A/N the First: I guess now's probably a bad time to tell you that I'm pretty sure I put some people in Speedos that you have no desire to think about in that state of undress? Still here? Dang. You're a steadfast lot, and I adore you. Thanks for all of the wonderful reviews!
Thanks also to mxpw. This chapter had a few problems, but he helped me make people meaner, which was a lot of fun (you wouldn't think that I'd have a problem there). Thanks to Ayefah for inspiring craziness, quistie for kindling that flame, Lindsay for keeping me in the swimming straight and narrow, and the internet for letting a girl know everything she needs to about sports without having to leave the couch.
Chapter Three: Problems with Publicity
Chuck whistled as he left the locker room and headed out to the training pool. He hadn't slept much—Ellie had kept him up late, wanting to know all about what he was doing in London, or, as Awesome had put it, who he was doing in London—but that hardly seemed to matter. He finally understood the term "Cloud nine," and he was definitely on said cloud. He had Matt and Kim's AM/FM Sound playing on his iPod and he was eager to work on his inward dives, which was not something he could say he'd ever felt before.
Morgan might be Iron Man, but Chuck felt like he was the one that could take on the world.
The second he hit the training pool, however, reality crashed into Matt and Kim. Anna was waiting for him poolside with all of their gear set up: the cameras, the sensors, the underwater camera he would have to climb in and rig before he began diving. There were four men waiting with her, one of them holding a camera. Another held a boom pole.
"Hey," he said, eying them warily. "What's, ah, what's going on?"
"Chuck, this is Matt Miller. He's producing a segment for NBC," Anna said, gesturing to the slightly nerdy-looking guy standing next to her. "Matt, my diver, Chuck."
"Nice to meet you. Do we need to clear out so you can have the pool?" Chuck asked, shaking his hand.
"Chuck." Anna cleared her throat. "The segment's on you."
"What?"
"We didn't have time before the games to get some footage of you in practice," Matt said. "We've gotten some of the tapes from the NCAA, but NBC likes to run pieces on the athletes, really get the audience interested in them as people. And with everything going on, people would definitely be interested in you."
"Why?" Chuck asked before he could stop himself.
"Because you'll be wearing the red, white, and blue, of course." Matt's smile came easily.
"The very tiny red, white, and blue," said the guy with the boom pole, and the other men laughed. "But hey, more power to you. I'm Ed. That's Buzz." He gestured at the man with the camera. "And you recognize Casey."
"John Casey?" Chuck asked, startled.
The man grunted.
"You're a legend! I have always wanted to meet you! This is such an honor," Chuck said. He knew that John Casey was giving him a look people commonly reserved for road-kill, but he didn't care. All through his life, he'd clung to the idea that if John Casey could win silver at the Olympics, then maybe he had a chance. After all, John Casey had nearly an inch on him. The diver's build had thickened since he'd traded diving for marksmanship, but Chuck was still completely ashamed that he hadn't recognized the man on sight. "So, so pleased to meet you."
Casey shook his hand. "Likewise," he said in a neutral voice, and stepped back to give the other three a look. "Are we going to do this, or what? I've got to get to the shooting range."
"Okay," Matt said. "So if you'll—"
"Could we have a moment?" Anna asked, giving them all a sugary smile that Chuck personally knew spelled bad news for him. She grabbed Chuck's arm and hauled him back toward the locker room. "Hi. When were you going to tell me you had a girlfriend?"
"I don't have a girlfriend," Chuck said.
Anna merely pulled out a newspaper. There was a picture, albeit a small one, of Sarah hugging him at the match. The picture's caption identified both him and Morgan.
"Oh," he said.
"'Oh' is right. Were you going to tell me about it?"
"We're friends, as far as I know. She was excited to see me."
"Whatever it is, it got you quite a bit of publicity." Anna handed him another paper, this one with a front-page picture of Morgan baring the Iron Man logo to the world. "And for him, too. If I'd known that was what it was going to take, I'd have hooked you up with the gymnastics team a long time ago!"
"Can we pick a different sport, one that possibly doesn't make me a pedophile?"
Anna grabbed the towel around his neck and yanked, pulling him down to her level. "Look," she said, leaning in close, "I don't care if this profile is secretly all about Sarah Walker, getting eyes on you is going to get you sponsors. Getting sponsors is going to get us better equipment. Better equipment helps you win more. So be calm, be confident, give them exactly what they want. Try not to talk about Bryce, don't stutter, and remember to keep your toes pointed."
"I want to work on the inward dive today," Chuck said.
Anna blinked. "Now there's something I never thought I'd hear you say. Damn, this bitch is good for you. Let's go put big smiles on and convince them we're going to win gold."
"Which will never happen," Chuck said.
