Scrape - kwocontext - Fence (Comics) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter Text

Robert headed straight for the hotel.

He knew he could check in from one o’clock onward, and he’d need all the time he could get to prepare for two events, back to back – the FIE reception at two, and then the opening gala at six.

Robert waited in the queue at the taxi rank, and gave the name of the place. The driver asked questions about Robert’s travel plans, whether it was his first visit to the south, whether he needed the names of some places to see while he was in town, that kind of junk. Robert listened to each question, and answered in monosyllables, his mind still whirring with a memory of Chuck’s dark eyes and red hair and soft hand on his hard co*ck.

The officials had it better than the bunk-bed dorm situation the athletes had to contend with, in the newly built apartment towers. Officials generally had twin-shares with en suite bathrooms, or even multiroom condos in the Peachtree Walk building, if they’d been extra lucky. A whole horde of host families were putting athletes up in spare rooms and basem*nts. USOPC had also booked three floors of the Taylor Hotel just down the street from Georgia Tech for officials like Robert who were in town for days, not weeks.

Robert knew he was twin-sharing with Chris Dobos, a four-time Olympian in badminton, turned coach. Chris was a good guy, laidback without any major character flaws that Robert had ever noticed, and Robert had been desperately lucky that David Stroud had – somehow – known that the two of them had decent chemistry.

Chris had already arrived in the room, and was unpacking. Robert shook his hand, and jumped in the shower straight away. He was on a tight time schedule, after all.

Robert got dressed in what he interpreted neat casual to mean: the nice button-down shirt with a neat purple check pattern that Karen had bought him years ago. It still – sort of – fit him, plus it was clean, and it was only slightly rumpled from being at the bottom of the suitcase for three days. You could hardly even tell that it was a little wrinkled, for god’s sake. It’ll be fine.

He wore new pants that he’d picked up for almost nothing at Marshalls on heavy discount. Karen hated them. Jesus, Robby, you look like a parking inspector.

David had been somewhat unclear on dress codes – the FIE reception was neat casual for officials, team uniform for athletes – the gala was formal, for everyone. Robert hoped like hell the suit he’d worn at the Denver workshop would pass muster for the gala that night.

He and Chris spent a few minutes catching up as Robert dressed, Chris asking all the usual questions about Karen, and Robert’s season, and whether he’d read anything good recently. Chris and his wife had relocated to Minneapolis from Baltimore a few years earlier, and Robert asked how that was going.

Chris shrugged. “It’s somewhere to live,” he sighed.

Robert headed down in the elevator, and caught a taxi to the other hotel where the FIE reception was taking place.

In what amounted to a revolution, there were no pools rounds for the fencers – in Atlanta, athletes would compete in knockout events until eventually just one was left standing. The committee had also done away with the ridiculous three-set first-to-five experiment that had been tried in Barcelona, reverting to each bout being scored to fifteen points, as was both right and sensible.

Men’s individual épée was on the twentieth, and Robert would be leaving town on the twenty-second, heading home for a little while, and then to Boston for a few days, working with a sports science group on sports psychology and coaching. He didn’t exactly know why he’d been invited to that, but Suzanne had brokered it all for him without being asked to, plus he was getting paid for it, so that was great.

“Sir,” the driver was saying, and Robert realised he’d completely tuned out from the world around him. “Sir? We’re here.”

Oh. Robert paid the guy, and hopped out.

He wasn’t particularly hopeful of any fencing medals for Team USA in Atlanta – the energy among the teams was good, but Suzanne had suggested that the guys the committee had selected in épée were all just far, far too young.

I was only twenty-one in LA, Robert reminded her.

Yes, but you were different, she sniffed.

The oldest US épée athlete was Matthew Page from Salt Lake City, at just twenty-two years of age, a small right-hander with a talent for defence and very good at attacks through the low lines. Robert had fenced him several times, and Robert had discovered that he needed to rapidly improvise some better footwork. Very few guys routinely went for toe hits these days, but Matty was one of them.

The other two were about twelve months younger than Matty: Ilario Gallo, a Chicagoan, was right-handed and, according to the info David had shared, turned twenty-one three days ago. Trent Woodward-Chau, a left-handed twenty-one-year-old from Worcester, Massachusetts, had been selected for the squad following an unparalleled string of victories that had seen him wipe the piste with every guy he’d fenced since the spring, including Jed McKenzie, whom most coaches would’ve picked as Team USA’s best hope for a medal since Robert himself – but Jed had busted his knee at the end of May, and missed out.

Both Ilario and Trent were tall. Six three, something like that. A few inches taller than Robert, they towered over Matty. Trent was physically awkward, and didn’t know where to put his feet or hands, but somehow made it all just work when he was out there fencing. The coordination just seemed to come naturally the moment the kid had an épée in his hand. Ilario was markedly different, physically confident and fully in control. Matty, Ilario and Trent had little else in common apart from their fencing, but, most importantly – they seemed to like each other, so half the battle had already been won.

And, of course – Robert was significantly older than any of these guys, and his own season had been appallingly bad, so he was surprised when David insisted he agree to come to Atlanta. It’ll be great for the guys to have you there, David had said, but had failed to explain how, exactly. Ultimately Robert had agreed, just to get David off his back.

Robert squared his shoulders, and entered the ballroom where the FIE were holding the welcome event.

This was a new initiative that David had accurately characterised as a goddamn waste of time, but which he insisted Robert had to attend, no matter what – Robert had tried, unsuccessfully, to push back against his needing to attend – Jesus Christ, Rob, you’re an official – uh – an official whatever, you gotta go to the damn official events, okay?

Immediately upon his arrival, Robert was collared by Gordon Rossiter, one of the veteran Canadian épéeists, six foot tall and broad-shouldered with a jaw that was so square Robert could’ve used it to do carpentry work if he’d known how. Gordon droned on about the weather, and a competition in Berlin years earlier that Robert couldn’t even remember going to, and then about – oh god – his feet, or something? Robert realised, too late, that his brain had disengaged from the conversation completely.

“So, Rob, you been back to Ottawa recently, eh? They opened that new museum I was telling you about last time, remember? It’s very impressive.”

Robert found he couldn’t remember. “Uh. No?” Robert replead, more a question than an answer, then squirmed internally at the confusion on Gordon’s face, because Gordon wasn’t sure of what he’d said that’d earned himself a no.

Gordon was a nice enough guy but, god almighty, he was a bore.

Robert eventually managed to disengage from Gordon and ran immediately into Paula Lukacs, one of the American foil fencers. She was appearing at her second – maybe third – Olympics. Robert couldn’t remember whether she’d fenced in Barcelona, and at that point – because Paula seemed to be intimately acquainted with his own career – it seemed rude to ask. Like all the competing athletes, Paula was in her team tracksuit, and Robert felt a momentary stab of jealousy. She questioned Robert extensively about Karen – whether she’d come to Atlanta, why she hadn’t come to Atlanta, and whether they’d set a wedding date yet…

Robert was beginning to doubt the wisdom of coming to the damn welcome event.

He espied David Stroud on the far side of the ballroom, and was heartened to see him looking absolutely miserable. He abandoned Paula, claiming he needed the bathroom, and –

His night got slightly worse, because Torsten Anker was dead ahead.

Torsten looked – well, he looked like a complete asshole, tall and proud and more than slightly arrogant in the way he always did, and Robert battled to fight a sense that he should – well – that he should go right over there, and insult him, somehow. Torsten’s distinctly unflattering Norwegian team uniform somehow clung to all the wrong parts of him – the twinned globes of his ass, his enormous shoulders that somehow looked even more enormous than they had in Graz, and – as he turned, and the front of his tracksuit pants came into view – a crotch that looked like Torsten might have padded it out with a strategically-placed sock, although – the thought that he hadn’t – well, that was somewhat humbling, and Robert had to avert his eyes.

Torsten was talking to one of the Irish athletes, a tall woman with a ponytail that stretched to her waist. She wore an unimpressed expression. Robert was reasonably certain she competed in sabre, but he couldn’t bring her name to mind. She was probably trying to understand Torsten’s attempts at English, and presumably failing, judging by the wincing expression on her otherwise pretty face.

He knew Torsten hadn’t qualified as an individual athlete – his season had been almost as bad as Robert’s – but he had been selected for the épée team, and the Atlanta Games were just the second time Norway had qualified a team in that discipline. Torsten was the team captain. He must be getting close to retirement. He was a big guy, after all. Robert knew, second-hand, Torsten didn’t like talking about retirement, the end of his career, and what he was going to do next. But – even if the shoulder was now fixed, those knees couldn’t hold out forever. Eventually they’d fail, of course, and then he’d have to retire just like every other guy on the circuit, even if he refused to think about it.

Torsten turned his head at that moment, jet-black eyes set in a face with the aesthetics of a junkyard, and Robert –

A hand suddenly slapped him on the back, quite hard, and Robert yelped.

“Oh, sh*t!” the guy exclaimed, face a picture of apology. “Oh my god – sorry, Robert. Didn’t mean to scare you!”

It was, of course, Matthew Page.

Matty was just barely twenty-two years old, and at around five foot five, significantly shorter than Robert. What he lacked in height he made up for in speed, and personality. He was recognised as a fencing prodigy, spoken about in hushed tones by coaches who knew a thing or two about prodigies. There were some limited parallels in Matty’s career and Robert’s own career path of a decade earlier, but Matty had adopted a far more relaxed approach to life and fencing than Robert ever had. Where Robert would find himself tightly wound up before a competition, he knew Matty would be the complete opposite, at least on the outside – cheerful and calm, attempting jokes with his coach, and generally lightening the mood in the changerooms every time he walked in.

“Robert? Uh – you okay?”

Robert turned his head to look back at Torsten, but he was fully invested in his lopsided conversation with the Irish athlete, and didn’t seem to have caught Robert staring at him.

Robert cleared his throat and nodded. “Yeah. Just a – surprise. When did you get in?”

“Oh,” Matty said breezily, the smile returning, “yesterday sometime. Milwaukee to St. Louis and then here. My parents and my sister are arriving tomorrow. Melanie can’t get here at all, though.”

“… Melanie?”

“My girlfriend,” Matty shrugged. “Oh, have you seen the Village yet? It’s all new apartments. It’s great. I mean – like, the apartment’s small, and it’s four to a room, but –” Matty lowered his voice conspiratorially, “– it’s still bigger than my actual apartment.”

Robert laughed at that, and Matty’s face transformed into something akin to joy.

“Um, so – did you have good flights?” Matty asked, clearly trying to recover his composure.

Robert momentarily reflected on encountering Chuck, which – to his genuine surprise – had become the undoubted highlight of his last damn month, but – overall, the time in transit hadn’t been great. He was still recovering from not enough food and too much time dozing in plastic chairs in airport lounges. He could feel the drag of poor-quality sleep nipping at his heels, even now.

“Uh – no, I didn’t.”

“Oh.” Matty looked briefly disappointed, then brightened. “But you’re here now! The Olympics!”

And looking at Matty’s expression, Robert knew it wouldn’t be possible to stay irritated for long. As always, Matty’s puppyish enthusiasm would probably grate after a while, but right now it was an antidote.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Robert sighed. “The Olympics.”

--

Matty had first attached himself to Robert during a competition in Toronto in early 1992, when the younger guy was just barely eighteen. That day he’d spent the better part of an hour telling Robert about life in Salt Lake City and why Robert needed to visit, the first opportunity he got. Do you like rock climbing? he’d asked, eyes wide, and not waited for Robert’s reply. You gotta! Everybody likes rock climbing!

Robert did not like rock climbing, but with Matty’s hopeful face beaming up at him, he suddenly found that he couldn’t bear to tell the kid that.

Matty had the kind of thick, curly hair that you saw on particular breeds of spaniels, dark brown and flecked with lighter tones, tending toward chocolate and hazelnut. If he ever had it neatened up, it’d probably suit him, but realistically all it seemed to do was get in his eyes a lot, and he was constantly brushing the curls sideway, only for them to flop forward again. His thick eyebrows arched over clear blue irises, shining a much brighter shade of azure blue than Robert’s own eyes, which now tended toward blue-grey. A cheerful smile was permanently affixed to Matty’s face.

He’d started with foil, tried his hand at sabre and épée, and eventually stuck with épée on the recommendation of Matthias Brinckmann, the patron saint of Utah fencing and as good an épée coach as Robert had ever met – in Robert’s estimation, second only to Suzanne.

Matty, at eighteen, had happily introduced Robert to his travelling companions that day in Toronto: his aunt – a powerfully built woman even shorter than he was, with a blonde bob – his new girlfriend – a slightly sad-looking tall girl, with long dark hair, who towered over Matty, and looked bored – and Matty’s new coach, Bradley Gardiner. Bradley was a tall and gruff figure, with family connections to Connecticut. He’d been quite clearly pleased to make Robert’s acquaintance in Toronto, but… not overly talkative.

Matty had attached himself to Robert’s side, ditching his trio of supporters with alacrity. His girlfriend was reading a book while his aunt chatted easily with Bradley, who – in Robert’s reckoning – had not spoken in several minutes.

“I got stuck waiting for a shuttle from the Village. Did I miss much?” Matty asked, his head swivelling from side to side, landing on the Irishwoman and Torsten for a few seconds, then returning to beam up at Robert.

“Didn’t miss a damn thing,” Robert sighed.

--

The fencing reception was over in just under two hours, wrapping up just after four.

The total number of competitors was, by any measure, tiny. Forty-five guys in épée, and only marginally more in the other weapons and a correspondingly smaller-than-usual number of women athletes, too.

There were speeches from the chairman, and someone from ACOG, and a local politician, and then one from Joost Visser. Joost was a Dutch foil fencer who’d recently been elected to the athletes’ commission, which was unfortunate, because Robert thought he’d always been a pain in the ass.

Robert managed to avoid the Norwegian bloc, but other than standing still and listening during the speeches, he and Matty had been plagued by other fencers who were invariably Robert’s contemporaries, men and women whom Robert had known since he was in his late teens. Robert wondered whether introducing Matty to dozens of people who were closing in on the end of their respective careers would be useful for the younger guy – but he seemed fine with it, a generally smiling presence, polite and mostly mute, listening with what must have been feigned interest as men and women closer to forty than thirty, muttered intimately about elbow pain and arthritis and calcium injections and oh Rob, before I forget, how’s Karen?

At certain points during the event, Matty attached himself slightly more firmly to Robert’s side than at other times, especially if he didn’t like whoever it was that they were talking to, which Robert put down to first-time Olympics nerves. Robert knew he hadn’t been quite so nervy in LA, even as a first-timer, but of course each guy was different, and Matty didn’t appear to have learnt how to project the uniform, pleasant blandness that was expected of professional athletes at functions like this. If Matty didn’t like somebody, Robert discovered he could tell within about the first five seconds – Matty’s typically omnipresent smile would suddenly disappear, replaced by a grumpy little frown, and he’d gradually shuffle close to and slightly behind Robert’s taller frame, almost like he was trying not to be seen.

Robert knew he’d be seated with Matty, Trent and Ilario at the gala dinner that night, so he made an effort to be nice and hospitable and – yeah, slightly paternal, he guessed – smiling and shaking the guy’s hands. Trent and Ilario looked like broad-shouldered scarecrows in their Team USA tracksuits, whereas Matty filled out his own tracksuit well, almost like it’d been tailored specifically for a guy his size and shape, as small as he was. Matty was particularly thrilled about the gala. Trent and Ilario seemed largely unmoved by it. We’re going together, right? he asked Robert twice, staring up at him. Yeah, Matty, yeah. That’s fine.

