Stick the Landing

by Kate McMurray

  “I don’t want to show you.”

  “You’d better anyway.”

  “Come with me to my office.”

  Joanna’s “office” was not much bigger than a closet, but it did have a door that closed, which Joanna did. Topher wedged himself in a corner and looked over Joanna’s shoulder at her laptop on the desk that took up most of the usable floor space.

  And then there it was: she cascaded her windows to show a dozen headlines referring to Topher as “mincing,” “flamboyant,” “over-the-top.” Joanna sighed. “An organization called Concerned Mothers for the Media wants TBC to pull you.”

  Topher’s heart sank, and he stumbled backward and hit the wall. “Are you serious?”

  “You won’t be taken off the air. TBC has wrestled with Concerned Mothers before. They wanted us to pull Nikki Kenmore from Wake Up, America! too.” Nikki Kenmore read the news on Wake Up and happened to be an out lesbian who was an outspoken activist and frequent grand marshal of gay pride parades around the country. She currently wore her hair in a funky semimohawk and had a legion of fans. Joanna said, “Please don’t change what you’re doing, because our ratings are up and the feedback on some of the changes we’ve made to the broadcast this year—including having you do stories—has been overwhelmingly positive. All my bosses really care about are the numbers. Most of the stories are like that one you saw. But these stories exist. I just thought you should know.” Joanna gestured to the laptop.

  “Let me see.”

  It took some maneuvering, but Topher and Joanna switched places so that Topher sat in front of the laptop. He knew what he was about to see would hurt. He took a deep breath to steel himself. Most of the stories were not from mainstream sources but rather conservative media outlets, some of which Topher was familiar with and some he wasn’t. The stories were all the same. There was a general theme; Topher played around with gender when he presented himself on-air each day, and even though he identified as a man, some writers found his nail polish and lip gloss threatening. Or that was what Topher read between the lines.

  He clicked on another tab and found a forum in which sports fans were making fun of Topher for being so flamboyant. “We’re supposed to take this… thing seriously as a sports reporter?” one charming fellow wrote.

  It was like every fear Topher ever had manifested right in front of him. His stomach flopped and he broke out in a cold sweat. He pressed a hand to his forehead and made himself look at another tab. This was a figure skating message board in which a young, up-and-coming figure skater Topher knew vaguely actually posted that he hated Topher for being such an obvious stereotype.

  “Excuse me,” Topher said before sliding past Joanna and running down the hall to the men’s room, where he lost his breakfast.

  When he came back out, still feeling nauseous and generally terrible, Joanna waited for him with a sympathetic expression. “I’m sorry. I probably should have summed up the stories instead of showing you.”

  “No, it’s not your fault. I wanted to see them. And you’re not the one saying these things.”

  “TBC is no stranger to its commentators getting bad press. Our regular baseball guy, Jack Flynn? There are whole websites dedicated to how much baseball fans hate that guy. But he’s got a good voice for commentary and he knows baseball better than anyone in the industry, so he’s got a job for life if he wants it. Same for any woman who reports on football. I’ve seen letters sent to the network about Helen Rogers that say the most vile things I’ve ever seen. But she’s a great reporter, so she keeps her job.”

  Topher leaned against the wall, trying to get his equilibrium back.

  Joanna put her hands on her hips. “I’ll vouch for you. I know I can be a hardass, but I like the segments you’ve done, and I think you’re a great fit for the types of viewers we get for sports like gymnastics and figure skating. I was thinking it might be fun to have you do some work on diving next week. Or synchronized swimming, even. That doesn’t air in primetime, but I thought it would be interesting to do a segment on just how strong you have to be to hold those poses. On how sports like synchronized swimming look silly to audiences but actually require a lot of athleticism. I thought you might know something about that.”

  Topher nodded, although it felt a lot like he was being pushed into a box.

  “The internet always has shitty things to say about the on-air talent. Feel what you feel about this, but then push it aside, because people will say terrible things about you no matter what you do. But if you can let it roll off your back, and you keep being yourself on-air and doing segments like you’ve been doing? You’ve got a job, Topher.”