Anna gave him The Look.
"You're right. What was I thinking?" Chuck said immediately. "Of course we're going to win gold. We're going to do so great, we'll win two golds because in an unprecedented move, the committee will decide there really needs to be one for coaches, too."
"That's more like it. Try not to drool over John Casey. The man makes misanthropes look friendly."
"Yeah, and he has a gun," Chuck said, and followed his coach out to where the crew waited.
"So, when did you start diving?"
Chuck wanted to squirm, but he knew that cameras picked up every little tic. They were also completely unforgiving. There was, after all, a Youtube video floating around of the argument he and Bryce had had after the meet at UC Irvine, the one that had led to their partnership disbanding. But the lights they had on him in the interview lounge felt so hot, and even though they'd powdered his face to avoid him getting too shiny, he felt as though he was about to sweat through the team shirt they'd given him before the interview.
He glanced at the camera, remembered that he wasn't supposed to do that, and looked sheepishly at the interviewer sitting across from him. "I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this."
"No need to apologize." The interviewer had introduced herself, but he couldn't remember her name. She was blonde and pretty, coiffed perfectly, while he felt like a giant in itchy clothing. "Just take a deep breath, Chuck. Try and relax and forget the camera's there."
That was rather impossible since it felt like a big eyeball, glaring right at him. And there were at least ten people standing around watching him, too, with headsets around their necks and bored looks on their faces.
Chuck nodded, gamely. "Okay. I'm ready."
"Good. Now, tell me, how did you get started diving?"
"Well, my best friend, Morgan—that's Morgan Grimes, he's in London, too—he got started doing gymnastics really young. It's impressive, actually. The man really excels at trampoline. When we were kids, I'd jump on there with him and try to do whatever he was doing. When I wasn't fooling around with him, I was in the pool with my sister—Ellie, that's, ah, Ellie Bartowski. She's a doctor now, a neurologist, and she's the best brain doctor on the planet, bar none. Hi, Ellie." He waved at the camera.
"Your sister means a lot to you?" the interviewer, whom he now remembered was named Janice, asked.
He blinked, a little startled at the question. "Well, yeah," he said. "She's a couple years older than me, and I used to try and race her, but she was fast—still is. I switched to diving because I learned that a lot of divers spend time on the trampoline, which meant I had an excuse to hang out with Morgan, and I never looked back. But my sister, she's the racer, and she's the one that kind of raised me because our parents, they were never really there."
Janice's eyebrows rose. It felt a little fake, but Chuck didn't want to comment. The next few questions he expected: whenever he disclosed that his parents hadn't really been present, people tended to ask what had happened, how it had felt growing up with an older sister as a guardian, how he'd gotten over it. He'd grown accustomed to dodging those questions and generally didn't bring it up to start. Laying it all bare on national TV felt singularly dishonest, so he was relieved when Janice decided to move on. Or he was relieved until she asked about Bryce, who he should have known would be the next subject.
"So you went to Stanford on a full ride for diving," Janice said.
"I did, yes. I studied engineering."
"You got the scholarship as an individual diver, correct?"
"Yeah, I guess so. There wasn't anybody in my school that could keep up with me enough for me to do synchro."
"Yet Coach Graham chose to have you compete solely at synchronized ten-meter with Bryce Larkin, who's also here at the London Games."
Chuck took a deep breath. "Yeah, Bryce is around," he said. "And yes, it's true that the two of us dove together for three years. I didn't compete in individuals during that time."
"People called it an unorthodox partnership, at the time."
"Because I'm so tall?" Chuck asked. "I guess so." Bryce had certainly found it unorthodox.
"There was talk of the pair of you trying for Beijing, wasn't there?"
"There was, but our coach at the time thought we were a little young," Chuck said. "He wanted us to have a little more experience together before we did anything crazy like try for the Olympics. We always had our eye on London, though."
"Until your rather publicized split in your senior year of college, that is. Can you talk a little bit about that? Tell us what happened? Was it your coach's decision?"
"It was decided mutually," Chuck said, and that was one of the worst lies he had ever told. "Bryce is better matched with Laszlo Mahnovski. Laszlo's famous for needing a partner to mimic. Which, I guess, is kind of why I'm in the ten meter individuals and he isn't. The man is insanely good. Bryce is, too. Almost superhuman, the both of them."
"So there were no hard feelings after the split?"
"I wish Bryce the best," Chuck said, another lie.
"Was it also a mutual decision that you didn't compete after the split?"
"I chose to focus on my studies. I kept in shape, though. My teammate at the time—she's my coach now—Anna, she was very insistent that I keep up with the diet, the lifestyle, all of that." All of it was complete bunk: Anna had pestered him, but Chuck had let the entire life fall to the wayside while he'd fallen into a pit of depression and homework. At least his grades had been the best they'd ever been at Stanford that final semester.