Then Matteo Colombo – an Italian sabreur, over six foot tall, left-handed, with a shaved head and a squint – slid in amongst the group and proclaimed himself pleased to meet an American Matteo as he shook Matty’s hand. He and Ilario traded a few words in Italian. Matteo stressed the importance of Trent and Matty spending time in Italy to get culture, you Americans have no culture here, parting with pointed emphasis on the fact that Robert could probably count the number of times that he’d visited Italy on one hand, if not one finger.

“That was rude,” Matty whispered, smile having been replaced by a face Robert could only have described as increasingly furious over the course of five minutes in Matteo’s company.

“You’ll get used to it,” Robert murmured.

“He was damn rude about you,” Matty repeated, turning his head to look up at Robert with concern.

“At least I don’t look like I’m wearing a Halloween costume.”

Matty blinked. “What?” he asked.

Robert shrugged, and kept his voice low. “Oh, come on, Matty. Their team uniform looks like it was designed in the dark by a three-year-old, so I’m claiming the moral high ground.”

Matty blinked, then burst out with a little bark of laughter. He hurriedly clamped a hand over his mouth, but Trent and Ilario, who’d been in their own intense conversation, turned their head to look at him with raised eyebrows.

“Jesus,” Robert muttered. “It wasn’t that funny.”

--

Robert got back to the hotel just before five.

He had an hour to kill before the gala kicked off at six. Chris was getting ready for his event – a BWF reception and awards ceremony and afterparty. Chris was getting an award for something to do with his coaching, he’d said. Robert was tempted to ask if he could go with Chris as an extra and skip out on the damn gala altogether, but he held his tongue.

The Thursday preopening gala was a signature event, organised by ACOG and sponsored by Nike, with a large number of athletes and officials attending the night before the Opening Ceremony. The venue was down the road from the stadium, and the torch relay had finally reached Atlanta in the early afternoon. For a while there, it’d felt almost like the Games would never begin – but now, suddenly, it was all systems go.

Robert got dressed in the suit he’d worn in Denver that, admittedly, wasn’t quite right. He didn’t like it, but it had been about the best suit he could afford when he bought it.

Karen actually hated it because, as she said, it looks like a plastic bag with sleeves, Robby, for god’s sake, which Robert thought was desperately unfair, even if it did convey a kernel of the truth. He’d bought it from J.C. Penney at an end-of-season sale in about 1985, and – okay, so the cut of the suit wasn’t particularly flattering, and the fabric had developed a slightly unpleasant sheen to it after the most recent trip to the drycleaners, but it still mostly fit, and that was all that mattered, right? It wasn’t like he went out to goddamn fashion shows, or anything else where what he was wearing made any damn difference to anybody. Technically it was a three-piece suit, but it’d been a while since he last wore the vest, because there were so many buttons on it that it took longer to close up than any person would think reasonable.

Robert looked at himself in the mirror on the wall above the desk. The desk currently had nothing but the room phone and a narrow black faux-leather folder on it.

He squinted.

I look tired.

He swooshed his left hand through his hair, and tried to tuck the slightly too-long sides behind his ears. They still stuck out, almost like little panda ears or handles at the sides of his head, and in a certain light, Robert knew, he was starting to look kind of like his dad, although Claude had boasted hair the rich colour of caramel, and brown eyes. Robert just hadn’t had time to get a haircut and trying to get anything done at a reasonable price in an Olympic host city wasn’t likely.

He exhaled noisily.

Chris was getting dressed on his side of the room, in a sensible dark suit with a dark tie and crisp white shirt. He’d been watching Robert out the corner of his eye for a few seconds, and Robert had noticed it, even though he was clearly trying to be subtle about it.

“Hey, you nearly done with that mirror?” Chris asked, eventually.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Robert headed into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

“So what time are you getting back in, d’you think?” Chris said, from the open bathroom door. Robert caught his eyes in the mirror. He really was a nice-looking guy, a mop of black hair that he’d combed into shape and sealed with half a can of sweet-smelling hairspray, smooth olive skin, and that slightly too-thin, narrow-waisted build that Robert usually associated with tennis players, but which badminton coaches clearly also leaned into.

Robert spat into the sink. “Late, I guess. I think they’d notice if I skipped out early. What time is your thing?”

“Starts seven, finishes about nine. Quick and easy.”

“Jesus,” Robert said with feeling. “Wish the gala was like that. I can’t remember half the committee members. It’s gonna be awkward as sh*t if I’ve got some bigwig right in front of me and I don’t know who the hell he is.”

Chris laughed. “Should’ve done your research, Rob. So, uh – Karen’s at home, so – who’re you – going with?”

“Oh. Matty. Matty Page.”

“Maddy Page,” Chris echoed, trying the name out. “Maddy. No, never heard of her. Is she new?”

“Him,” Robert said, clicking his toothbrush back into the little blue travel case. “Matthew Page. Kind of new, I guess? Young guy. Utahn. Fences like the devil. Been on the circuit about four years. Wicked fast right hand. Watch your damn toes.”

Chris didn’t say anything for a moment, so Robert turned to face him. He was grinning broadly.

“Oh, man, that’s – that’s so good, Rob. Hope you two have a great night.”

Robert realised there was a cadence in Chris’s voice that hadn’t been there a second earlier, but – he glanced at his wristwatch – there wasn’t really time or energy enough for him to unpack it.

“Just need to keep him on the straight and narrow tonight,” Robert said. “Well – him, plus a couple of other first-timers. Dave would have my balls on a platter if they get in trouble at the goddamn gala. Christ. Can you imagine?”

“Who – Dave Stroud? Jesus,” Chris groaned, as Robert nodded. “Didn’t realise he was still around! I thought they went and sent him off to Switzerland?”

“They did. He came back.”

David Stroud had eventually ended up with the USOPC, chairing the NGBC for four years, and then he’d been lured to the IOC a five-year stint, working with the Partner Programme. But now he was back in the game, as team manager and nominal head coach of the USA fencing team, with an admittedly somewhat divided focus on the épée athletes.

Chris put his head back against the doorframe. “Hell hath no fury like a coach reborn.”

Robert rubbed the bridge of his nose, which felt odd and tingly. His eyes were sore, too, which wasn’t a good sign. “Not wrong. Just… gonna have a couple of Tylenol before I go.”

Chris laughed. “Yeah, well – sounds like it could a big night,” Chris said, and that same grin was back suddenly, that same inflection, and Robert just couldn’t be bothered with it, or with whatever it was that Chris thought he was conveying. “Hope you and Matty have a good time.”

“Chris, c’mon. I’ve gotta keep an eye out for Ilario and Trent too.”

“Yeah? Well –” Chris’s grin didn’t falter – “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

--

Torsten was wearing a tuxedo.

Of course he’s wearing a f*cking tuxedo.

And it was beautifully, perfectly tailored – hugging his hips, his ass, his shoulders. How’s he going to sit in that without shredding the seat of his pants? Jesus Christ. He was talking with Klaus Dübler, one of the young Italian fencers and a much nicer guy than Matteo Colombo, and Torsten was laughing, perhaps a little too raucously. Goddamn show-off. Robert noticed an occasional woman turning her head to spend a second or two staring at Torsten, drinking in the tall Norwegian with the great body, and Robert realised that, in contrast, he was damn well staring at the guy, and Jesus wept if that wasn’t as embarrassing as f*ck.

Matty’s hand was on Robert’s bicep, and he squeezed.

“Robert,” he said in warm tone, presumably made warmer by the champagne in his hand, “you aren’t listening to me.” But he didn’t sound annoyed at all, just amused. “What’re you looking at?”

Robert tore his eyes away from Torsten stupid Anker and let them settle on Matty’s face. His cheeks were slightly pink, his eyes…

A little unfocused.

Oh… sh*t.

Matty wasn’t particularly large or heavy and the alcohol appeared to be having an outsize impact.

“How many of those have you had?” Robert asked, indicating the glass in Matty’s hand.

Matty tilted his head to the side, and stared at the empty champagne flute, like he was surprised by it.

“Oh. Uh. Don’t know.”

Robert tried to fix him with a serious expression, but probably failed. “I think you’ve had enough.”

Matty sighed, but put the glass down on the table. “Okay, okay.”

Robert rubbed his face with his spare hand. Goddammit, now Robert was annoying himself. He’d been constantly reminding Matty about different things all night – who this person was, who that person was, why he needed to remember the names of the various USA Fencing and USOPC officials who were, to Matty’s young eyes, probably interchangeable – a generic mass of men and women with grey hair and small smiles and expanding bellies.

And really, Robert had no desire to be that guy, the one enforcing team rules and reminding the guys what was reasonable behaviour. That wasn’t why he was here, was it? Surely not. The organisers even issued condoms to the athletes for free, and had been doing so since Seoul, and he was hardly going to have that talk with any of the guys, so if David Stroud had that in mind as one of Robert’s duties – well, then he had another thing coming.

So, honest to god, if Matty wanted to wipe himself out on bubbles forty-eight hours out from the gold medal event and make use of whatever other complimentary services were provided, that was his own damn business.

On the other hand, Robert was being paid for this, and if David couldn’t tell him precisely what his duties were, he’d just have to work them out on his own terms. Keeping Matty Page, long-shot gold medal hopeful, from overindulging this close to the start of the competition seemed like a reasonable expectation for an official observer. He was, after all, officially observing Matty looking slightly worse for wear.

He had been assigned to sit at table three, along with the US épée athletes, men and women, plus a selection of team officials and athletes from the US swimming team.

“Robert?” Now Matty sounded slightly concerned. He was still grinning, though.

“Huh?”

Matty sighed, then hiccupped. “Oop. ’Scuse me. Seems like you’ve… uh. Got a lot on your mind.”

“Not really.”

“Well, you’re paying a lot more attention to Torsten than you are to me, and I’m right here,” Matty said, with emphasis on right here, like that made an important difference.

Robert snorted. “I wasn’t paying any attention to Torsten, okay? Not at all.”

Matty looked slightly puzzled, but with the grin now firmly back in place. Nobody quite did ‘slightly puzzled’ like Matty. Robert assumed it was part of his charm, and contributed to the charm that meant he was never without a date, but the puzzlement probably also played a factor in the changeability of the parade of young women he now brought to competitions. A different girl, every time.

“But – Torsten’s just over there,” Matty said, at a much slower pace than the observation merited. “I thought you two were friends?”

Robert scoffed. “No, we’re not.”

“But he –” Matty stopped midsentence, and seemed to rethink whatever he was going to say. “Uh, okay,” he finished, meekly.

“But he what?” Robert prompted, turning his head to focus on Matty’s face.

“He’s been looking at us for ages,” Matty said, a little distractedly, turning his eyes away from Robert, and back toward the corner where Torsten was still talking to Klaus, and now a couple of the other Italians. “I thought he was going come over here and say hi. I’d really like to meet him, Robert.”

“Matty – he doesn’t speak English.”

“For real?”

“For real.”

Matty seemed unperturbed. “You could introduce me, though?”

“No, I couldn’t,” Robert said pointedly, “because he doesn’t like me, so if you want to meet him, it’s going to be when I’m nowhere nearby.”

Matty raised an eyebrow, and fixed Robert with an uncharacteristically searching expression. “Oh. What happened?”

Robert huffed, allowing the edge of his irritation to overtake the mask of general good cheer that he tried to maintain around Matty. “What do you mean, ‘what happened’? We’ve never liked each other.”

“Oh.” Matty looked disappointed. The grin, very briefly, faltered. “But – you fence each other really well. I’ve always liked watching your matches with him. He must be good to fence.”

That, at least, Robert couldn’t argue with. Robert had always found Torsten deeply boring as a fencer. Watching Torsten Anker’s highlights reel was a sure cure for insomnia. Unless – and only unless – they were fencing one another. Because, for some goddamned reason, every damn time Torsten fenced against Robert, Torsten was lively, exciting, and unmistakably inventive, and Torsten knew Robert’s tells and tactics better than Robert himself did. He knew what Robert was going to do, ahead of time, somehow, and the speed and accuracy that Robert brought to his fencing meant very little when he was facing off against Torsten. It was beyond frustrating. He’d spoken to Suzanne about it more times than he cared to count, and each time she’d provided more or less the same advice, served with a minuscule Gallic shrug: Get better, Robert.

“Doesn’t mean we’re friends,” Robert said, bitterly, and Matty raised an eyebrow again, grin finally fading. “I barely know him.”

“But I’ve heard everyone say he was nice,” Matty offered.

“Yeah, well, everyone doesn’t know him like I do,” Robert rebutted immediately, and took a sip of his own champagne, which had grown warm in the glass. He swallowed, although he didn’t want to, and the alcohol felt vaguely unpleasant in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to even cast a second glance at Torsten in his ridiculous tuxedo. “He’s not a nice guy.”

“But – you – you just said you didn’t know him.” Matty now sounded lost in the conversation.

“Yeah. I meant, uh –” The suit jacket was hot on Robert’s shoulders, and his collar was too tight. There were little pinpricks of sweat, suddenly, on his forehead, and his top lip. Damn it. He just wanted to grab his tie and throw it in the corner and unbutton his goddamn shirt. “Goddamn air-con’s not working,” he complained, inserting a finger between his neck and his collar and tugging. He couldn’t avoid noticing that Matty, by contrast, still looked fully comfortable in his attire, and not like he was about to burst into flames. “I meant, he’s – he’s a pain in the ass. Always has been. We met a long time ago, and he was an asshole then, and he’s an asshole now.”

Matty looked pained, or maybe just more puzzled than usual. “Oh… okay.”

There wasn’t much else to say after that.

Robert finished his champagne in a single gulp, made an apology to Matty, and headed toward another table, where he’d last spotted David Stroud in conversation with a guy he remembered as being with the FIE.

They were conversing in French, David talking about – Sydney?

“<– we would, of course, be more competitive,>” David was saying, his spoken French still holding telltale traces of New York. “<You should see some of the women on the college circuit. They’ll be invincible in Sydney. And then –>” He glanced sideway, and caught Robert moving toward him. “Oh, hey, Rob! <Lucien, you remember Rob Coste? A future team manager for us, I’m certain.>”

And it was reassuring in a way, that a guy like David Stroud would think Robert had something useful to contribute, that he’d call him into a conversation, and he wouldn’t think Robert was an asshole.

--

About twenty minutes later, after extended conversation in French for the first time in a year, maybe more, Robert wandered back to table three.

Matty was still there, talking intensely with one of the young woman swimmers, heads bowed together, Matty’s curly dark hair close to her short dark ponytail, as they whispered to one another.

It was kind of cute.

Robert decided to give them a minute, and did a quick circuit of the tables at the outside of the room.

Matty was on his feet and talking to two young guys Robert had never seen before. He could tell from their builds – enormous shoulders, short frames – that they were probably gymnasts.

Matty’s face lit up when he saw Robert. “Oh, Robert! Everyone, this is Robert! Robert – this is Alfie, and Rafael. They’re on the gymnastics team!”

Bingo.

“Hi guys,” Robert sighed. They were looking up at him with a combination of hopeful and interested faces.

“Robert’s a gold medallist,” Matty said, seriously. His audience made appropriately appreciative sounds. Robert had the feeling that Matty was taking this overly seriously. He felt like he was on display, or perhaps more appropriately, like he was a horse being shown off to a potential buyer. Fine temperament, nice teeth. “He’s here with me tonight.”