  “Primetime at the next Winter Olympics?”

  Joanna’s expression turned wry. “Well, I don’t know about all that yet. But you like this work, don’t you?”

  “I’d like to talk about my actual area of expertise instead of doing puff pieces. But as far as summer sports go, this has been a pretty fun week.”

  “Am I an asshole for showing you those stories?”

  Topher took a deep breath. “No. I’m glad I saw them. And it’s not like I haven’t heard this kind of stuff my whole life.”

  “Is it true that you talked Marc Jacobs into designing one of your skating costumes?”

  “Oh, honey. That is a story. Let me tell you it.” Topher hooked an arm around Joanna’s shoulders and steered her toward craft services so he could pilfer a pastry. He didn’t feel a lot better, although it was reassuring to know he’d have a job. But he told Joanna his Marc Jacobs story—Marc himself hadn’t had time to design a costume, but one of his assistants had in the end, and Topher had hooked up with said assistant, although he left that out of the story he told Joanna—and he drank coffee and he tried to remind himself that he was here to do a job, he was good at it, and he couldn’t let some angry conservatives with websites try to dim his inner flame.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Day 7

  TOPHER’S ASSIGNMENT was to do a segment on each apparatus as a way to explain what each event entailed to the audiences who were, for some reason, only just now tuning into the gymnastics coverage. Apparently Jake’s gold medal had suddenly caused interest in men’s gymnastics to spike, and the network had liked Topher’s work on gymnastics earlier, so here he was. Topher was thrilled to be talking about sports instead of paella, and he wasn’t about to complain. Natalie was acting as his expert. They were in the gym a few hours before the men’s event finals were supposed to begin, so Topher hoped that Jake was off training or sleeping or… not here.

  It was stupid that Topher felt so put out about not seeing a guy for a day. If he’d been home and dating someone, probably a week or more would have gone by without them seeing each other. That seemed pretty normal. Topher was always busy.

  But in Madrid, where there wasn’t a lot else to do except think about Jake, it felt like a major imposition not to see him.

  “You okay?” asked Natalie as the cameraman got into place near the parallel bars.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. So, my job is basically just to read off the cue cards, right? I read the script TBC provided, but I didn’t memorize it.”

  “Pretty much, yeah. I think it should be pretty straightforward. The way this will go is that you and I will take turns explaining each apparatus. You’re the blue letters on the cue card and I’m the red ones. Then we’ll say something that will lead to a clip. TBC will splice it all together after we’re done and it will air right before the event finals coverage. Got it?”

  “Yup. Let’s do this.”

  A PA held up a cue card. Topher waited for the director to signal action; then he read off the card. “We’ll start with the parallel bars. Unlike the uneven bars in women’s gymnastics, male gymnasts use both bars at the same time and do tricks between them. Each routine we’ll see today requires six tricks to demonstrate six different skills. These include gymnasts propelling themselves above the bars and then catching themselves on their upper arms.�
�� Topher held up his elbow and slapped his tricep to demonstrate where each man would land. “You’ll see many of the gymnasts on this apparatus will wear armbands to keep their arms from scraping or bruising.”

  Then Natalie broke in and said her spiel.

  And so it went, across each apparatus. They’d gotten to the still rings when a few of the American gymnasts tumbled out from the locker room in warm-up clothes.

  “You know,” Topher said, now that the camera was off, “I always heard ‘steel rings,’ not ‘still rings.’ Why are they called that?”

  Natalie shrugged. “They’re supposed to stay still while the gymnasts are on them? I don’t know, actually. That’s just what they’re called.”

  Jake and Corey O’Bannon walked out onto the floor. Topher and Jake briefly made eye contact.

  So much for not seeing each other.

  “Hi!” Jake said brightly.