"And now, here you are, in London. There's been some criticism that you lack experience in competing at this level. Can you address that?"
Chuck hesitated. "There are a lot of really talented divers at this level. You can't deny that. So I consider it a great honor to even get to swim in the same pool they do. I'm looking forward to seeing what everybody brings to the platform."
"Sources tell me you got to meet one of your idols today. John Casey, who medaled in '88 at just nineteen years of age, dropped by the pool to give you some tips. What was that like?"
A little frightening, Chuck thought. Casey clearly hadn't wanted to be there. "He's, you know, he's been such a big role model for me as a diver because he's tall," he said, choosing to ignore that the man had talked in nothing but grunts and there hadn't been a single tip to be found, save maybe "Don't hit your head on the platform, moron," which Chuck didn't consider all that helpful a tip. He took a deep breath. "I'm sure by now all of the reporters are talking about how tall I am. There's an implicit cap at six feet for diving, which makes sense. It's harder the taller you get to make those tight, controlled dives the judges love, plus there's that fear that you're going to smack yourself silly on the platform. I'm almost six-two, which is really unheard of for an Olympic diver, apart from John Casey."
"Then how do you do it?"
"Oh, me? I'm a freak of nature." Chuck grinned. "I love being in the air so much that I think I just ignore the laws of physics the way John Casey did. It's great. I feel like Superman."
"I'm sure you do. Now, I want to talk about your coach."
"Anna? Another chapter in my unorthodox life, I guess. After I took that time off, she was the first one to shove me back into the pool. Literally."
"She's—"
"Really young?" Chuck laughed. "Don't let her physical age fool you. She's like a forty-year-old in a twenty-four-year-old's body. Her dad was Ken Wu, who took gold in '84, which tells you a lot. Anna learned, like, everything she knew from him, and she's really good with technology, too, so it's like a double-threat. Then you add her temper, and it's a triple-threat. But I really couldn't have a better coach. Like me, she's really excited to be here. She swears I'm going to win gold. I think maybe she's a little crazy, but it's nice that she has faith."
"I have to say, Chuck, even if you don't win that gold, you've already broken a record at these games. You got beach volleyball player Sarah Walker to smile not once, but twice in the same match. She's not known for her shows of emotion. Tell me, are you two..."
"Dating?" Chuck asked, shifting in his seat. The lights suddenly felt about ten times hotter. If he hadn't sweated through the shirt before, it was unavoidable now. "No, no, nothing like that. We're just friends."
"Uh-huh." Janice leaned in with an "It's okay, you can tell us" smile.
"No, we really are just friends. And we're both, you know, here, representing our country, wearing the red, white, and blue. The stripes, you could say. So it's really nice to relax for a night, go to a game, cheer her on. I don't know how they do it, actually. Beach volleyball is all kinds of crazy. With me, it's one dive and I get to rest, but they're moving around, one of them's setting, the other's spiking, and they're on the ground and right back on their feet for so much of the game. Plus, all that sand. I imagine it's hard to get out of..." Chuck abruptly realized what he was saying and flushed bright red. "Um, places."
Thankfully, those in the room laughed, and Janice gave him a big smile.
"Sarah Walker's nickname with the press is Ice Queen, but with you we saw the first signs of, well, goofiness. Care to explain that?"
"I don't get the nickname, myself. I know she's focused, but you have to be. It's the freaking Olympics. People didn't get here by sitting on the couch and watching the Simpsons, though man, I wish I could do that more often. I could so medal in couch potato in a heartbeat."
The room laughed again and some of the awkward tension pulling his shoulders taut eased. He took a breath and made himself shrug. "So she's focused. So what? I don't see how that's a bad thing. The thing is, she's also fun. She's kind and friendly, and Carina, that's her partner, she's great, too. I only just met them in the airport on the way out here, so you know, not an expert or anything, but they seem like remarkable women."
"You weren't acquainted before? After all, Sarah was romantically linked to your ex-partner up to six months ago," Janice said.
Chuck wanted to correct her that it was eight months, but he stopped himself in time. Play it cool, Anna had said. "Cool," he said. "Cool, cool. I don't see Bryce much anymore."
"So it wasn't a Bartowski-Walker-Larkin love triangle?"
"I...no, not really. I mean, I don't know what happened between them, but I guess part of me wants to say that it's Bryce's loss because hey, he is the competition. But, you know, he's very focused, which makes sense. He's rated like, what, third in the world right now?"
"So diving is more important than Sarah Walker?"