Robert blinked, and frowned. “And the rest of the team,” he added.

Matty rolled right on as though Robert hadn’t said anything at all, which he found galling.

“And of course, yeah, Trent and Illy are here somewhere too,” Matty said grandly. Robert realised that Matty had another damn glass of champagne in one hand. co*cky little guy. He was starting to sound damn proprietorial. “And of course Robert was just introducing me to everyone.”

The gymnast with the darker hair, thick and glossy with a three-quarter part, was watching Robert closely. The one with lighter-coloured hair – Alfie? – seemed distracted.

“When did you win gold?” the dark-haired gymnast asked.

Robert sighed. “LA. 1984.”

He hmmed, and nodded. “Oh. Okay. A while ago.”

“It’s not a while ago,” Matty snapped. “I remember it like it was yesterday, Raf.”

Robert couldn’t let that pass. “Matty, you would’ve been – what – ten years old?”

“Exactly,” Matty said with emphasis, “and I had your poster on my bedroom wall for years.” He stopped, and his cheeks coloured further. “Uh. I mean –”

Robert made a dismissive gesture. He’d just caught sight of Torsten on the other side of the room, talking to David goddamn Stroud. They didn’t even have a f*cking language in common, as far as Robert knew. How the hell are they even communicating?

Matty went on for a little while, until the two gymnasts left, and he landed heavily in his chair again. Robert turned his head –

Torsten and David were gone.

Beside him, Matty hiccupped, and put his head briefly on the table.

“I’m kind of glad Torsten didn’t come over,” Matty said, after a few moments. “’Cos I get you all to myself.”

Robert thought it was an odd comment, but – well, he wasn’t immune to making odd comments himself, so he let it pass. What he couldn’t let pass was the fact that Matty had had one too many glasses of champagne.

“Matty, c’mon, sit up. I’m gonna get you a coffee.”

With a sigh, Matty sat upright again. The grin was gone, now. “But I don’t drink coffee.”

“You do tonight.”

--

Matty had gone to the bathroom. He had, Robert reflected, been gone for a while.

At least he’d eventually finished the coffee – one sugar, no milk – that Robert had procured for him. It was Matty’s first ever coffee. He winced at the first sip, and looked up at Robert with an expression partway between pained and bewildered.

“People drink this?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“For fun?”

Somehow, Robert quashed the overwhelming need to sigh that was rising in his chest.

“… just drink it, Matty.”

Trent and Ilario came over to check on Matty.

They’d stayed away from alcohol altogether, sticking to soda, and had spent most of the night on the dancefloor. Together, they were a tall, dark-haired pair of bookends, Trent’s hair somehow still spiked with what must have been a significant volume of hair gel, and Ilario’s tight crewcut glistening with sweat. Trent had a companionable arm around Ilario’s shoulders, and Robert reflected that it was nice to see these guys – who had been little more than strangers a couple of months ago – getting along so well. He hadn’t particularly liked many of his own teammates, and definitely wouldn’t have chosen to spend hours at a gala with any of them.

“Where’s Matty?” Trent asked, with a frown.

“Bathroom. One too many glasses of champagne.”

“Oh, sh*t,” Ilario said. “You let him drink?”

Robert frowned. “He’s an adult.”

Ilario’s expression darkened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but Trent thumped him in the shoulder.

“That’s right, Robert,” Trent said, but his eyes were on the side of Ilario’s face. “Matty’s an adult. He makes his own decisions,” he added pointedly, eyes still on Ilario, like he was making a point or concluding some kind of argument that Robert wasn’t privy to.

Ilario made an unimpressed sound, and broke away, heading back toward the mass of people on the dancefloor.

Robert and Trent watched him go. Robert indicated Ilario’s receding back with a movement of his chin. “Is he okay? Did I say something wrong?”

Trent sighed. “No, no. He’s just… overthinking some stuff.”

“Anything I can help with?” Robert asked.

Trent paused before responding, and bit his lip. He looked like he was on the verge of apologising, but then shrugged.

“Uh. No, Robert. No.”

Robert saw Terry – a genuinely nice guy from New Zealand, and the only fencer to have qualified from his country – at an adjoining table, so he headed in that direction, collared the guy, and chatted to him for a while. Terry said he’d noticed Olivie – a French sabreuse who’d retired years ago, but who’d always been unfailingly kind to Robert whenever she’d seen him at competitions – on the far side of the ballroom, so he and Robert went on an expedition to find her. She looked stunning in a black gown and a complicated pair of earrings, and Robert felt completely underdressed by comparison – Olivie, with her long, dark hair, green eyes, and flawless English. She was working with the French Olympic committee now. They spent time chatting about past glories, and she’d been delighted to see them both.

Eventually Robert threaded his way back through the crowd, to the table where he’d been sitting with Matty.

He found it completely unoccupied for the moment, all twelve chairs sitting empty.

Robert sat alone, flagged down a waiter with a tray of drinks, and collected a fresh glass of champagne. Just one, and just for him. He’d been alone with his champagne for less than a minute when an attractive woman in a figure-hugging blue dress approached him.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked, indicating the empty chair where Matty had spent most of the evening, chattering away pleasantly. It felt odd for him to not be there, talking reassuringly. Suddenly Robert wasn’t sure he liked Matty not being there.

“Uh. Nope.”

She smiled a little, and sat. Her glossy black hair fell to her bare shoulders in waves. And she had incredible shoulders. She’s stunning.

“I’m Adriana,” she said in a playful tone, with an accent Robert couldn’t place. “I swim for Venezuela.”

“Well. Hi,” Robert said. “I’m Robert. I – uh. I’m a fencer.” He sipped.

She co*cked her head to one side. “Americano?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

Adriana sighed. “A handsome man like you shouldn’t be alone at a party like this,” she said, and raised an eyebrow. “It’s simply not right.”

“First time I’ve been alone all night,” Robert said, and wondered at the defiant edge in his voice, which seemed out of place.

She nodded. “I’m not surprised to hear that.”

Robert laughed.

“Excuse me,” someone said suddenly, brusquely, “that’s my place.”

Adriana and Robert looked up with a start.

Matty had appeared, and neither Robert nor Adriana had noticed. Robert was a little taken aback by Matty’s decidedly serious expression, his trademark grin nowhere in evidence, his arms straight by his sides.

Adriana stared at him, her eyebrows raised for a moment, and then back at Robert, and then at Matty again.

Robert had the feeling that something was happening, but he wasn’t entirely sure what it was.

“Oh,” she said, and stood immediately. “I’m sorry. It’s – lovely to have met you, Robert.” Adriana lifted her hand, and put it delicately on Matty’s shoulder for barely half a second, a featherlight touch, smiled at him, then moved away, merging back into the crowd.

Matty watched her go, brows knit closely together, and he sat down firmly where she’d been, in the place that was, as he’d put it, his.

He redirected his attention to Robert, and – just like that – the grin returned. Robert found himself smiling back, an automatic reaction.

“Sorry, needed the bathroom again,” Matty said, and winked at Robert. “So. Where were we?”

--

It wasn’t late.

Robert made it through to dessert, somehow, and then the exhaustion of travel started to catch up to him, and it demanded in increasingly loud tones that the sleep debt he owed finally be paid.

Robert fought the onset of sleepiness, but he knew he was still recovering from an eternity spent in transit. After about the hundredth stifled yawn, Matty had told Robert in a concerned tone that he should probably go back to the hotel.

Matty even offered to accompany him back to his room, which had struck Robert as unusually kind, even self-sacrificing, because most of the younger athletes were staying back late if they didn’t have events the next day. Ilario and Trent had, Robert noticed, both paired up with stunningly attractive young women. Of course, none of the three had an event until Saturday, but Matty seemed less inclined to stay at the party, and more inclined to leave with Robert, and Robert had eventually pushed him into Ilario and Trent’s joint custody with an annoyed squawk from Matty, and he’d said guys look after him just to get Matty out of the damn way.

Robert was relieved to get back to the hotel room, out of the suit, and to pull on the comfortable t-shirt he’d been sleeping in for the last week. Jesus Christ – it did need to be washed, though – thoroughly, and soon. The noise of the party was still ringing slightly in his ears, the buzz of conversation and music, and the subtle sizzle of four glasses of decent champagne in his head. He’d left his engagement ring in his toiletries bag, and it was rolling around in there as he fished out his toothpaste, looking like a sad little trinket from a Christmas cracker in the harsh bathroom light.

He stared at it.

Should probably wear the damn thing.

He pushed it onto his ring finger without much joy.

Robert had only just laid down in his bed when he heard a key being shoved in the lock, and Chris came charging into the room.

Chris stopped, and looked completely crestfallen when he saw Robert already there.

“Uh, Rob –”

“Yeah?”

“Any chance you might be about to step out?”

Robert blinked at him. He didn’t seem to be joking.

“Why?”

“Uh,” Chris started, then stopped, and cleared his throat. “I, uh – I’ve got someone coming over. I didn’t realise you – were gonna be here. I thought – you said you were going out to the gala, right?” There was a hopeful upturn to the end of Chris’s sentence that the sight of Robert literally tucked up in bed surely didn’t warrant.

“Yeah, I did, but I came back early.” Robert hesitated, and things thudded into place in his brain. “Oh. Okay. You want me out of the room for a while. That’s fine.”

“Oh no, Rob, I –”

“That’s fine, Chris,” Robert said. And just like that, he was already on his feet and shrugging into the tracksuit jacket. He was pretty sure his jeans were around here somewhere. Where’d he put the damn things? He suddenly felt like he wanted to be anywhere else on earth that wasn’t this hotel room.

“Jesus, Rob, I’m real sorry,” Chris said, and Robert could tell his contrition was genuine. Chris clearly didn’t want to be the kind of guy who threw another guy out of the room, but – “she’s just a real nice girl, and I didn’t realise you –”

“It’s fine,” Robert repeated, discovering his jeans under his suitcase. He yanked them out, stood up, and pulled them on with only a little difficulty. The sleepiness was washing away from having something to focus on: go and occupy yourself for an hour while Chris f*cks some girl’s brains out. He tried to use a slightly more reassuring tone of voice when he added: “I’ve got a crossword to do.”

Chris laughed, even though Robert hadn’t said anything funny. “I – okay, I appreciate it, man.”

Jeans on, Robert grabbed the digest-sized jumbo book of crosswords he’d bought in Denver, and his ballpoint pen. He slipped his wallet and his copy of the room key into a pocket. He yawned, and rubbed ineffectually at his eyes.

“It’s fine, Chris,” he said, reaching for the door handle. “It’s fine.”

--

Robert sat in the ground floor hotel lounge, nursing a second neat scotch that he didn’t really want to drink, and staring vacantly at the crossword in front of him. He blinked at it. The answer to forty-three down wasn’t apparent to him. He had forty-nine across solved, but it wasn’t helping. When, after another minute of staring, the answer to forty-five down also refused to appear, he surrendered and checked his wristwatch.

sh*t.

It was just after ten, so he’d only been out of the room for forty-five minutes. He’d intended to give Chris and whoever-she-was at least ninety minutes together so that there was minimal risk of him causing any kind of embarrassment or upset by returning just a little too soon. He liked Chris Dobos, and had no reason to embarrass or upset him, unlike – say – Torsten f*cking Anker. He’d happily embarrass Torsten until the heat death of the universe.

It wasn’t even Robert’s fault that he was now on his second scotch. He’d have been perfectly happy with just the one. It was Torsten’s goddamn fault.

It was still a struggle for Robert to accept that an idiot like Torsten was the captain of Norway’s men’s épée team, and he presumably therefore had good reason to speak with the team officials, which was – by a chain of intuition that shouldn’t have felt like a feat of logic to Robert, but that was exactly how it felt – which was presumably the reason he was sitting twenty f*cking feet away with the rest of the Norwegian delegation, including Ella Ege, the captain of the Norwegian women’s sabre team.

Robert had looked up from his crossword at the sound of that familiar rumble, and – well.

He wasn’t sure if it was the scotch or residual sleepiness or something else, but he’d been goddamn happy to hear and see Torsten prowling his way through the lounge, toward the bar. A familiar face. A little rush of something that felt good and right in his brain, and a subtle warmth in his gut. Torsten was still in his tux, but he’d removed his bowtie and unbuttoned the top few shirt buttons.

Robert had smiled, and Torsten had turned his head, as if he’d somehow felt Robert’s eyes on him, and he’d looked directly at Robert –

And then he’d looked away again, without even a flicker of acknowledgement.

It took Robert a second to realise what had happened.

You goddamn asshole.

Because, yep – Torsten had actually ignored him.

He’d blanked Robert, like he wasn’t there, or more accurately, like Robert was there, but wasn’t worth noticing.

In sharp contrast to Torsten, Ella had also seen Robert, but she had waved energetically, and made a direct line for him. She was in her team tracksuit, having obviously avoided the party. She’d said hi Robert and how are you and asked, with her perfect English, why he was alone in the lounge at this time of night, and he’d made up a half-lie about a noisy couple in the next room waking him up, and Ella had laughed raucously. Wow, and you didn’t want to join in? she’d asked with a grin, and Robert had felt an undeserved blush burn his cheeks.

Robert had gone and got himself another drink just to settle his nerves.

And now Robert was sitting by himself, staring at an incomplete crossword, and wondering with increasing bewilderment just what the hell he could’ve done to Torsten to earn himself this level of disrespect. They’d seen each other in Montevideo in the spring and Robert had tried – yes, he’d actually gone to some effort – to approach Torsten and wish him well. Torsten had finally had that much-delayed shoulder surgery over winter, and Robert knew he’d been doing a good job with his rehabilitation because Suzanne was on the receiving end of information about his rehab, although Robert still had no idea how she was receiving it. Robert had squared his shoulders, filled with a sense of determination to see the conversation through, and approached Torsten in the busy changeroom, on the morning of day one.

Hey, uh – Robert had started, and Torsten had looked down at him with visible surprise, his dark eyes wide – hope you fence well, y’know, after your rehab, Robert had said.

Torsten had stared at him for a few seconds more, probably translating Robert’s words into Norwegian in his head.

And then –

Why you care, Robert? Torsten said, voice low, but all too audible, and he’d turned his back on Robert.

And Robert had been so – well, he wasn’t sure what he was feeling then – embarrassed, and vulnerable, and – and sad, maybe – and there’d been so many other guys there, guys that Robert and Torsten had known for years, and they’d heard exactly what Torsten had said, and everyone had been staring at the floor, or their weapons, or their fingernails, or anything that wasn’t either Torsten or Robert, and –

Well, sh*t.

That’d been about as awkward a moment as Robert had ever experienced. The moment had been one of those moments that Robert was pretty sure he’d never forget – acid-etched in place, in his memory, an unwanted memento.

He was tempted to go and try to exact some sort of revenge on Torsten, right now, but – the second scotch was dulling the relevant parts of his brain, and he wasn’t precisely how he’d go about it.

Robert sat in his armchair and allowed himself the luxury of seething.

Okay. Maybe he could go over and – he battled to think of something he could say or do, some kind of a prank – uh. Maybe he could ask Torsten for an autograph? Ha, that’d be great. Hey, big shot, can I have your autograph? Oh. But would that embarrass Torsten, or just make Robert look like an idiot in front of Ella and Ingrid? sh*t. Because of course Ingrid was over there too, a carbon copy of Robert’s own coach Suzanne – only, well, Scandinavian – but still, all long limbs, and bronze perma-tan, and silver hair like a bundle of steel wires. If Robert ventured over there, then whatever he said or did would get back to Suzanne more or less immediately by means of the transnational telepathic communication certain coaches seemed to share, and he wasn’t feeling that brave.