  Jake’s enthusiasm was disarming. Topher didn’t know what to do with his face. Had Topher not been there for their last conversation, he would have greeted Jake just as happily, but this confused him. Weren’t they supposed to be cooling it until after the competition? Was Jake not feeling this awful churn in his gut at seeing the object of his affection but having to pretend like they were strangers? How could Jake be grinning so hard?

  Probably because there was a camera over Topher’s shoulder.

  “Er, how are you, Jake?”

  A little wrinkle appeared between Jake’s eyebrows for the briefest of moments. Then he smiled again and said, “Need any help?”

  “Do you have anything to say about the still rings?”

  The camera guy was clearly eating this up. Jake grinned and launched into a spiel about the rings that was laden with gymnastics-related slang. Topher couldn’t really follow it, but he didn’t need to. The fans would probably enjoy something like this, especially since Jake was in such a good mood. When the director called cut, someone said they were moving over to the high bar. The equipment left, and Natalie followed, but Topher lingered for a moment.

  “Did they spike your green juice with cocaine or something?” Topher asked. “You’re in an awfully good mood.”

  “Part of that was for the camera, but I actually do feel pretty good. I had an excellent warm-up this morning. I feel strong. I’m ready to get this done.”

  Across the mats, a British gymnast in his official British uniform did a tumbling pass on the floor, and when he landed it, he let out a triumphant, masculine yell.

  “Lot of testosterone in this room,” Topher observed.

  “You have all this pent-up energy and adrenaline after you nail a routine. For some of these guys, the adrenaline takes over and they need an outlet for it. I’ve tried to tamp it down. Earlier in my career, I used to shout a lot when I stuck my landings, but my coach has been working to train that out of me. Dad thinks it’s undignified.” Jake rolled his eyes.

  Topher nodded and made a mental note to track down videos of Jake sticking his landings on YouTube when he got back to his hotel later.

  Jake’s good mood was infectious, so Topher said, “There aren’t a lot of he-men in figure skating. I mean, you get an Elvis Stojko every now and then who is all swagger and quad jumps, and there’s been this movement to make skating more technical and athletic and less artistic, but if you’re over a certain weight, it’s pretty tough to get yourself high enough off the ice to complete the rotations. We haven’t figured out how to defy gravity just yet.”

  Jake nodded. “Well, we’re pretty brutish over here in Gymnastics Land.” He affected a he-man pose and stuck his lower jaw out so that his teeth overlapped his top lip. He grunted and flexed his muscles—good Lord he had strong arms—and stomped around. He looked so ridiculous that Topher laughed.

  “Christopher!” Natalie called from the high bar, in her best mom voice.

  “That’s my cue. I’ll see you later, Jake. Good luck today.”

  “Will you be watching?”

  “I think so, yeah. I mean, I still have to film some stuff for the network, but I will watch if I can.”

  “Cool. I’ll see you later.”

  Topher watched Jake walk back toward his teammates. He wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened, but he shrugged and walked over to Natalie.

  ALEXEI DID not look pleased.

  Jake tried to think back on whether he’d done anything wrong. He didn’t think he’d touched Topher or otherwise given any indication that they wanted to get into each other’s pants. He glanced back over his shoulder at where Topher was filming a segment for the network. Topher was wearing an iridescent purple T-shirt and a pair of very tight black jeans, but really, he wasn’t dressed quite as extravagantly as usual. His hair was done up in the usual pompadour, though, and he’d been wearing mascara and electric blue eyeshadow.

  Jake cleared his throat and looked back at Alexei. Corey stood behind him and raised an eyebrow.

  Fantastic. He was totally busted.

  “You befriend the…” Alexei held his hand in the air as if he were trying to pluck a word out of it. “…crazy reporter.”

  “We’re a little friendly, yes. He interviewed me for TBC the other day. He’s a nice guy.”

  “Your father says… well. We focus on gymnastics now.”

  “Of course.”

  Behind Alexei, Corey made a duck-quacking motion with his hand and rolled his eyes. Jake pressed his lips together so he wouldn’t laugh.