"Oh, hell no," Chuck said before he could stop himself. When Janice's eyes widened almost gleefully, he realized exactly what he had said. "I just meant he was probably busy. I haven't talked to Sarah about why they broke up or anything because it's not my business. But I—you know, we train so hard to get where we are. Our lives get put on hold, our families have to deal with us being gone a lot because. I understand where that would get in the way of a relationship, and I wouldn't presume to know anything. For all I know, Sarah's schedule is worse than—you know what, is it hot in here? I feel like it's hot in here. Can we, uh, can we turn the AC up? Summers in London, am I right?"
"It feels perfectly cool to me," Janice said.
"Of course it does."
"You're not worried that the same pressures might get in the way between you and Sarah Walker, the lifestyles of two Olympians? After all, you and Miss Walker both train year-round in Los Angeles. Are you sure you can't work something out?"
"Sarah and I are just friends," Chuck said. "Really. That's all it is. She's a lot more affectionate than the press gives her credit for, which explains the hug she gave me that you're getting at."
"Touché," Janice said, laughing. "Okay, okay, since you're blushing, I'll stop asking you about the fetching Miss Walker."
Twenty minutes later, Janice unlatched her claws and set him free. Chuck fled from the media room and the NBC PR department, though he sensed that was a relationship he was going to have to accept for the rest of the games. Flying under the radar had been nice while it lasted, but it looked like that phase was over. He was due to dive for a chance at an Olympic medal soon, and thanks to the fact that Sarah Walker had smiled at him, a bigger piece of the world would now be paying attention when he did.
He headed to Morgan's preliminary trampoline meet with a bigger ball of dread than usual in his stomach.
"And a nearly flawless routine from Xiang!"
"Oh, damn," Bolognia Grimes said as the Chinese gymnast threw his arms out in triumph. "I was hoping he'd land on his head. Not to hurt himself or anything, and my baby doesn't need him to, but, well, he looks smug. Don't you think he looks smug?"
"Very smug," Chuck said, as he'd learned early on to simply agree with anything Bolognia said during a meet. The woman adored her son, but she'd never understood trampoline, which meant it was usually up to Chuck, and occasionally Anna, to explain what was going on. "He did some traveling, so it's not as perfect of a routine as everybody thinks. See how long they're taking to give the scores? They're debating. Probably about that triple in the middle there, I don't think his legs were that straight."
Bolognia beamed at him. "You're a good boy, Charles," she said, patting his knee. "How is he?"
Chuck craned his neck to get a look. Morgan, wearing blue pants and a white top that marked him as the US's only entry, was sitting on one of the folding chairs. His socks were blindingly white. Big Mike, his coach and stepdad, was kneeling in front of him, talking to him. Morgan nodded, his throat working.
"Nervous, but he's doing okay," Chuck said. "The next jumper's pretty good, but not as good as Morgan."
"Of course not," Bolognia said, but she clutched Chuck's hand through the routine.
The North Greenwich Arena, bedecked in what Morgan called a "lovely shade of rose," was packed, which surprised Chuck. Morgan usually competed in gyms without proper safety equipment, so it was strange to see his best friend in the middle of the blue and pink arena, surrounded by officials and all of the newest safety gear. There were sixteen trampoliners competing for eight spots. The finals would take place in a few hours. Chuck and Bolognia had tickets for both, just in case, which was a good thing with the full stadium. In spite of that, though, the two seats to Chuck's right were completely empty.
The Canadian jumper finished his routine on a strong note, but the fact that his time in flight wasn't all that great made Chuck cheer inwardly. He noted the scores on the app on his phone he'd developed for Morgan, and waited for the next jumper.
Halfway through that routine, somebody dropped into the seat next to Chuck. He was too busy staring intently at the jumper from Belarus to pay any attention until the end, when that same person cleared her throat, and he looked over. He jumped.
"Hiya, Chuckie," Carina said. "Sorry we're late. Have we missed it?"
"N-no," Chuck said. "He's after the next guy. What—what are you doing here?"
"We're here for Martin." Carina looked beyond Chuck. "You must be his mom. I'm Carina."
"Please, call me Bolognia. You are friends with my son?"
"Team USA believes in cross-athletic interest and promotion. US Beach Volleyball, here to support trampoline," Carina said with a completely straight face.
Bolognia's face lit up as the scores for the Belarus jumper came up and Chuck hurriedly scrambled to update the app. "Oh! You are from the volleyball team that's going to win gold."
"Yes, and I'm the cute one," Carina said. "We asked, and they got us tickets to come watch."
"Wait," Chuck said, turning abruptly to Carina. "You said 'we.' Where's Sarah?"
"Relax, Speedo, your girlfriend just went to the bathroom."
"No, I'm right here," Sarah said, appearing behind Carina.