But maybe if he planned it properly, he could corner Torsten tonight, and – and – well, Robert could do something like finally delivering some absolutely devastating retort, that’d leave Torsten red-faced and Robert unassailably smug, and – well, that would be goddamn perfect, and all he had to do was think of a way to achieve that. He just had to come up with something perfect to say.

Robert doodled on the corner of the crossword page with his pen. Maybe I could say something about Torsten’s stupid face. He idly drew a little stick figure holding a sword. He tried to think of a joke or pointed comment he could make about… well. Torsten’s chin, or… his nose… or his… hair? Urgh. Something he could say that would make Torsten look stupid, and not make Robert look overly mean, or petty.

But he couldn’t think of a single damn thing other than Torsten’s irritating smile, and the way his evil scientist’s experiment of a face rearranged itself around his mouth whenever he grinned. And yes, he grinned. Kind of like Matty, only older, and less pretty. Torsten smiled, genuinely and openly. And a lot, but – never at Robert. Robert struggled to understand what anybody else saw in the guy – he was too tall, and too rude, and too self-centred, to ever make friends with. Torsten was, in sum, such a goddamn asshole, without a single redeeming characteristic, that if someone was writing an encyclopaedia article about unlikable men, they’d use Torsten Anker as a case study. That was probably unfair, but Robert was feeling unfair, and so he didn’t care.

For whatever reason, just hours before he’d died, Lorenz Mayer had tried to encourage Robert to make good with Torsten, sort it out, talk to him, Robert, talk to him, please, you must, please, promise me. And Robert had tried to do just that with Torsten a few times since, so it wasn’t as if he was actively disregarding a dead man’s wishes.

The thought of Lorenz made some of the venom dissipate.

Maybe I should just… go over there and say hi. Yeah. Okay, so that was probably the most mature thing to do. The right thing to do, even. Lorenz would’ve approved. Suzanne would’ve approved. Heck, Robert himself would’ve approved of such a plan if he’d been in his right mind, and not one and a half whiskeys deep, at eleven-thirty on a Thursday night, during the f*cking Atlanta Games.

Okay.

Robert put the pen and the crossword book down on the coffee table in front of him, and pushed himself to his feet.

He took a deep breath, and took a step toward the Norwegian contingent.

Robert stopped dead.

Torsten had gone.

Ella and Ingrid were still there, along with two older men that Robert didn’t recognise. The four were talking earnestly together. But Torsten was nowhere to be seen.

Robert blinked, mouth open, because – he just hadn’t expected Torsten to not be there.

Ella noticed him standing, and she turned her head, an eyebrow raised.

He stared at her.

She rolled her eyes, and gestured at Robert to come closer.

But –

Robert turned his head. Torsten wasn’t at the bar, either. He wasn’t –

He’d gone.

He’d just… gone.

Asshole.

Ella was still staring at Robert. Robert made eye contact again, shook his head at her, and sat down in his armchair, picking up his crossword book and his pen. With furious concentration, he returned his attention to forty-five down.

A minute later, and no closer to finding a word for example in eight letters despite staring at the crossword intensely, he heard someone sit in the armchair directly opposite him.

“Hi,” Ella said after a few seconds, when he didn’t look up.

Robert stared at the blank crossword boxes. “Yeah, hi.”

“You were looking for Torsten, right?”

“No,” Robert lied. Then, for good measure, he added: “I wasn’t.”

“Robert.”

She made a noise like pfft, and Robert finally looked up from his crossword.

Ella looked unimpressed. Robert breathed through his nose and tried to clear his head. It was swimming unpleasantly from alcohol, embarrassment, and intensely staring into his lap with his head bowed. The ice had melted in his drink, and he had no desire to finish the scotch, which was lucky, because he realised that more alcohol in this situation was… probably not a good idea. He noticed that Ella had a glass of still water, likely because she was competing in less than twenty-four hours.

“Where – where did he go?” Robert asked, and barely managed to avoid wincing at how pathetic he sounded.

Ella shrugged. “He said he was tired after the party. But if I’m being completely honest, I think he was just avoiding you.”

Robert swallowed away the disappointment that had suddenly risen in him like a cold, sick wave. He wasn’t sure how or what to say, so – “Oh,” Robert said.

“So – tell me.” Ella settled in the chair like she was staying for the night, glass of water in hand. Her tone was serious suddenly, as if she’d flicked a switch. “What’s happened between you two?”

“Nothing.” And, oh – Robert had said that so quickly that it came across as suspicious, even to him. Ella raised an eyebrow again. He cleared his throat, although it didn’t need clearing. “I mean – come on, Ella. You know we don’t like each other. We’ve never liked each other.”

“So, why did you want to come over just now?”

“I – I didn’t.”

Ella laughed, but it wasn’t an easy or a pleasant laugh. It was more of a concession to the situation than anything else, almost like Ella trying to put Robert at ease. He realised that he was tense, his hands clawed around the crossword book and his pen. His shoulders were tight, too, and she – well, she was a goddamn Olympic fencer, so of course she could see exactly that. He tried to relax them. And of course she would notice that, too.

“Okay. Look – Robert, you don’t need to talk about anything with me, if you don’t want. But we’ve known other for a while. So if you want to talk, we can talk.”

“About the weather?” Robert asked blankly, and Ella groaned.

“Robert.”

Robert blinked a couple of times. His mind was contorted, feeling like it firing in the wrong direction. “Uh. Well – okay. Lorenz always said we should’ve been friends. Me and Torsten. And Suzanne, my coach, too, she says the same thing. But – we aren’t. We just – it doesn’t matter. It’s nothing.”

Ella’s expression had become a lot softer at the mere mention of Lorenz’s name. “Lorenz. Oh, he was always such a dreamer,” she said, gently, almost with a sigh. “A true romantic. I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

Robert only hmmed.

Everyone had known Lorenz, and not only because he had been easy to know. Robert hadn’t really understood how much the different corners of the épée universe had relied upon Lorenz as something like a fixer. Lorenz and Robert had become particularly close after one very long night out drinking in Innsbruck, after a competition in ‘87, during which Robert lost his shoes, and Lorenz lost his apartment key.

Bernhard, Lorenz’s longtime partner, had been deeply unimpressed with both of them.

Even guys who hadn’t liked Lorenz – Robert thought, uncomfortably, of Martin Paulik – had still known him and fenced him and asked him for help as needed. Martin had asked Lorenz to help him with an equipment issue the last time they’d been in Japan, summer 1993. Lorenz had, somehow, known exactly the right local guy to talk to, and the next morning Martin had woken up to a polite knock on his hotel room door and two brand new épées. Martin had changed his tune on Lorenz after that particular episode: Lorenz Mayer? Yeah, he’s a great guy. What do you mean? I always liked Lorenz. Listen, I don’t care who he f*cks. The guy’s an angel.

And then Lorenz had got sick.

Robert remembered the hacking cough Lorenz had at that last competition in Argentina. He’d gone home from Buenos Aires early, and been diagnosed with pneumonia in a hospital in Vienna. He’d revealed to the small circle of his closest friends, including Robert, that he was HIV positive, and that the prognosis was not good – but the suddenness and sharpness of his final decline had been staggering, and heartbreaking, and Robert still couldn’t believe it.

And now, two years later, the vast emptiness left by Lorenz’s death still ached.

“I keep in contact with Bernhard,” Robert said. He realised neither had spoken for a few seconds. His voice sounded strained, and unusual.

“Really?” She considered that for a second. “Oh – well. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You and Lorenz were close.”

“Not that we had much in common,” Robert added. “He was just easy to talk to. About everything.”

Ella quirked another eyebrow upward, but said nothing. She sipped her water.

“He was a good man,” she agreed. “What did you used to talk to Lorenz about?”

That was a strange question. Robert wasn’t sure how to answer it.

“Everything,” he said, but – that didn’t really do it justice. Lorenz had been easy to speak to, because he’d let Robert say whatever he wanted, whatever he thought, and there was no caginess or judgement – it was just Lorenz, and his repeated thoughtful declarations of hmm, yes darling, I see. Lorenz had been the only person Robert had ever told about the difficulties in his relationship with Karen, which were, Robert would readily admit and Lorenz would readily agree, entirely Robert’s fault. He could hardly tell Martin or Terry or Mark or – or anyone, for that matter – that he and Karen were barely on speaking terms for ten months of each year, on average. For the two months that they were speaking, they sensibly used the time to complain bitterly about each other’s families.

“So, you said you stay in contact with Bernhard?”

“Yeah.”

“And… what do you talk to Bernhard about?”

Robert laughed.

“What is this, Ella?” he asked. “An inquisition?”

“Yes,” Ella agreed, nodding. “You got me. I am an agent provocateur, charged by the government of Norway to infiltrate a cadre of ageing American athletes, and encourage your participation in a diamond smuggling racket.”

Robert laughed again. “Sounds like a thriller.”

She hmmed. “Not a very good one. And you didn’t answer my question, also.”

“Ella – I don’t get why this matters to you. Bernhard and I talk – well, I guess we talk about Lorenz, mostly. Business, sometimes. He’s got that export consulting company.”

She nodded. “So you’re thinking of your career after fencing?”

“Oh. Maybe. But probably not.”

“Have you got something else planned? For afterward?”

Robert shook his head. “No, nothing… definite. I figure I’ve still got a couple years before I have to really worry about that. I studied economics, but I’ve never worked in the area, so – I don’t know, thought I could give coaching a shot first.”

Ella tilted her head to one side. “Ye-e-es,” she said, slowly, drawing out the vowel. “I can imagine that. I also think Torsten would make a great coach when he retires,” Ella said, “but he won’t even use the word retirement. I mean, he probably doesn’t know the word retirement, because he still finds English as easy as eating a cucumber with a spoon, but even if he knew it, he wouldn’t use it.”

Robert wasn’t sure what to say to that. He made a slightly discouraging noise, and tried to ignore the disarming mental image of Torsten eating a cucumber with a spoon.

“Oh, hey – you could move to Europe,” Ella went on, but she was smiling, so Robert was prepared to receive it as a joke. “Work with Bernhard.”

Robert huffed a laugh that came out as more bitter than he’d intended. “I don’t think my wife would agree to that.”

Ella froze for half a second, then sat bolt upright. “You got married?”

“Uh – no, not technically. I’m still engaged. We’ve – uh.” He felt embarrassed suddenly, like he’d been caught in a lie, and it probably was a lie, but – “We’re not actually married, but we’ve been engaged for a long time, so – sometimes I forget we’re not actually married.”

“Same here,” Ella sighed, and relaxed back into the chair again. Ella’s partner was a woman, and although Robert had met her a few times, he could never remember her name. He was pretty sure it started with a D or an R, but that was about as far he could go without clues.

“What about you? Life after fencing, I mean.”

Ella rolled her eyes. “Just to be clear, Robert Coste, I’m very much younger than either you or Torsten,” she said.

Robert pondered that. “Twelve months?”

“Eight,” she corrected him, and he laughed. She grinned back, and it was genuine. “So – I definitely have time on my side.”

They sat in the comfortable chairs for a few equally comfortable, silent seconds.

Ella cleared her throat. “I meant what I said. You could move to Europe. Not for a long time, just to see if you liked it.”

Robert sighed. “And my fiancée?”

“She could go with you, or not.” Ella’s eyes glinted, conveying something that Robert couldn’t parse. “Perhaps a change is as good as a holiday. That is what you say, yes?”

He took a deep breath. It was an attractive idea. Very, very tempting. Just up and move. Just – leave. Leave his mother, and his sisters, and Karen, all at home, and just… go.

“No, I can’t do that. I can’t just move to Europe.”

She shrugged, perhaps sensing that there was a crack in his defences. “I don’t know. There would be more opportunities for new coaches, too. Particularly those with Olympic gold medals in the closet.”

He shook his head, his mouth turning upward at the corners in a rueful smile. “I think you mean a… display case,” he said. “Or in a safe, maybe. Not in the closet.”

She tilted her head again, eyes trained firmly on his.

“Not in the closet?” she asked.

He felt the world tip slightly around him, off-kilter for a moment, for a reason that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He breathed in, and held it, then released. The feeling passed. Holy sh*t. I’ve only had the champagne, and one and a half scotches.

He blinked.

“No,” he said.

--

Robert made his way back to the hotel room exactly ninety minutes after he’d left it. He hesitated outside the door, and – before putting the key in the lock – pressed his ear to the timber.

Silence.

Okay.

He took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

Chris was lying atop the single bed on his side of the room, in a different t-shirt and shorts, reading a newspaper. His hair was still damp, presumably from the shower. He looked up with a smile as Robert stepped into the room. There was a faint musky scent in the air, and a tinge of something floral, both of which hadn’t been there ninety minutes ago. A woman’s perfume, probably.

Chris grinned, showing his teeth. “Oh. Hey. Uh – thanks for that, man. I mean it.”

“Not a problem.” Robert dropped the crossword book and his pen on top of his open suitcase, and kicked his shoes off.

“If you – uh. If you want to bring – uh, some – someone, over, just let me know, okay? You can have the room when you need it, too.”

Robert turned his head, as he unzipped his jeans and pushed them down, his ring snagging on the fabric of his briefs, which was annoying, and he suddenly regretted putting it back on.

“Chris, I’m spoken for.”

He grabbed for the ring and twisted it off again, slapping it onto the wooden nightstand with a savage little click.

Chris coughed a little. “Yeah, but – yeah. Okay. Sorry.”

Robert sighed. He pulled down the blankets and then sank, for the second time that night, into the single bed on his side of the room. The soft mattress was wonderfully inviting. He was exhausted, and his legs were sore, and tingling slightly from what was probably nervous energy.

Just seeing Torsten again, for the second time that night, and speaking to Ella, had made his skin prickle, in a way that he specifically associated with the sensations that came in the minutes before he stepped out onto the piste. Except – there was no match to come, no mysterious opponent, no calls of en garde–prêt–allez! to relieve the tension.

Just the memory of Torsten, not being where Robert expected to see him, and Ella, being all Norwegian and cryptic about life.

--

Robert had an annoying morning on Friday.

He and Chris had booked a joint wakeup call for seven, which was fine, and they’d shared an early breakfast in the hotel restaurant, which was also fine. Chris had caught a taxi to the GSU Sports Arena with one of the other badminton officials, and Robert had got on a shuttle to the Congress Centre, where the fencing medal events would be starting tomorrow. David was already onsite when Robert arrived, but none of the athletes, and there was a confusing two-minute period when David thought Robert was meant to have collected the épée guys and brought them all over from the towers that constituted the athletes’ village, although that had never been the plan.

Sure enough, Matty had shown up with Trent and Ilario on one of the athletes’ shuttles a few minutes later. All three looked a little tired, or maybe it was just nerves. Robert wondered if he’d ever looked so young and strung out when he’d competed in LA. If so, it was amazing that they’d let him compete at all, instead of sending him back to the hotel with Tylenol and a hot water bottle. Trent complained to David and Robert that he had a headache and a sore throat, so David immediately disappeared with him, and shouted at Robert to work with Matty and Ilario.

Matty glued himself to Robert’s side and told him what had happened at the party after he’d left, which, it transpired, was nothing much – just Matty listing people, name after name that Robert didn’t recognise, and what they’d been wearing, for god’s sake, and oh Robert you wouldn’t believe what so-and-so said to so-and-so… Robert made several attempts to get Matty to go and change into his gear and get on the damn piste. Ilario was already on his way back to the strip, all suited up in his gear.

