pair of black skinny jeans. He cupped himself, already hard picturing what he and Jake would do together.

  While he waited, he flipped on the TV. The Spanish network covering the Games showed highlights from the day. Topher’s knowledge of Spanish was rudimentary at best, but it didn’t matter, because the package consisted of mostly images. The Spanish soccer team remained undefeated, a Spanish fencer had won a gold medal, a Spanish swimmer had won a bronze, the Chinese were currently ahead in the medal count, and the men’s gymnastics event finals had finished up.

  And there was Jake, the clear highlight of the day, landing his tumbling pass badly, spraining his ankle, but going on to win gold in the high bar.

  Jake really was remarkable. He had that boy-next-door quality, albeit with messy brown hair and square jaw and bulging muscles. Those muscles strained as Topher watched slow-motion video of the high bar routine, all round curves and cords and sinew. Topher had tasted it all once, but he wanted Jake again, more than he wanted his next meal, and he salivated now in anticipation of tonight.

  Of course, it wasn’t like they had a prayer of making this anything more than an Olympic affair. Topher knew full well what the life of an elite athlete was like. Jake would go back to training in Houston soon, and Topher would go back to New York to figure out his next move, and that would be it; this funny courtship would be over.

  Topher liked Jake a great deal, saw something of himself in Jake, and yet he knew full well that they didn’t have a future together. Which didn’t make him want Jake any less, of course. And here they both were in Madrid, inside the magic Olympic bubble, so why shouldn’t they have tonight?

  On the other hand, inside a deep pit within Topher, he wondered what he even had to offer Jake. Maybe the mechanics of this were too difficult. Topher couldn’t get into the athlete dorms, so Jake would have to come to him. But Jake’s whole family was here in Madrid, and his gold-medal-winning performance today would put him square in the media spotlight. Topher loved the spotlight, but he didn’t love his private life being at the center of it. Being with Jake would be complicated. Was it worth it to get ensnared now?