Chuck stood. He had no idea why; one second he was sitting, the next he was on his feet. All three of the women gave him surprised looks, but all he could seem to do was stutter. "Hi."
"Hey, Chuck," Sarah said, giving him a smile.
Finally, Bolognia took pity on Chuck and half-rose to reach around him and shake Sarah's hand. "Hello. I'm Morgan's mom—you can call me Bolognia. I recognize you from TV, and it's great that Morgan has so many friends other than Chuck here."
"It's so nice to meet you," Sarah said. "Going, uh, to sit down there, Chuck?"
"Right." Abruptly, he sat, so hard that he nearly missed the seat and his teeth clicked inside his head. "Hi. How are you? That match last night looked like a lot of fun."
"Check it," Carina said, and pulled up the hem of her shirt. A bruise spread its ugly, purple away across her hip. "Sarah has the sharpest elbows. Isn't it great?"
"For the last time," Sarah said, sounding like she had her teeth clenched, "you should have let me know you were going for that dig."
"Oh, my," Bolognia said, blinking at the bruise.
"Hold it, hold it, this is Volkoff. He's Morgan's major competition." Chuck held up a hand as Alexei Volkoff, Jr. jumped onto the trampoline. Of course Volkoff pulled off a flawless routine, turning his leonine face to the crowd at the end of his routine with a huge grin. Chuck swore under his breath as the scores came back in record time. "I hate that guy."
"Uh, so what are they judging, exactly?" Sarah asked as Volkoff took his bow.
"Three scores," Chuck said, and kept an eye on Morgan, who was doing his pre-routine pacing, as he explained that the athletes were judged for the difficulty of their routines and the execution. They'd added time of flight as a factor into the overall score, which was a nifty addition, though it did mean he'd had to recalibrate the app he'd created. "This is the easier routine, theoretically, but they tally the scores at the end of the event and the top eight go on."
"Okay," Sarah said, and Bolognia shushed them. Morgan climbed onto the trampoline and walked to the center 'X.' He lifted his arms, presenting to the judges.
"C'mon, buddy," Chuck said as nerves coiled in his belly. "You can do this."
Bolognia grabbed Chuck's hand. Morgan took another deep breath and began to jump. He'd have to jump a few times to get enough height and velocity. For a second, Chuck was worried that he was about to take an extra bounce, but Morgan sprang into his first twist. Chuck had seen the routine so many times that he knew it by heart, but that hardly mattered. He didn't breathe as Morgan flipped through the air, socked feet landing on the trampoline.
"He's nailing his landings," he said.
Bolognia made the sign of the cross in reply.
"Oh, the judges liked that," Carina said, making Chuck look over at her. "What? They did."
Morgan made his final twist and landed, doing the tiny hop trampoliners did to stop their bouncing. In practice, Morgan usually bounced off of the trampoline, but that would have docked him serious points. He climbed down and Big Mike slapped him on the back, which made Chuck wince in sympathy; the ex-gymnast had a fist like a meat hammer.
"How'd he do?" Sarah asked, leaning around Carina. "He did well, right? The crowd seemed to really like it."
Chuck checked his app. "With these judges, and from what I saw, he'll get 52, easy. His difficulty score was a little lower than, say, Volkoff's, but his execution was pretty good. I don't know about his T-score, though."
"I don't envy you the whole waiting for your score thing. With us, it's bam, point. We kind of know right away," Carina said.
"But we're also not thirty feet up in the air," Sarah said.
"Speak for yourself. You saw the vertical I was getting yesterday."
"Uh-huh," Sarah said, and Morgan's scores ran across the marquee. Chuck put these into his app and let out a whoop. In the athlete's area, Morgan did a fist-pump. Chuck mirrored the move from the stands.
"He's in third place," Chuck said. "That's good. That's really, really good. Yeah, buddy!" Morgan must have heard, for he gave a little bow to their section—and did a double-take, obviously at seeing Sarah and Carina.
"Good to know you're not the only one that does that," Carina said to Chuck. "So what now?"
"Three competitors left for the first round. After that, we start praying for people to land on their heads," Chuck said.
"But not to hurt themselves," Bolognia said, casting a glance at the ceiling as though she expected to be judged at any second.
Carina and Sarah laughed. "We can do that," Sarah said.
The Russian anthem poured over the stadium, reverberating off of every flat surface so that it swelled and surrounded everybody watching the medal ceremony. The air was one of solemnity as the flags were raised. Three flags, Chuck thought. Three athletes. Three medals. One gold. One anthem.
Whose anthem would play after he donned his uniform and made the climb up those steps to the top of the platform?