Eventually Robert snapped, Jesus Christ, Matty, just go get ready, would you?

Matty stared at him with wide eyes, and sprinted to the changeroom.

While Ilario was warming up, Stephen – the sabre coach, whom Robert barely knew – appeared out of thin air and told Robert he couldn’t find any of his sabreurs or sabreuses, but he had found Jenny, one of the foil fencers whom Robert had quite literally never seen before, waiting outside for David, and maybe Robert could look after her, until Viv arrived? Viv, Robert knew, was the foil coach, and Robert had met her at least twice, but couldn’t remember what she looked like, even generally. Jenny seemed completely overwhelmed that Robert was there, and immediately launched into a detailed description of what she’d liked best about his bronze medal match at the Games in Seoul, which was not only eight years earlier, but which was also extremely distracting while he was trying to get Ilario, and then Matty, to warm up.

David returned and announced that Trent was tucked into bed and had taken a variety of approved vitamins to try and stave off whatever illness had struck him down. Stephen declared that both the men’s foil fencers were nowhere to be found, and the other two women on the foil team were apparently delayed, and where the hell is Viv, anyway?

Then Toby Evans, a British épéeist Robert had known for years, and a guy that Robert had never really known how to talk to, but – nevertheless – who seemed convinced that he and Robert were deeply connected on some level, came and stood alongside Robert as Trent and Ilario fenced one another. Toby began to list every single thing that, in his opinion, was wrong with the food, the climate, the transport, and the people in the USA generally, and Atlanta specifically, while constantly pushing his floppy auburn hair out of his dark eyes, apparently under the mistaken impression that Robert was either the President or God, while Robert grunted vaguely, and tried to pretend that Toby wasn’t there.

The morning passed, and at midday David said Robert was free for the rest of the day. The competition would begin in less than twenty-four hours. Matty and Ilario also wanted to attend the Opening Ceremony that night, which David didn’t agree with, but he wasn’t going to forbid it.

Matty seemed to be a loose end – it looked like he wanted to leave with Robert, but David yanked him back to one of the pistes, and he practised parries with as little grace as Robert had ever seen in a professional athlete, grumbling constantly.

--

Robert felt tense, and thought that a gentle swim might help to relieve it.

Athletes and officials could share the pool in the McMahon aquatic centre. The competitive swimming events were being held down the road at Georgia Tech, and the McMahon pool was large, but not Olympic-sized. Still large enough for Robert to feel like he’d be missing out if he didn’t use it at all.

He’d brought his swimming trunks and his goggles, just in case. He wasn’t a great swimmer, but Suzanne was convinced of the value of swimming for young athletes, and he’d needed to be ready for zero-notice trips to a pool in Bridgeport with her when he was a seventeen-year-old, at home on summer break from Kings Row. She’d make him swim long, slow freestyle laps up and down, up and down, until his shoulders ached, and his skin was wrinkled beyond belief.

Robert crossed the pool deck and was unpleasantly surprised by how busy the place was. People everywhere, including dozens just standing around, chatting. The water was a frenzy of white and blue as athletes and officials of various skill levels got their exercise in.

He sighed internally. Maybe this wasn’t been such a great idea, after a–

His attention was snagged by a short guy with a swimmer’s build, thick black hair wet and plastered to his head, and a shaved chest.

He was climbing the pool ladder closest to Robert, water cascading down his shoulders, running in rivulets over his abs. He stood beside the pool, clad just in black Speedos, and pulled his goggles off, pushing a mane of wet, thick, black hair out of his eyes. He looked up, made eye contact with Robert, and gasped.

For a second or two, Robert stared at this guy, and this guy stared at Robert.

Robert had the sense that he’d seen him before, somewhere.

“Oh! Hi,” the guy said, with an accent that Robert couldn’t immediately place. “Robert, right?”

“Uh.” Robert tried to remember how to form words. The guy was a lot younger than Robert. “Yeah. Uh –”

Smiling, the swimmer with the extraordinary body closed the distance, and held his right hand out.

Robert took it, and shook it damply, and –

“Uh. So –” Robert swallowed. He could feel a little blush in his cheeks. “What’s your name?”

“Oh!” He seemed surprised to be asked. “Rafael!” The guy was grinning ear to ear now. He was much shorter than Robert, and had angle his head upward in order to maintain eye contact, but his body positively screamed hours in the gym and restrictive diet – “Rafael Pérez.”

“Are you an athlete?” Robert asked.

“Oh! Yes,” Rafael laughed. He finally let go of Robert’s hand and then seemed at a momentary loss where to put it. He rested his hands on his own hips, opening up his chest. Robert battled to keep his eyes on Rafael’s face. “I’m a gymnast. We –” he laughed, just slightly bashful – “we met last night, actually. You were talking to Matty forever.”

Robert couldn’t remember seeing this guy specifically, but he’d seen a lot of people, and he’d been damn tired, and the annoyance of Torsten’s presence had – well, it had sort of overwhelmed everything else in his recollection of the evening.

“So – you know Matty?” Robert attempted.

“Yeah, of course! He’s told me a lot about you.”

“You know many of the fencers?”

“Yeah!”

Everything was a declaration of surprise, perhaps joy. Robert could almost visualise the exclamation mark at the conclusion of each utterance. It was – refreshing. Robert realised he was grinning too, like the corners of his mouth had been hooked and yanked upward while he wasn’t concentrating. He tried to smooth that away.

“And you recognised me,” Robert said, a little doubtfully.

Rafael laughed. “Of course! Hard not to recognise an Olympic champion I met, like, twelve hours ago. Robert, the one and only American gold medallist in épée,” he said, in a suddenly serious tone, at odds with his smiling expression. “Matty has mentioned that, too.”

“You, uh –” Robert swallowed, trying to keep his eyes on Rafael’s face – “you must be getting cold.”

Rafael shrugged. “I’ll go shower and change! Hey, d’you have time for a coffee with me?”

Well, yes.

Robert did want to get coffee with this young man with the striking dark eyes and black hair and a body like Adonis.

He really should have been able to interrogate that, think about it more critically, but all his brain could supply was nipples and abs and a Speedo.

“Sure,” Robert said.

--

That was how he found himself in a coffee shop a little way down the road from the aquatic centre, sharing a tiny table at the back of the place with Rafael Pérez.

Robert didn’t recognise anybody else there, and nobody paid them the slightest bit of attention.

They were just two guys getting coffee, after all.

Rafael had changed into an oversize sky-blue t-shirt, and loose shorts the same colour, and newish-looking white sneakers, with his sports bag by his feet, his hair still damp from what must have been the quickest shower in history. Robert felt slightly old and shabby in his tracksuit and aged backpack sitting opposite a guy like Rafael. He was aware that there was a little hole on the left sleeve of his tracksuit jacket, and self-consciously, he’d pushed the sleeves up to his elbows to try and hide it, but now he looked like he’d done that intentionally to try and hide something, so after a minute, he just took the jacket off entirely and draped it over the back of his own chair. He then realised that his t-shirt wasn’t the best, either – a plain white one, a tattered v-neck, that had seen better days – but he could hardly sit there bare-chested.

Rafael was sharing anecdotes about life in Florida – he’d been born there, was going to college there, and his coach was based in Jacksonville – and he was talking excitedly about something to do with a car – his car, or his cousin’s car, or something – and occasionally taking sips of his coffee.

“What do you drive?” Rafael asked.

“A Taurus.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a Ford. It’s just a sedan.” It was actually Karen’s parent’s old car. They’d gifted it to Karen and Robert to keep a good car in the family once they’d upgraded to a new Mercedes.

Rafael blinked. “I thought you would drive a sports car,” he said, a little disappointedly.

Robert laughed. “I don’t.”

Rafael hesitated, then asked: “What colour is your car?”

“White.”

Rafael sighed. “A white sedan. Did you drive it to Atlanta?”

“No, I – I didn’t bring it. I was in Denver before this, so jumped on a plane.”

“Oh, why were you in Denver?”

“Training camp.”

“Ohh,” Rafael said, nodding. “Yeah. Great for picking up.”

Robert laughed, because that was an unexpected idea. “What?”

“Camps are great for picking up,” Rafael said, his eyebrows drawing together sharply. “What are you, new? Everyone’s f*cking at camp.”

Robert laughed again, less easily this time, trying to dispel a brief and powerful memory of long chestnut hair and dark eyes. “Not when you’re an instructor.”

“Well, that’s sad.” He took another sip. “Are you going tonight?”

“Where?”

Rafael snorted. “Wow. Only the Opening Ceremony, Robert. I can’t believe I had to specify.”

“Oh. No, I’ll watch it on TV from the hotel room.”

Rafael nodded, then tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a self-satisfied grin. “I… still can’t believe I’m having coffee with Robert Coste. Matty’s gonna flip out.”

Robert laughed again. “Why? Matty sees me all the time.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never had coffee with him.”

It was a strange observation, and one that fitted in Robert’s mind uncomfortably. But… yeah. It was certainly accurate. He’d never asked Matty out to coffee, and Matty had never asked him out for coffee.

But that was fine, right?

That was normal.

He and Matty had never seen one another outside competitions, anyway.

“Guess not,” Robert said.

--

They walked down the road and toward a side-street. Rafael had somewhere to be, soon.

“You’re a handsome man,” Rafael said, appreciatively. “Thank you for taking me out.”

Robert’s brain parked the idea that he’d taken Rafael out, as such, because he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“You’re – welcome,” Robert said, because he was unsure what else he could say.

“I liked spending time with you,” Rafael said, and –

He slipped his right hand into Robert’s left, and –

Without warning, Rafael kissed him on the cheek, having to stretch up, on tiptoes, to reach him.

Robert could feel the breath in his lungs contract, like he’d been punched in the gut.

So it was a surprise even to himself when Robert turned his head, and he kissed Rafael on the lips, just once, and so briefly that it was just enough to convey that –

Well – Robert wasn’t sure what it was meant to convey.

Robert took a half-step back, and –

They were still holding hands.

Rafael’s eyes were wide. His lips were still parted, like Robert had stopped him midsentence.

Maybe I did.

“Oh,” Rafael whispered, after a second. “Thank you.” He squeezed Robert’s hand, then released him, and dug both his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “So – Robert. Do you want to go out again?”

Robert stared at this guy with his dark hair, and dark eyes, and had no idea what to say.

“I’m –” he swallowed, his brain screaming at him in a thousand shades of outraged sensibility and a long-dormant sense of shame. “I’m – sort of –” he paused, his words tripping over engaged like it was a slur – “I’m seeing someone else at the moment. It’s – uh.” He swallowed again. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Robert, you should’ve said that then, at the start,” Rafael said, rolling his eyes. “Okay, okay. Maybe you could look me up sometime? If it doesn’t work out with him.”

“With –” Robert couldn’t bring himself to say him, which was stupid. He swallowed again, his mouth dry and unwilling to make the right sounds. “– uh. Okay. Sure.”

“But when you see me around, you say hi, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Rafael winked. “Okay. Bye now, Robert. Thank you.”

--

Robert and Chris stayed in their room, and watched the Opening Ceremony on TV.

Chris lashed out and ordered room service for the two of them – baked chicken breast with vegetables, and a bottle of white wine that they shared. They sat in the comfortable armchairs as the spectacle unfolded in front of him. Robert drifted off to sleep a few times, until Chris nudged one of Robert’s socked feet with one of his own, and he woke with a snort. Rob, wake up. You’re missing a good bit.

Competition day for men’s individual épée dawned clear, and hot: Saturday, July 20.

Robert woke early, showered, and dressed.

As he left, Chris wished him and the épée athletes a successful day…

But the men’s competition got off to a rocky start.

Matty’s parents and his sister were in the public gallery. Matty had rushed over to greet them. His dad was a heavily built man with a bald pate, and his mom and his sister were small too, their hair a mess of black curls. They were all short, and Robert pointedly stayed alongside Ilario and Trent to avoid feeling like a giant beside Matty and his family.

Trent was still sick, the vitamins having proved useless, and he’d had no choice but to withdraw. He arrived at the venue looking like he’d been microwaved, wearing a sheen of sweat on his face and his flesh an unhealthy grey-green. David took one brief look at Trent, shook his head, and pointed wordlessly at the athletes-only bleachers set up along one side of the venue. Dejectedly, Trent went and sat by himself, and buried his head in his hands. He was too far away to hear, but the shake of his shoulders indicated that he was probably crying.

“Rob, can you go chat to the registrar? Trent’s out.”

Robert clicked his tongue in irritation. “Well, sh*t.”

David shrugged. “Such is life, Rob.”

“Okay.” Robert glanced sideways at David’s face, which was all business, his lips forming a serious, thin line. David was already focused again on his clipboard, which bulged with paperwork and a veritable forest of multicoloured Post-its. “Uh. I might – go and talk to Trent first, though.”

David shrugged again, without looking up.

“Well, he’s goddamn useless as sh*t to us now,” David muttered. “But – whatever, if you wanna waste your time, go right ahead. Just remember to talk to the registrar, okay?”

--

Robert lowered himself onto the bench alongside Trent.

The guy was indeed crying, but trying not to be obvious about it, which of course made it more obvious.

“Hey.”

“Can’t talk,” Trent managed in a thin, scratchy voice, then choked out a sob.

“Hey, I know. I know.” Robert reached a hand out, carefully, and landed it on Trent’s shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. “It sucks. It’s sh*t. I know.”

“You don’t know,” Trent wheezed.

“I do know,” Robert insisted, voice low. “I’ve been sick before comps. Can happen to anyone, anytime. Just – it’s just a shame that it’s today, and that it’s here.”

Trent sniffed, and nodded, head still bowed.

“My folks are just over there,” Trent managed, swallowing. “I – I can’t – oh my god. I have to tell them.”

“… that you’re sick?”

“That I can’t fence,” Trent hiccupped. “Oh my god. I’m not even gonna fence and I’m at the f*cking Olympics. This is so f*cking embarrassing.”

Robert did his best to sound reassuring, but he knew it didn’t really land. “Everyone gets sick, Trent. Everyone. It’s not your fault.”

“Oh, my god,” Trent moaned.

“I’ll go talk to them if you want,” Robert offered. “Your folks, I mean. Do you want me to do that?”

“No. No. I’ll – sh*t. I’ll do it. Oh my god. I can’t believe this.”

--

Matty’s first match was against the Colombian, Alejandro Martinez Sánchez, whom Robert had known for years. He’d been ranked inside the top ten a number of times, but had never been able to make it stick for more than a month or two.

You gotta watch this guy, Robert said. He’s damn fast. I mean it, Matty. He’s fast.

Yeah, but I’m fast too, Matty muttered, his eyes flicking from Robert to the public gallery where his parents and sister were seated.

Robert shook his head.

No, Matty, listen to me. Focus. Just – watch him. Defend, defend, defend. You got it?

Matty didn’t get it.

--

The changerooms were, technically, athletes only – no coaches permitted.

Robert wasn’t a coach, but he also wasn’t an athlete, and the odd middle ground he occupied meant that the stewards weren’t sure they could exactly refuse him entry. They glanced at his credentials, which were stamped Team Official but not Athlete and not Coach. A woman with frizzy blonde hair sighed.

“We… don’t get a lot of team officials trying to enter the changerooms,” she said.

Robert had nothing except himself and his credentials. He held his hands out, palms up.