  Alexei had the schedule and rattled off the order Jake would do each apparatus. Jake tried to mentally inventory his gym bag, which he just realized was still in the locker room and not on one of the benches. And he thought the shorts that went with the official leotard he had to wear today were in his locker. He still had to change for the competition and do a bunch of premeet stuff too.

  “Focus.” Alexei snapped his fingers in front of Jake’s face. “No thinking about flowery men.”

  Jake took this to mean that he shouldn’t be thinking about flamboyant men like Topher. “I’m not. I’m trying to remember what I did with my red shorts.”

  “Good. Because Valentin and I had discussion this morning about what trouble you could get into before finals today. Something about a reporter who is trying to find gay athletes.”

  “He didn’t find me,” Jake growled, slipping into Russian. “And I told Dad and will tell you now that I’m fine. I’m focused on the events today. I’m not trying to get involved with anyone here while I’m still competing. How would I even date anyone? All I ever do is train.”

  “No sarcasm.” Alexei held up a finger to Jake. “You do nothing that will take away from your training. You still have medals to win.” Then he turned on his heel and walked back to the locker room.

  Jake took off after him. “I won’t forever, you know!” he shouted in English.

  Alexei stopped and turn around. “No. You won’t. Your career… it is not forever. But while you are training, while you are under my watch, no funny business. You hear me?” He added in Russian, “No men.”

  Jake realized that the red on Alexei’s face indicated that perhaps Alexei didn’t want Jake to be with men… ever. Jake had never had a conversation with any of his coaches about his sexuality because it didn’t seem relevant, but everyone at the Mirakovitch gym knew. Jake had always assumed Alexei was okay with it, but maybe that was only true as long as Jake was doing gymnastics.

  “Of course,” Jake said, trying to sound chastened. Although, in truth, he was more determined than ever to hook up with Topher again before he left Madrid. They’d promised not to see each other until he was done competing, but when Jake had seen Topher standing next to the still rings, he’d gotten excited and hadn’t been able to hold in his happiness.

  Well, whatever. Jake shook it off and followed Alexei back into the locker room. “I didn’t mean anything by talking to Topher. I was just being friendly. Got myself a little bit of publicity with the network. That’s good, right?”

 
“Yes. Be careful.”

  “I will. I’m always careful.”

  Alexei grunted. He went ahead and opened Jake’s locker, because of course he had the combination. He rifled through the clothes Jake had left there and came up with his red shorts. “You need these, yes?” Then he stalked off.

  “Who pissed in his cornflakes this morning?” Corey asked, walking up to his own locker, three down from Jake’s.

  “Precompetition nerves?”

  Corey shrugged and opened his locker. Quietly he said, “Is he mad about you and the figure skater?”

  Jake sighed. “Maybe. It doesn’t matter. Alexei is mad about… I don’t even know. I guess he just doesn’t want me to get distracted.”

  Corey, who was halfway through changing into his competition uniform, stopped what he was doing and tilted his head. “You know what? I think a little distraction is good.”

  Jake pulled off his T-shirt and tossed it in the locker. “What do you mean?”

  “Three days ago, you not only performed well, you won a fucking gold medal. Hell, I finished the best I’ve ever finished in a World Cup. I’ve been thinking a lot about what might have happened. And I think a big thing is that you really led the team this year. You finally got your shit together. We all watched you kill it and thought maybe we could kill it too. For once we didn’t fuck everything up. So how did you do it?”

  Jake shrugged. “I got a good pep talk, I guess.”

  Corey shook his head. “No. I don’t think that’s it. I think you met him.” Corey pointed toward the locker room door, in the direction of the main arena. “And I think he was a distraction, but in the best possible way. He helped you get out of your own way. Your head has been in the clouds all week, and I think it’s because you’re thinking about him instead of saltos and tumbling passes. Which means that your muscle memory can take over and you’re able to do what you’ve practiced instead of trying to force it. I honestly think that’s why you won that gold medal.”

  “Really?”