A couple rows away, some of the Russian congregation began to sing. Chuck had to admit that the Russian anthem was a rather inspiring one. He wasn't sure if it was quite meant to be belted at the top of one's lungs, but he certainly didn't blame the Russians as the red, white, and blue bold striped flag led the crawling ascension toward the ceiling. Alexei Volkoff, Jr. had won the gold medal, sweeping the rest of the competition off of its feet.
But right next to that red, white, and blue flag was another. The blue was a little darker, but the red and white stripes were unmistakable. And they were the reason that Bolognia Grimes had tears in her eyes.
On the medalist podium, Morgan stood with the winner's bouquet in one hand, the other reverently holding his silver medal. It made Chuck remember that night they had sat on the floor of the Grimes apartment, watching in awe as Alexander Moskalenko had spun and flipped his way to the first Olympic gold in trampolining. When the Russian anthem had played back then, Morgan had looked solemnly over at Chuck and had said, "That's going to be me someday."
"You bet it is," Chuck had said.
And here they were, in London. His friend had won a silver medal. His friend had become an Olympic medalist. His best friend, who had been the skinny Mexican kid from southern California who just liked the trampoline, had gone on to take the first medal for the Americans in the sport ever.
When Volkoff stepped back, inviting Morgan and Xiang to climb onto the dais so that they could get a group shot, Carina put her fingers to her lips and let out a wolf-whistle that made the people in front of them turn to give her dirty looks. She laughed. Sarah shrugged and mimicked her friend, with Chuck following suit before Bolognia gave him a rib-cracking hug. Cameras turned to capture the US athletes raucously supporting their teammate, but Chuck didn't care.
Morgan had done it.
Hours later, the euphoria had faded. After Morgan had been dragged from interview to interview, Big Mike had insisting on taking them out for dinner after the event. Though Sarah and Carina had been invited, they'd bowed out, saying that they really needed to study the scout tapes for their next match. Chuck had headed out with his second family and thoroughly enjoyed the postmortem where they discussed Morgan's routines in exhausting detail. It made him grateful Sarah and Carina hadn't come along, as he and Morgan could talk about that for hours, but the women would probably have been bored. Even when Big Mike and Bolognia had gone back to their hotel room, Chuck and Morgan stayed at the bar, Chuck drinking tonic, while Morgan played with his medal in a state of shock.
Morgan had gone to crash because they'd lined up interviews for him the next day. Chuck, however, had wandered around Olympic Village until he'd gotten a call from Anna: Bryce and Laszlo had taken the silver medal in the synchronized diving. His good mood immediately fled. Jealousy, sharp and ugly and bitter, had taken over so swiftly that it startled and embarrassed him. Though he'd planned to go downstairs and play a few rounds of pool, maybe it was better not to see anybody. Chuck went up to his floor.
Sarah was sitting outside of his room, legs tucked under her. She leaned back against the wall, clearly asleep.
Chuck pulled up so abruptly that the elevator doors nearly closed on his jacket. He cursed, fumbling to get the drawstring out of the way before the door could catch on it. He really didn't want to explain to the Olympics committee how he'd damaged his official jacket by getting it stuck in an elevator. Freed, he approached Sarah cautiously. What was she even doing there? Was she lost? "Sarah?" he asked, crouching down next to her. "Hey, Sarah?"
He reached out to shake her shoulder. Before his fingers had even brushed her shirt, her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist. Only his quick reflexes saved him from being put in an arm-lock. He dodged backward as Sarah blinked fuzzily at him.
"Whoa," he said. "Got it. Volleyball ninja, right."
"Chuck? What are you doing here?"
"That's my room," Chuck said. "I was more curious what you're doing here. Did you get locked out or something?"
"Sort of. Scrunchie on the door." Sarah yawned.
"Scrunchie—oh, sock on the door. Right. What discipline is she sampling tonight?"
"I didn't ask. I was going to call you, but I realized, I don't have your number." She let go of his wrist to stretch.
Chuck tried not to stare, but he could feel his heart beginning to beat a little faster. "But you knew where my room was?"
"I bribed the guy at the front desk with Twinkies."
"Contraband," Chuck said, unable to stop his grin. Sarah had come looking for him. That was...awe-inspiring. "You haven't been here long, have you?"
Sarah waved that off, or started to. She broke off with a giant yawn as Chuck helped her to her feet. "It's okay. I can sleep anywhere."
"And wake like a ninja."
"Go to a volleyball training camp, and you too can develop such magical skills."
"Sounds like work," Chuck said, and got a laugh out of her. He jerked his head at his door. "Wanna come in? Or we can go downstairs, if you're more comfortable."
"I can't figure you out," Sarah said, and Chuck blinked. His confusion only deepened when her cheeks turned faintly pink. "And I probably shouldn't have said that. Sorry. I'm still half-asleep."