“I just need to speak to one of our guys. He had a bad match.”

“Sure, sure,” she said. “Okay. You know what – you can go through.”

Robert didn’t wait for her to potentially change her mind, and he immediately stepped forward, pushing the swing door open wide. He followed the corridor down and around a curve until he hit the wide expanse of a changeroom. There were a handful of guys back here – maybe four or five – all early exits. Robert didn’t recognise any of them, bar one. The mood in the room was tense, and it was weirdly quiet. Nobody was speaking. Just the splash of the showers, which were presumably around the corner down the back, and the distant roar of other people.

Matty was sitting alone on a timber bench, head in his hands. His shoulders were still. His weapon was by his feet on the floor, his jacket open to expose his chest, and his bag was on the bench beside him.

He was out, of course. He’d gone down 15–10 to Martinez. There were no second chances.

Matty was sitting there silently, just staring at the floor.

Oh, sh*t.

Robert felt a familiar, tight feeling in his gut. He knew, instinctively, exactly how this felt. An exit at the first test. Failing, falling at the first hurdle. The pressure you’d put on yourself, and the pressure your coach had applied, and the expectations of your teammates, and your friends, and your family, building to fever pitch, and then – it was all over, and you didn’t even get a win. And this was a goddamn Olympics.

Robert squared his shoulders, and walked toward Matty, and settled himself, cautiously, on the unoccupied space of the bench beside him.

“Matty.”

Matty sighed, but didn’t look up. “Yep.”

“Tough match.”

Matty made a sound like pfft. “I washed out.”

“You did not.”

“I did. You told me – you told me to defend, and I – damn it. I wasn’t good enough. I just – I’m not good enough.”

“You’re good enough. You just had a bad morning, yeah? That’s all it is. You shake that off.”

Matty paused for a long time, still unable to look up.

“This is the Olympics, Robert.”

Robert had nothing to say to that. There was nothing he could say.

They sat there for a while longer, in silence.

“I really – uh. I really appreciated that you went to talk to Trent,” Matty said finally, now staring at his hands. “He was really bad this morning. Like – he was just – really sick, you know.”

“I know.”

There was a long pause. Some rumbling noises of the crowd drifted into the changerooms, but nothing distinct, just the vague sounds of large numbers of people congregating.

“Thanks,” Matty said.

Robert laughed. “Thanks for what? I haven’t done anything.”

Matty paused a long time before speaking.

“Just – thanks for coming to be with me,” he said, carefully. “Thanks for –” he stopped. “I mean, David would never do this.”

“I’m not here as a coach,” Robert said, his tone gentle.

Matty paused before speaking. “Yeah, but I meant, David still wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t bother. He probably wouldn’t even think to do it.”

Robert sighed. Matty was right, of course. David was just as likely to deliver a metaphorical swift kick to the balls as he was a thoughtful pat on the back, and it was usually fifty–fifty as to which path he’d take.

“So I really appreciate it,” Matty said, in a small voice that was getting smaller, raspier, by the second. “I – can’t believe you came in to make sure I was okay.”

Robert sighed minutely. “I’m just –“ Robert paused, trying to find the right words – “– I’m here for you.”

And then Matty, almost imperceptibly, shuffled a little closer on the bench, toward Robert.

It was a cue, but it took Robert a moment to pick up on what Matty meant by it.

Robert reached over, and laid an arm around Matty’s shoulders, and was surprised when Matty immediately slid across the remaining gap and fully wrapped his arms around Robert’s middle, pulling him in close, burying his face in Robert’s chest.

Without thinking, Robert leaned over and pushed his face into the whorl of hair on the crown of Matty’s head, and took a breath in, the smells of Matty’s sweat, an odd hint of strawberries from his shampoo or his bodywash or whatever, and just the faintest whiff of tobacco. You shouldn’t be smoking, Robert thought, but he’d never say it.

He felt Matty stiffen, and realised that he’d –

sh*t.

Matty had probably felt the strange sensation of Robert breathing in his hair.

“Sorry,” Robert muttered, pulling his face away. “Sorry. Matty, I’m sorry. I – didn’t mean to do that.”

“No, I’m glad you did,” Matty said into Robert’s shirt, and then pushed away a little, sitting up, disengaging his arms from Robert. He made only fleeting eye contact, and Robert saw his blue eyes were stained red, like he’d staved off tears, but only just. “Thanks.” He wiped at his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I wanted – I – uh. I mean. I want – uh.” He swallowed. “I think I’ll go shower.”

Robert took a deep breath, and moved back as Matty stood up, and grabbed a towel out of his bag. He pulled off his fencing jacket completely, exposing that goddamn physique that looked like it should be featured on the cover of a magazine. Towel in hand, Matty paused, and looked up at Robert. Robert realised he’d been staring at Matty’s body, and hastily stared at the wall opposite.

“Will you wait for me?” Matty asked.

“No,” Robert said, quickly, looking for something – anything – to focus on that wasn’t Matty, trying to break the spell cast by Matty’s perfect little nipples. “I’ll – go back to David and the others. Just – wanted to see you. Check on you.”

Matty paused, straightening up, fixing Robert with a grateful expression that Robert couldn’t fully unpack. It was almost as if he’d done Matty a favour without meaning to, and without exactly knowing how he’d done it.

“Thanks,” Matty said, “and I mean it.”

--

Robert turned his attention to other matches.

Importantly, Ilario remained in the running to book a spot in the quarterfinals. David was focused now, exclusively, on him, and it was almost like Matty and Trent no longer existed in the same universe as David Stroud.

Robert felt little bubbles of anger rise in his gut, and pop from time to time.

Damn it, David, the other guys are hurting. It took a moment to remember that they were, in a way, his guys, too. David, you’ve got to talk to Trent. David, Matty really needs to hear from you right now –

Robert sat alongside Matty and Trent – maintaining a little more distance from Trent’s coughing, greyed-out husk, than from the merely depressed Matty – and watched the competition progress on the red piste. Neither Matty nor Trent were in the mood for conversation, and Robert found himself running a monologue on the bouts happening in front of them and getting absolutely nothing back from the other two.

Ilario’s next match-up – his round of sixteen match, to try and win through to the quarters – wasn’t for another thirty minutes, and with both Matty and Trent seemingly in stasis, Robert had nothing in particular to do. He was a free agent for a while, until of course, David chose to remember that he existed and gave him something to do, like running outside for coffee.

Robert saw that Toby Evans was fighting on the blue piste, and at a loose end and with a desire to get moving, he wandered over to watch, hands firmly in his pockets.

Toby was fencing Miroslav Kováč, one of the mid-career fencers from the new Slovak team, in their round of sixteen match-up.

Up until Barcelona, Miroslav – a nice guy, sort of short, with a big smile and a permanent tan – had fenced for Czechoslovakia, but Atlanta was the first Games to take place since the dissolution of that country, and Robert had caught himself about to say Czechoslovakia to one of the IOC bigwigs at the gala before recalling that the geopolitics had changed between Barcelona and now. Czech and or Slovakia, Robert had said, not so smoothly, and the older guy – from Portugal, maybe – had laughed and said, with a very strong accent, I still cannot get used to lack of Soviet Union. And, yeah – that was strange, come to think of it, seeing Russia printed on the boards alongside a new flag, and with athletes from a dozen new and reorganised countries on the rundowns.

He’d seen Toby Evans fence a lot over the years, and he’d faced him on the strip multiple times over the last decade. Toby was of similar vintage to Robert, inevitably coming to the end of his career, but at least his season had been great – a lot better than Robert’s – and he’d merited Olympic squad selection in both the individual épée for Britain. He was Robert’s idea of a stereotypical English guy, his demeanour capturing the entire range of apologetic expressions – from I beg your pardon to I’m terribly sorry, would you mind awfully saying that again, I didn’t catch it…

Toby would be retiring from competition at the end of these Games, no matter what. Like Robert, he’d studied economics in college. Unlike Robert, he had a job already lined up after his retirement, something in a bank, somewhere in England.

The fluency of Toby’s fencing made him enjoyable to watch, even casually. British fencing had always been hit-and-miss, with some rare bright talents amid a crowded field of also-rans and could-have-been-champions. The British fencing scene had changed significantly with a reorganisation of the sport and a new UK head coach and team manager, who’d been there now since Seoul – Greg Whittaker was surprisingly young for a coach, only now in his late twenties, younger than most of his athletes, but with a famously foul temper. Greg was going prematurely bald, too. He’d tried to hide it for years by ill-advisedly wearing baseball caps everywhere, but he’d eventually given up on that.

Miroslav won – 15–13.

Toby pulled his mask off, and – for the final time – he and Miroslav saluted one another.

Toby turned his back, heading toward Greg for what appeared to be a well-intentioned dressing down by his head coach, and he fiddled with his glove and the hilt of his épée as he listened to whatever wisdom Greg chose to dispense in that moment.

Robert watched, feeling an odd mix of sadness and incompletion.

It was hard to watch a career ending like that – of course, Robert had seen it all before, but Toby – well. Toby Evans had been a regular fixture of Robert’s seasons for years now, a pleasant if somewhat withdrawn and private presence, and now –

Toby nodded as Greg finished whatever he was saying. Toby sighed a huge, chest-cracking sigh, and started back toward the changeroom. He turned his head and, momentarily, met Robert’s eyes –

For just a moment.

Toby stared right through Robert, like he wasn’t even there.

Then he turned, and walked away.

So – after fifteen years in the same salles, the same changerooms, riding the same crazy whirlwind of training, competitions, world championships and even the goddamn Olympic Games –

It was all over.

Robert watched silently as Toby walked away, stalked by the shadow of Greg Whittaker.

He and Toby had been part of each other’s world for fifteen years.

And now? They no longer would be.

--

Robert was aware that someone had sidled up beside him, as he’d watched Toby disappear behind the partition, and out of his sporting life.

“Hey, Robert,” Rafael Pérez said, voice light and breezy, almost refreshing amongst the constant din of grunts and screams from the fencers.

Perhaps this should’ve been awkward – Robert had kissed the guy less than twenty-four hours ago, for no damn reason – but –

Well, it wasn’t awkward at all, and Rafael didn’t seem perturbed by what had happened.

Rafael made as if to lean casually on the guardrail in front of him, which wobbled under the pressure, and he sprung away from it, like it was on fire.

“sh*t!”

“Yeah, uh – those aren’t super strong,” Robert said.

“I nearly fell flat on my ass!”

Robert cracked a smile. “You’re a gymnast, right? Turn it into a floor routine.”

Rafael rolled his eyes. “Pfft. Hate floor.”

Robert turned an inquiring eye on the guy. His shoulders were huge. Rafael looked up at him with dark eyes, his wavy black hair neatly combed into a three-quarter part.

“So… what do you like?”

“I like still rings. Although I guess like is a relative term, y’know? Nobody actually likes it. I’m good at rings, I guess.”

Robert couldn’t imagine much worse than suspending his entire bodyweight through his hands and arms via two rings that swung in the air with abandon. Jesus. How the guys didn’t cramp up within the first five seconds was a mystery.

“Anyway, d’you wanna go out with us tomorrow?” Rafael asked. “I’m not competing ‘til Wednesday!”

Robert frowned. “You’re in town early, then.”

Rafael shrugged. “The entire gymnastics universe collapses in on itself when it’s the Olympics. What d’you call it? An infusion, or something? Everyone I know is here already. What was I gonna do? Sit at home, and do a crossword?” He said it with such blatant cynicism that Robert bit back the immediate impulse to spit out, And what’s wrong with that? “Anyway, like I said, Matty and I are going out tomorrow, and you’re welcome to come along.”

“Uh.” Robert thought about it. He had nothing else on. “Maybe. Where are you going?”

“Midtown,” Rafael said. “There’s a bar I like. Been there before.”

“Okay. I… didn’t realise you knew the city.” Although – yeah, Rafael had known a nice café, close by the McMahon centre, and he hadn’t needed directions, although it’d been around several corners.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve competed here a few times. Had a weeklong camp here a couple of years ago, too.”

“A camp. Let me remember – good for picking up, you said?”

Rafael hmmed, frowned a little, and looked away. “You don’t always need to pick up at camp. You can pick up other places too.” Rafael indicated whatever he’d seen with a movement of his chin.

Robert looked up, following Rafael’s line of sight.

Matty was on the other side of the hall. He was back in his tracksuit, and talking to one of the older fencers – a Hungarian, Laszlo Nagy, whom Robert liked – and Laszlo seemed to be trying to console him, his hands planted on Matty’s shoulders.

The conversation looked intense, and Matty was nodding as Laszlo spoke. Robert understood, at a glance, exactly was Laszlo was doing, because Matty was like that – when he was down, you just wanted to do your best to comfort him, to get him back up to his usual, Matty Page self. If anything, Robert was mildly relieved to see he wasn’t the only guy who quite clearly felt that way about Matty – slightly concerned, slightly paternal.

He recalled what Rafael had said: you can pick up other places too.

But looking at Matty and Laszlo, Robert was struck by the absurdity of Rafael’s observation, versus the plain reality of what was – so clearly to Robert’s eyes, anyway – actually happening. He remembered the various girlfriends Matty had brought to competitions, Matty’s intimate conversation with that young female swimmer at the gala…

Robert barked a laugh.

“What?” Rafael asked, slightly annoyed.

“I, uh –” Robert shook his head. If Rafael wanted to reach unfounded conclusions when it came to Matty, that was his own business, and nothing at all to do with Robert. “– nothing.”

Rafael sighed. “So – are you free tomorrow night, or not?”

He had no engagements after today – he was staying tonight and tomorrow, then he’d be on the plane back to JFK on Monday afternoon.

“Yeah, I’m free.”

“Great! We’ll meet at Green’s. Eight o’clock! It’s a bar on the corner of West Peachtree and Eleventh.”

“Sure.”

--

The room phone was ringing.

Robert had spent Sunday morning with Viv and Stephen, debriefing after the men’s épée debacle – none of the athletes had survived the third round, Ilario going down in flames against Martinez – and preparing for the sabre and foil events. They’d holed up in a meeting room downstairs, with David on speakerphone, as he outlined intelligence received about the other teams. They watched VHS tape after VHS tape that Stephen had in a large black sack. Viv outlined a plan of attack for the foil fencers as Stephen shook his head and muttered goddamn foil while Viv shot him dark and unfriendly looks from under her generous blonde fringe.

Damn, is that what it was like for David and Lou in LA? Robert had never really thought what the Olympics coaches had to do, had to put up with, in the times when they weren’t hanging out in the practice salles or the venue with their athletes. Numbers, names, and more goddamn numbers.

He’d got back to the hotel room after four, relieved to find Chris was out, and had laid on his bed, and closed his eyes for five goddamn seconds –

And the phone started to ring.

He sighed, and sat up, and grabbed for it.

“Yeah, what?” he said, roughly.

It was Matty, voice thin and reedy over the phoneline. “Oh, Robert. I’m sick,” he moaned. “I think I got what Trent’s got.”

Robert groaned. Jesus. “Oh. D’you want – dammit. D’you want me to come over? I don’t know if they’ll let me in, but I can give it a shot.”

“God, no,” Matty keened. “You’ll just get it too.” He coughed pathetically into the phone.

“Okay. Christ. Does David know? Have they sent a doctor up?”

“Yeah, he knows, and the doctor’s just gone. She’s… not sure if it’s a virus or an infection. I have to take these –” Matty rattled something that sounded like a jar of pills – “and stay in bed.”

“Okay – well, you do that.”