Chuck, unsure what to do, shoved his hands in his pockets. What on earth did that mean? He didn't really consider himself complicated. There weren't any hidden depths with him. He'd always felt that what people saw was what they got. So he cleared his throat. "Uh, was that a yes on coming in or not?"
"Yes." Sarah said it quickly, as if looking for any opportunity to change the subject. "Please."
"My roommate left, which sucks because it means I can't blame any of the mess on him," Chuck said, unlocking his door. He flicked on the light and automatically glanced toward the empty bed in the room. After one unfortunate experience, he'd learned to knock loudly before entering. Thankfully, said bed was empty except for Chuck's extra computer. Chuck spread his arms wide. "But hey, more space to myself. So, yeah, this is it. My glorious chateau."
"It's nice," Sarah said, and the awkwardness that Chuck dreaded fell over the room. Should he sit at the desk, and let her take the bed? Sit on the bed and let her take the desk chair? Sit next to her on the bed? It was like being a college freshman all over again, trying to figure out how to be around Jill while they studied for their exams.
In the end, he took the coward's way out and let Sarah decide by telling her to make herself at home. "I have to get out of this tie before I start feeling like a grown up."
"I know the feeling," Sarah said, sitting on Chuck's bed. She pulled her legs up into a lotus position, facing him as he headed for his closet.
"You wear ties a lot?"
"Yeah, they really go well with the bikini."
Chuck laughed as he pulled off his jacket to hang it neatly in the closet. There wasn't any way he was going to end up on the medal stand, but if he did, he didn't want to be a disgrace in a rumpled jacket. "If anybody could pull that off, you could."
"Thank you."
"What'd you want to talk to me about? I figure you probably didn't fall asleep outside my room because you just missed my stellar company."
"Who says?" Sarah asked, and Chuck tripped. She laughed. "I thought divers were supposed to be graceful."
"Are you hitting on me?" Chuck asked, blurting it out before his brain could stop him.
He expected the regular reaction: complete and total confusion. But Sarah laughed, not caustically. A little self-deprecatingly, if he was going to be honest. "Yes, and I'm apparently not doing a very good job if you have to ask."
"No, no, it's not you, it's—"
"Are you seriously giving me the 'It's not you, it's me' speech?" Sarah grinned and scooted a little closer toward him, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her knuckles. "That's cute."
"Gah," Chuck said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Why?" was all he asked.
Sarah shrugged. "You make me laugh."
"You realize you're way out of my league, right?"
"I don't see how. We're literally both in the Olympics."
Chuck considered that. As much as he wanted to bring up the HGH and injuries that had landed him on the dive team, he couldn't deny that he was living in the Olympic Village and using the Olympic training pool and eating international food, and hanging out with athletes from all over the world. So she had a point, though there was a wide gap between "Grateful to be there at all" and "Part of the team that was fully expected to take home the gold for a second time in a row." He remembered Janice, her plastic smile under the lights, how she'd talked about Sarah Walker belonging with a more natural athlete like Bryce Larkin.
Sarah Walker and Bryce Larkin made a hell of a lot more sense than Sarah Walker and Chuck Bartowski. Bryce had already won a damned medal, hadn't he? Nerves and dread churned in his middle.
"I guess you're right. I'm just a little overwhelmed," he said. He tried for a smile, albeit a weak one. "You sure you don't just have a diver fetish? I mean, first Bryce, now me."
Sarah's face shifted from smile to shock. "Why would you even say that to me? Do you really think I'm that shallow? God." Sarah gave him a disgusted, hurt look that made him feel worse than the lowest form of bottom-feeding scum. She moved fast on the sand, but faster off of it, apparently, for she was already across the room and out the door before Chuck had fully gathered just how badly he had screwed up.
Thankfully, he could move quickly, too. Before he had even processed what was going on—he'd stuck his foot in it again, and apparently said foot had struck a nerve—he hurried after Sarah, calling her name.
"Forget it," she said.
"Sarah, wait!"
"No."
"I can explain." Crap on a cracker, she was fast. Chuck changed from a speed-walk to a jog, trying to keep up.
"I don't care." Sarah didn't pick up her pace, but she also didn't look at him, either. The Ice Queen mask had fallen back into place. "Go away."
"Please, let me explain. Please." He hurried to get a little ahead of her and switched so that he was jogging backward.
A tousled head popped out of one of the rooms down the hall. "There a problem?"
Sarah finally stopped the bruising pace. "No," she said to the random swim team member Chuck didn't recognize.
"This guy bothering you?"
"I've got it," Sarah said, and gave the guy such an icy look that he disappeared back into his room, leaving cartoon speed tracks in his wake. Sarah turned that look on Chuck. "Fine. You've got twenty seconds."