“Illy’s staying in because Trent’s still sick too, and now I’m gonna miss going out tonight.” Robert could almost imagine the pout.

Tonight? Oh.

Robert huffed a laugh. He’d nearly forgotten the arrangement with Rafael, even though he’d scribbled himself a note.

“It’s – well – it’s not going to be anything exciting, is it?” Robert asked, doing his best to sound reassuring. “But, I’ll – uh. I’ll go along for a few minutes, so Rafael’s not left wondering where everyone disappeared to.”

Matty coughed again. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

--

Eight on Sunday night, and Rafael was waiting on the corner, as agreed.

Robert almost missed him because he looked different – a lot older – one leg co*cked against a brick wall, arms folded. He was wearing a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned at the front, and a pair of light-coloured shorts that were… Robert sighed – extremely short, revealing a lot of hairless quad, surmounted by the considerable bubble of his groin.

Robert felt nothing except a warm wave of familiarity. This had been his world for months. Important and formative months, as much as he’d tried to pack that away, cauterise the wound, and leave it in the past. The bar Rafael had selected was packed with men and women having a night out, which seemed incongruous for a Sunday evening, but the Olympic Games were in town and maybe – well, maybe everyone was just in a party mood?

Rafael frowned at Robert while he explained that the other guys were all sick. Then he shrugged, seemingly unbothered. They went in together, and Rafael got a Cosmopolitan, and Robert a scotch, only to discover that the bar prices were criminally inflated. It almost hurt to hand over ten dollars and get no change back. Rafael winked his thanks, and they slipped through the crowd to stand – or in Rafael’s case, lurk – at a tiny table on the far side of the open room.

Rafael started talking about something. It was damn loud inside, so loud Robert was having difficulty hearing Rafael at all, and the music wasn’t familiar, and Robert found himself wondering how briefly he could stay, without it coming across as plain rude to ditch Rafael and head back to the hotel. He was tempted to just swallow his scotch and say he had a headache and leave Rafael to it.

“I said,” Rafael scream-shouted in an approximation of normal speech, “do you like dancing?”

Robert finished his scotch, and breathed in, letting the mellow tones of the whiskey permeate him. The alcohol was comfortable in his mouth, warming him further – probably too much. He could feel pinpricks of sweat on his forehead.

“Yeah,” Robert scream-shouted back, and not sure why he did. He hadn’t danced in years. He used to dance, once, when he lived in NYC, and that –

That was a lifetime ago.

Rafael grinned. “Okay! Let’s f*cking go!”

--

The next club was down the street and on another corner.

The sign out the front bore stark white letters on a field of black.

SATYR.

The crowd on the street outside, the pulse of the music from within – now, this…

Robert could feel his pulse accelerating, the sweat on his forehead more than just incidental now.

This was more familiar than he was comfortable with.

Men on the street outside – and only men. A shirtless white guy, with a well-developed chest, being chatted up by two other guys. Tobacco and the sweet smokiness of weed. Christ alive. This was all so familiar, and so…

So damn right.

Robert found the tension in his shoulders dissipating, even as his heart threatened to jump out mouth, via his throat.

This had been his entire world, once.

Men, and dancing, and music – weed, and whiskey, and tobacco smoke. Drinking until he couldn’t think anymore.

He realised he’d stopped midstride, staring at the club with wide eyes. Rafael had stopped, and was watching his face with interest.

“You okay?” Rafael asked.

Robert nodded.

“I bet you’ve never been to a place like this,” Rafael said, with a wicked grin.

Robert blinked, his heart in his throat. He swallowed, somehow.

“You bet,” he croaked.

--

Inside, the lighting was exactly how Robert expected it to be – completely insufficient.

The place was large, and dark, with bright, strobing lights and a mirrorball suspended above a huge dancefloor, many times the size of the one at Cauterize. Dim sconces threw warm pools of light along the curtained outer walls. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt – from the furtive pairings at the edges of the venue, in the booths, and the corners, and the liminal parts of the open floor where the lighting was particularly poor – that there’d be a backroom, somewhere. A place like this had to have a backroom. It wouldn’t get a crowd like this without one.

The thumping of the music was intense, almost intimidating. The unfamiliar music changed to a track that Robert recognised in his bones, although this – this was a remix with more bass than the song merited – an extended cut of I’m Coming Out. The crowd on the floor hooted their appreciation.

He and Rafael became separated almost the minute they pushed in through the crowd at the front door.

Robert even tried standing on tiptoes to see if he could pick out Rafael’s short frame from among the mass of overly tall and overly attractive men, but he had no hope of finding him. There were too many guys, too many bodies, in too small a space.

A tiny part of his thinking mind screamed where are the fire exits, but it was drowned out by the music and the testosterone, and another, larger part of Robert’s mind that repeatedly chanted, I’m home –

I’m home.

I’m f*cking well home again.

He pushed his way to the bar, paid more money for another scotch, and tossed it back. The alcohol was hot and delicious, smoky and wonderful, a punch in the guts and a kick in the f*cking balls. The bartender was a young guy with a moustache and emerald eyes and a tight pair of biceps that popped his short-sleeved shirt as he worked the bar.

Another? he mouthed, voice obliterated by the bass.

Yeah, Robert mouthed back.

More scotch, more heat, more warmth. His head was swimming and he knew this was a f*cking terrible idea, but his legs moved with the rhythm of the sound, although the song was unfamiliar and the far too loud –

Men, as far as the eye could see.

He picked out a path around the edge of the enormous dancefloor, past tables packed with guys checking each other out, flirting, squeezing ass and running hands over chests and groins, until he spied a quieter, darker, and above all unoccupied corner where he felt he could, perhaps, breathe –

But he was been beaten to it by some other guy.

The lights flashed, and the bodies moved, and Robert peered again into the shadow, eyes narrowing, his chest tightening at an unexpected glimpse of a familiar face –

The guy was wearing a tight, black sleeveless tee, exposing shapely arms that were ropey with muscle, atop tight jeans and a bulging crotch. Robert watched, and waited for the next bright flare of lights –

Auburn-coloured hair, thick, swept back off his forehead.

Okay, yeah.

He’d shaved, then, after the day’s competition. Thin eyebrows arched over knowing eyes, irises near-black, and a slightly apologetic facial expression. He seemed distracted, his gaze following certain guys as they drifted past him, his attention caught by a groin, or a butt, or a particularly attractive face.

He was alone, though, leaning back into the corner, hands behind him, and his legs crossed at the ankles.

That’s Toby Evans.

Toby hadn’t seen Robert yet.

The lights pulsed again and again, the music shockingly loud like repeated gunshots at point-blank range, and the blood was thundering through Robert’s arteries, powering him forward –

Powering him toward Toby.

When he was within about six feet, Toby noticed his approach, and turned his head, his dark eyes widening as he recognised Robert.

There was a warm, almost hot, rushing sensation in Robert’s gut, a welter of want and need that was rapidly congealing into must. It was a strange feeling, like a magnet pulling him forward with no conscious effort.

Toby was still staring at him, his mouth slightly open now in surprise, as Robert pushed his way through to the dark corner where Toby had nestled.

Toby spoke first, the round, posh sound of his British accent feeling oddly incongruous against the pulse of the music.

“Robert,” he said, his tone a weird mixture of surprise and relief, as if he couldn’t believe he was saying it. “I – uh. Robert. Hello. Good – uh. Good evening.”

“Fancy seeing you here,” Robert said, leaning his back against the wall beside Toby, brushing Toby’s bare shoulder with his fingertips. The alcohol was warm, almost beautiful in his brain, lengthening the flash of lights into indefinitely long moments of cool daylight. He turned his head, and found Toby staring at him – just staring – his mouth parted.

“I didn’t –” Toby started, then stopped. “I didn’t anticipate seeing someone here I was acquainted with.”

Robert grinned, the words so clearly enunciated in Toby’s accent that they sounded like they’d been lifted straight from a movie. “You mean, y’didn’t think you’d meet somebody you knew?”

Toby blinked, and smiled. “Yes.”

“I think you mean no,” Robert said, and bumped his shoulder, and Toby laughed out loud.

“Maybe,” Toby said.

Something had completely grabbed hold of Robert’s gut, and refused to let go. A tight warmth of craving that he couldn’t resist and couldn’t ignore –

“D’you wanna dance?” Robert said, leaning in close to Toby’s ear – so damn close that he could smell Toby’s sweat, unfamiliarly sweet and sour, like Toby Evans was some new delicacy laid out in front of him. A buffet.

And Robert – he was goddamn ravenous.

He pulled back a little way, and enjoyed the instant of desire, that recognition of mutual hunger, that he saw so nakedly writ large in Toby’s expression in the heartbeat before the other guy could pull himself together.

Yes, Toby mouthed, and Robert was sure there was no voice there, no sound, just the flattened mouth-shape of Toby’s yes, the little flash of his teeth, the flicker of his tongue from the final sibilant – yes.

Yes, yes, yes –

La Bouche’s Sweet Dreams boomed through the massive speakers set at the far end of the dancefloor, every pulse a revelation and a promise, and Robert grabbed Toby’s hand and pulled him – yes, pulled him – into the crowd and onto the dancefloor, forcing a pocket of space for themselves amid the crush.

The lights flashed and the music pounded, hot and dark, full of light and life –

They moved together, and not together. The music hit them like a series of physical blows, as Toby and Robert danced.

The mirrorball above sent out its gaudy, flickering, scattered golden light –

Toby’s face was so goddamn intriguing, and Robert struggled to work out when this guy had become so damn beautiful, so damn sexy, and the sweat had collapsed his hair into a red-tinged mass, plastered to his forehead, almost into his dark eyes –

Sweet dreams of rhythm, and dancing –

A hand that wasn’t his, and that wasn’t Toby’s, squeezed Robert’s ass.

Sweet dreams of passion through the night –

Toby grinned, baring teeth and a flicker of tongue, and Robert let himself imagine that mouth on his co*ck –

Sweet dreams are takin’ over –

Heat, and pressure.

Robert closed his eyes, and embraced the darkness, the vulnerability –

I want to take you home tonight –

Robert put his hands on Toby’s shoulders, or what he assumed were Toby’s shoulders, his eyes still squeezed shut.

He opened his eyes, saw only Toby’s face, in the flashing half-light, grinning back at him.

The track blended into another as the music changed, opening into a dramatic sting of violins, something new and unfamiliar to Robert’s ears, but a lot of the other guys seemed to recognise the new music, and they oohed in unison, pairing up like it was always going to be this way, although the tempo remained fast, the couples moving in close.

As if on cue, Toby’s hands lowered to Robert’s waist, landing there, light but firm, pulling him in, closer.

I stand in the distance, a woman’s voice purred, over a thudding bass that travelled all the way through Robert’s body, equally echoing and dictating the thudding of his pulse, I view from afar –

The fingers on Robert’s waist were hot, so damn hot, every point of contact searing into the flesh of his flanks through the thin cotton t-shirt. Toby’s hands left Robert’s side for a few moments, as he hooked his fingers under the hem of his own sleeveless shirt, and he pulled it up and over his head in one, smooth movement, letting it dangle by one finger before he shoved it partly down the back of his own jeans, then laid his hot hands back on Robert’s sides.

Should I offer some assistance – the song went on, as Robert dared to let his eyes drift down the plane of Toby’s chest, enjoying the surprisingly large areola of his nipples, the reddish tones of the thicket of his chest hair – should it matter who you are?

Hungrily, Robert lifted a hand and tweaked one of Toby’s nipples, feeling the skin immediately firm and pucker as he massaged it with his fingertips, and was rewarded by a muttered f*ck.

Toby pulled Robert in closer still, and let his mouth rest on the edge of Robert’s ear, hot and wet. He kissed the curving edge of the ear and, haltingly, he whisper-stuttered:

“Robert, I – I – I had no idea –”

We all get hurt by love, and we all have our cross to bear –

“Kiss me,” Robert growled.

But in the name of understanding now, our problems should be shared –

Toby met Robert’s mouth with his own, kissing him urgently. Desperately. Teeth on teeth, Toby’s tongue in his mouth. Robert pushed in as Toby did, locking together, pumping their mouths one into the other, Toby’s hands up under Robert’s t-shirt now, massaging his back under the fabric.

The vocals rose to a crescendo. Confide in me –

Toby’s hand. His mouth. God, his mouth. Robert pushed their groins together, rubbing his hard co*ck against Toby’s impressive erection, and Toby’s breathing changed –

Confide in me –

“B– back room?” Toby asked, in a strangled tone.

“Yeah,” Robert growled. He broke away and grabbed Toby’s right hand with his left, turning and pushing through the crowd, earning some muttered heys and dark looks, all of which he ignored.

“Robert, it – I think it’s the other way,” Toby said, his voice carrying over the music, somehow, accompanied by a little laugh.

Huh. Robert let Toby tug him back in the other direction, across the dancefloor again, the sharp glare of spinning lights and the heaviness of his desire combining to dazzle him. Despite all that, or perhaps because of it, his head felt light, like it might roll off his shoulders if Toby pulled him too hard, too fast.

The entry to the backroom was in the corner opposite the main bar, around a corner and down a short corridor. The little assortment of cubbyholes, which felt weirdly familiar to Robert, were stuffed full of discarded clothes. Busy night.

Both still fully clothed, Toby pushed open the heavy dark curtain and pulled Robert into the warm darkness beyond.

The backroom was a long, narrow room with those same, dim sconces set high along one wall. They diffused warm, golden light in little pools, which gave the whole space an intimate feeling of richness, almost luxury. But the furnishings were like prison equipment – a low, bare timber bench pushed up against one wall, and some small screens and notches for guys who didn’t want to be fully on view from every part of the room.

The space was already full of bodies.

Robert blinked. He felt his throat close up at the oddly familiar scents of sex, and traces of sh*t. He knew that meant some guy hadn’t cleaned out properly, and he wondered how he knew that –

His mind whirled.

He tried, and failed, to focus solely on Toby’s back as he wove, carefully, through the dark space.

He was aware of a series of vague impressions of other guys, settling in parts of his brain he’d silently allowed to go fallow –

A guy, completely naked, on his back atop the bench, moaning. A fully clothed guy, squatting in front of his ass, face deep in the cleft of his spread buttocks.

Two guys, completely naked, masturbating in front of each other, eyes intensely locked on one another’s co*cks.

A man with a co*ck that was so long and so fat that Robert stopped in his tracks, just for a moment. Robert knew that that caused Toby to turn his head, to see what was wrong. The guy was getting sucked off by two naked men, their heads ducking and weaving as they licked his shaft, sucking his balls. The lucky recipient of the twinned blowj*b suddenly lifted his eyes, and met Robert’s, his eyes hazy, hot with desire.

“Do you want to watch?” Toby asked, quietly, applying a gentle squeezing pressure to Robert’s hand.

Robert tore his eyes away, somehow, and shook his head.

No.

No, he wanted to do more than watch –

“Then come on,” Toby said, applying a little pressure to Robert’s hand, urging him onward.

A few steps further into the gloom, Toby pulled Robert into an unoccupied corner, just the other side of a dark screen.

It started with hands.

Toby’s hands – one on the back of Robert’s right shoulder, the other lightly rubbing and squeezing Robert’s rapidly firming co*ck through his jeans. His eyes were on Robert’s groin, watching closely as he manipulated the denim, feeling out and urging the dick beneath to fullness before he –

Toby took his hand off Robert’s shoulder, and eased it under his own waistband, toying with his own co*ck as he fondled Robert’s, massaging, grasping –

Robert kissed Toby again, unable to wait any longer, and enjoyed the little surprised huh that he devoured as his tongue lashed Toby’s, licking across his teeth, tasting the slight souring of the beer in his mouth. Toby let Robert drive, taking a step backward into the corner, relaxing and letting the wall hold him.

Robert yanked his t-shirt off and dropped it on the floor. He unbuttoned his jeans, and pushed them, and his briefs, down to his ankles in a single movement.

He stood up straight, his co*ck rigidly at attention.

Toby’s eyes were on him, and Robert had the feeling he was being eaten alive, inch by inch.

Toby undid his jeans and shimmied them down, his long, thick co*ck partly erect.

He’s f*cking huge.

Toby sank to his knees, jerking his dick, and laid his mouth on Robert’s co*ck, sucking gently on the head, all heat and slickness –

“Take it,” Robert whispered, and laid a hand on the back of Toby’s head, pushing him further onto his co*ck, and Toby gagged and coughed, a hock saliva landing on the floor as he spat, breaking away.

Toby took his hand off his own co*ck suddenly, to scrape at his teeth with a fingernail.

“I’m so sorry,” Toby muttered, pulling his hand out and flicking something on the floor. “Pubic hair in my teeth. Can’t stand it.”

Toby’s long, uncut co*ck hovered at half-mast, glistening with his own spit.

Robert stared at it.

“Do you – want to suck my prick?” Toby asked, the question unexpected and shocking, like a slap.

Robert’s pulse was pounding in his temples and his neck. He wasn’t sure he could breathe anymore. His chest was so damn tight with such a confused mix of desires and fears, that part of his brain wondered, distantly, if this was what a heart attack felt like.

He couldn’t look away from Toby’s dick.

Toby was uncut, and damn big, and in the warm half-dark of the backroom, surrounded by other guys sucking and f*cking and eating ass – the wet, unsubtle sounds of their sex permeating every pore of Robert’s skin – Robert wanted nothing more than to lick Toby’s co*ck, find out how it felt to run his tongue around its bulletlike head, toy with his foreskin, stick it so far down his throat that he’d earn himself a permanent Toby-shaped impression in his gullet.

The alcohol in his system buzzed hotly in long-dormant corners of his mind. Something old was now rising in him, and he couldn’t halt it.

Like he was on a train on tracks, like he couldn’t stop on this path, Robert gently let his own knees buckle, and he sank to the hard, dirty floor.

He breathed in.

The tip of Toby’s co*ck was about an inch from his face.

He buried his face in the sweaty pit of skin where Toby’s right leg met the rest of his body, breathing in the musky, dirty smell of Toby’s sweat, the telltale stink of his desire, and bitterness and sweetness, and that rich, earthy odour, almost like an asshole. Robert kissed him in the crease of the furrow, the sharply defined Adonis belt that only came with hours spent in training. Toby’s co*ck bobbed, his heavy balls swinging as he adjusted his stance, angling his right leg outward to give Robert better access.

“My god,” Toby said. “Yes. Oh my god. Right there.”

Robert licked the groove, loose hairs gathering on his tongue, which he spat on the floor, then immediately resumed licking the sensitive skin. Toby giggled, an incongruous sound amidst the panting and the gasping and the rasping sound of Robert’s tongue on his skin.

“Suck it,” Toby said. “Robert, please. Please suck my prick. I want your mouth on it.”

Robert breathed with difficulty, tearing his eyes away from Toby’s groin, and bringing them up his naked torso, reaching his face –

And, whatever Toby saw in Robert’s eyes, it triggered a little noise of surprise, and an immediate softening of his eyes.

“Oh,” he said, almost whispered, his voice almost wiped out by the noises of the men around them and the thudding of the bass, “No. I’m sorry. Y– you don’t have to. You don’t have to.” He rubbed the hair at the back of Robert’s hair with enormous care, and Robert pushed back a little way, letting the gentle friction of Toby’s fingers soothe him. “You can stand up. You don’t have to do that. I’m sorry.”

Robert stared up at Toby and nodded, then got to his feet.

Toby kissed him again, more gently this time.

“I can make you come,” Toby said, his voice clipped and soft and wanting, straight into Robert’s open mouth. “We’ll come together. Would you like that?”

All words had left Robert’s head. He couldn’t remember how to speak, let alone how to say what he wanted, and what he didn’t. He was hard, achingly hard, his co*ck at attention, curving and wanting, glistening in the low light, pearly pre-come at the slit. Had he ever been this hard? And what had it taken? Just the thought of taking Toby’s co*ck in his mouth? What would it have felt like, if he’d been able to just say –

Toby kissed his lips, and licked them a little, and Robert moaned, and his co*ck pained.

If he’d been to just say yes –

“Are you ready to come? I can rub you out,” Toby offered, and Robert finally made a noise approximating yes, a moan that somehow conveyed his assent. Yes, for f*ck’s sake, I want you to make me come, and I want to see you squirt –

Toby spat in his hand and, reaching down, brought their co*cks together, side by side, rubbing them like they were one.

Robert moaned again, and buried his face in Toby’s chest, mouthing the hair on his chest, kissing him in the valley between his pecs, hot and wet.

He bent his head down further and suckled on one of Toby’s nipples, earning a sharp little noise, an intake of breath, from Toby. Toby kept up his stroking, slow and rhythmic, the cadence of a slow f*ck, never letting up.

“Yes,” Toby whispered, as Robert bit and sucked on his tit, and as Toby jerked their co*cks together. “Yes, yes. I like – I like that. Yes.”

The slick noise of Toby’s hand on their dicks filled Robert’s mind, but there was just enough space left for him to hear, and note, the soundscape that surrounded them. Behind Robert, a man moaned out loud suddenly, and said out loud, yes, f*ck, yes, harder – Robert felt his co*ck stiffen. Oh my god, another guy was saying, that feels amazing –

Robert let himself go, relaxing into the sensation, blocking out everything except the feeling of his tongue running through the hair on Toby’s chest, and Toby’s hand on him, the hardness of Toby’s long co*ck nestled alongside his own –

“Robert, I’m coming,” Toby gasped, somewhere above him.

Robert felt Toby’s dick stiffen suddenly, finally, next to his own hardness, and his co*ck was suddenly wet and hot, Toby’s sem*n splashing into his own groin, and then with a second pulse, that same wetness and heat running down the inside of his legs as Toby spent –

He shot a second later, as Toby kept up his pace, spilling into Toby’s hand and on the floor, moaning into Toby’s chest as he released, coming hard, his co*ck pulsing under Toby’s attention, over and over, Toby keeping up his rhythm, his pace –

As Toby whispered yes, yes, Robert, that’s so good, my god, you’re so beautiful, yes –

--

“Rob? Rob.”

Robert groaned, and said something like f*ck off.

Chris laughed. “Jesus, Rob. It’s nearly eleven. Matty’s on the phone.”

Christ. What?

“Huh?”

“He called earlier, and I said you were still asleep,” Chris said. He forced his eyes open. Chris had an eyebrow raised, and was smiling in an understated sort of way. “He’s on the phone again now.”

“Didn’t even hear it ring.”

“Yeah, you – uh – you were dead to the world,” Chris chuckled. “Big night, hey?”

Robert shoved his body into something approximating a sitting position, then launched himself to his feet. He stumbled across the small room and took up the receiver.

“Yep.”

“Robert! Are you okay?”

“Yep, yep.”

Matty coughed into the phone. sh*t, the kid still sounded as congested as f*ck. “I was worried. Raf said he couldn’t find you.”

“Yeah, yep. We – got separated. I – didn’t stay long.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” Matty said. “Where did he take you?”

“Uh. Nowhere special.”

Robert rubbed his temples. Goddammit. He had to get on a plane in a few f*cking hours.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yep, yep. Just… got a headache. Probably one too many drinks.”

“Oh, no! I’ve got a headache too.”

Robert rumbled an uncertain noise. “Okay. Sorry to hear that.”

Matty laughed softly, then coughed again.

“So, uh. Where are you – headed to next?” Robert asked.

“Home,” Matty sighed into the phone. “I said I’d go stay with my parents for a while after the Olympics. Then back to Milwaukee and, I don’t know – I guess just training again. There’s an épée event in Geneva that Brad really wants me to go to, but I’m not sure if it’s worth it.”

“I’m going to that,” Robert said. “On September first, right?”

“Yeah,” Matty said, brightly, the smile back, and Robert could hear it in his voice. “Okay. I’m definitely going, then.”

--

Karen was annoyed with him, but not for any obvious reason.

Or, at least, not any reason that was clear to Robert.

Sure, he’d told Karen he needed to be away through a lot of September, and that meant he’d need to miss the tenth anniversary of their first meeting. And she’d hated that, and complained to her mom, and then Robert and Karen’s regular dinner engagement with the older Stratfords on the first Saturday of the month had been an exercise in self-flagellation as Robert found himself continually explaining to Jean and Ray – as Karen stared at the glassware – why he needed to go to Boston at all.

Karen’s sister Margot, and her husband Dean, had avoided the monthly dinner entanglement again. Somehow. Robert suspected witchcraft.

As they sat at the dinner table and crunched their way through salad, Jean sniffed disapprovingly, and Ray radiated his usual dislike. But the travel – well, the travel was all about Robert’s work, for god’s sake, and it wasn’t like he wanted to be away for his and Karen’s sort-of-anniversary – it was just how things had played out. At least he would be earning decent money.

Karen still seemed to think it all Robert’s fault – his absences, his bad planning, the fact that he didn’t just comply and get a job through Ray’s connections that would keep Robert securely in Bridgeport for the rest of his life, until he died in a few decades’ time, presumably chained to a desk.

He’d always thought it was unusual that Karen attached some importance to commemorating the day they’d first met. Each year she expected something nice – a dinner out, or a fragrance, or some other little token of Robert’s affection. He struggled to find something every year, and generally left it to the last minute. At least, now, he could ask Grace to help him out.

He stopped by his manager’s office on the Wednesday afternoon. Years ago, Suzanne had insisted he get a manager, and she’d recommended a shortlist of local, Connecticut names. Robert had selected one at random, and had been represented by Superior Sports Management ever since. The agency was a small one (or as Suzanne put it, boutique) and employed just two part-time office staff – Jeanette, who was approximately as old as the Pleistocene era, and Grace, by far the younger and more high-energy of the two.

Robert grunted hi to Jeanette, received nothing in reply, and headed straight to the collection of mail slots labelled with her shaky handwriting.

His own, R.C. Coste, was in one of the least convenient places of all, at the bottom, on the left, near the wastepaper basket. He suspected things addressed to him occasionally dropped into the trash without Jeanette noticing.

He leafed through the papers that had accumulated. These were all items that had been posted via the agency, opened and stamped and sorted by Grace. A small handful of envelopes marked Personal & Confidential that had been left unopened. One of those was from the IRS. Great. A little series of handwritten memos or missed-call notes in Grace’s handwriting.

One of the notes caught Robert’s eye. It was written in Grace’s cautious hand, a series of little loops, with the Missed Call and Please Return Call checkboxes ticked.

While You Were Out: Missed Call – 10:20 – Rafael Perez – re: visit to NYC Aug 14. Please Return Call.

… okay.

This… wasn’t something Robert had expected. He knew, from Matty, that Rafael was an excellent gymnast – an Olympian, after all – and that meant that he would, of course, be travelling. Maybe there was some kind of gymnastics competition in New York next week? It would make sense for Rafael to be in this part of the country for that reason.

It made less sense for him to call Robert, and tell him about it.

Robert stared at the message. The phone number had an Orlando area code, which Robert only recognised because of the number he’d once had for his eldest brother, August, who’d relocated to Florida when Robert was still in kindergarten.

Please Return Call.

He picked up the phone and punched the number in.

A woman answered.

“Aló?”

Robert cleared his throat. “Hi. Hola. I’m – Robert. I’m returning a call from Rafael.”

“Oh – Rafael. Puede esperar un momento?”

“Uh. Sure. Yes.”

There was a lengthy pause.

“Robert, hi!” It was Rafael – voice bright and happy. “You got my message!”

“Yeah, hi.” Robert felt the smile take over his face, infect his voice. It was – well, there weren’t words for it. Rafael’s voice was like a breath of fresh air, and it wasn’t difficult to remember how his lips had felt, and tasted: soft and slightly redolent with coffee. It still felt – it didn’t feel wrong, not exactly, even though Robert realised that it probably should have felt wrong, or at the very least, somewhat complicated.

But it didn’t.

Robert cleared his throat. “So you’re heading to NYC?”

“Yeah! Do you want to catch up?”

So light, so easy. So easy for Robert to say yes and spend more time with this – this guy he’d kissed, this guy who’d thought that coffee in downtown Atlanta on a Monday afternoon equated to a date, this guy he’d completely forgotten about at Satyr after he’d glimpsed Toby and –

“Yeah, I do,” Robert heard himself say.

--

They met at a café in Brooklyn on the Wednesday afternoon. Rafael’s competition was the next day, and he was beyond tired of his training regime. He showed Robert the blister he’d got on one palm.

“Look at it,” he said, aggrieved. “It’s bigger than my f*cking hand.”

They chatted with surprising ease. Rafael could probably have a conversation with himself, he was so full of words and thoughts and observations. Robert listened more than he spoke. They ate pasta, and Rafael drank water because he was competing in eighteen hours, and Robert nursed a beer.

At one point, Rafael fell silent, and Robert realised he was being watched, very closely, by Rafael’s intense, dark eyes.

“Something wrong?” Robert asked.

“No,” Rafael said, and the moment passed.

Afterward, they walked down Bedford Avenue. Rafael needed to get to the Franklin Avenue subway, and Robert had parked on Hanco*ck, so they needed to split.

As they turned the corner, Robert felt Rafael’s hand take his.

He was expecting it already, but he wasn’t expecting his chest to tighten so much, or for it –

For it to feel so right.

“That was good,” Rafael said. He squeezed Robert’s hand, and – interlace their fingers, as Robert’s heartrate spiked. “Did you have a nice time with me?”

Robert’s laboured breaths were almost painful.

He didn’t want Rafael to let go, but he knew, with certainty, that he would.

Rafael let go. Robert let his fingers slip away.

“Robert?”

“Yeah,” Robert said. He didn’t know what else to say. He couldn’t organise the words. They were there, but in the wrong order, all the wrong way round, or just… wrong.

“Well, that’s good,” Rafael urged. “I’m happy, then.” And he looked happy, too, damn him.

“I’ll – uh. I’m gonna miss you,” Robert said, voice catching.

Rafael frowned. “But – we’ll see each other around,” he said, and shrugged, like that was just taken for granted. Of course we’ll see each other around, he seemed to say. Of course we will.

“Uh. Where?”

“Oh!” Rafael thought about it. “There’s always the Olympics?”

Sydney? Robert groaned. I’ll be thirty-seven by then. “Uh. Maybe.”

“We can catch up then. I can show you Sydney. You been there before?”

“… no.”

Rafael bounced on the balls of his feet. “Oh! You’ll love it!”

Robert smiled, because – how could he not?

“Maybe.”

“Go to Sydney! It’ll be great!”

“Okay. Maybe.”

“You keep saying maybe!”

Robert took a moment to just… look at Rafael. Really look at him. His stunning dark eyes, his wide smile, so open and honest, and so damn hot – just young and beautiful.

“You okay?” Rafael asked, with a trace of a frown.

“Yeah,” Robert said, eventually. “I’m fine.”