"That was a really stupid thing for me to say, and I'm an idiot," Chuck said. Sarah rolled her eyes as though that were obvious, which he supposed was fair. "A really big idiot and I've never had this sort of thing happen to me, but that, that wasn't about you, and that wasn't fair. That was about m—"
"Oh, my God," Sarah said. "Seriously?"
"What?" Chuck asked, wondering what he'd done wrong now.
"You're going to give me the 'It's not you, it's me' twice?"
"But it's really not you." Chuck didn't chase her this time when she started to leave. "It's—do you know what it feels like to have the person you trust most in the world tell you that you should just give up?"
Sarah didn't stop walking, but she slowed. Chuck went on, knowing that he'd never told anybody about what had happened with Bryce, but it seemed inevitable now. Words came spilling out, the same ones he'd had to hide behind a false smile during the interview earlier. "He told me I should quit. He was the person I was supposed to rely upon most in the world, and he said I wasn't good enough. And…it still gets to me. Every time I dive, there's a little voice in the back of my head that wonders, what if I'm just doing this to prove Bryce Larkin wrong, and I'm making a fool out of myself in the process? And it doesn't bother him at all, does it? He's out there winning silver medals, and I'm just happy to even be here.
"But that's no excuse for doubting you," he said, still going because Sarah had stopped walking. "I don't think that about you. I really don't. I wouldn't. I mean, I don't know you very well, but I wasn't lying the other night. You seem really awesome."
Sarah finally, finally turned. The Ice Queen mask was gone, but he couldn't read her expression. She walked back toward him, and Chuck's knees nearly went rubbery. At least she hadn't stormed off, hurt, though he suspected he'd have more groveling to do.
"So I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to imply that about you because frankly, it's none of my business. You could outdo Carina and get two of every flavor athlete and it still wouldn't be my business. This was just me being the same stupid, insecure idiot I always am because of Bryce Larkin. I really hate that guy. And holy hell, I'm babbling now, aren't I? I wish you would say something so that I could stop that."
"I would if you let me get a word in edge-wise," Sarah said.
"Oh."
"Chuck, let me ask you something."
"If you want to know my sign, it's Libra, but I have a feeling that's not it," Chuck said, nerves making his words tumble over each other.
Sarah ignored that. "Did you qualify to be here or not?"
"Technically—"
"Yes or no."
"Yes," Chuck said.
"Then you belong here. Deal with it."
"But do I, really?"
"I really can't figure you out," Sarah said, said, shaking her head. "You're both so secure in who you are and the most insecure Olympian I have ever met."
"Um, thanks?" Chuck asked.
"Also, you talk too much," Sarah said. Chuck opened his mouth to reply, but she grabbed the tie he hadn't had a chance to take off, tugged him down, and kissed him. He braced a hand against the wall in surprise, shock carrying him forward even as his brain delightedly registered every sensation flooding his brain: the feel of her lips, the pressure of gentle strangulation from the tie, the wisps of her hair that tickled his face and ear. When she pulled back, she raised an eyebrow at him.
He felt the biggest, stupidest grin in his entire arsenal begin to bloom, but he didn't give a damn. Grabbing her hand to keep her from yanking on the tie and cutting off his air supply, he kissed her back, just reveling until somebody down the hall opened a door and shouted for them to get a room.
"I should go," Sarah said, taking a step back. She didn't let go of his hand; her palm was smoother than he expected, though she did have calluses. "We both need to get some sleep. Alone."
Chuck flushed. "Wait," he said, his brain finally catching up. "Didn't you want my number?"
"This is going to feel so middle school, but..." Sarah pulled a pen out of her pocket and grabbed his hand.
"I've got my phone right here," Chuck said, laughing as she wrote her number in the center of his hand.
She shook her head. "Too late. There. Ball's in your court now."
"Apparently it is."
"Good night, Chuck." She kissed him and walked away, pocketing the pen as she did so.
"Wait, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"
Sarah turned, but didn't stop walking, heading backward instead. "NBC thinks we're a thing," she said. "I don't have a problem with that. Do you?"
"No," Chuck said, as Sarah climbed into the elevator. He continued to stand in the same spot, staring after her for a long time. "Definitely not."
A/N the Second: FREA! WTF?! There's kissing in the third chapter of a Frea story?! THAT'S 37 CHAPTERS TOO SOON. Aaaaand here's your preview:
Nicenti served to Sarah. She knocked it to Carina, who set it up for her to spike. Sarah made the leap. Brazil blocked it, sending the ball careening away from Sarah. Even though Carina tried to dive for it, the Brazilians took the point.
"Dammit," Chuck said, and made the receptionist look over. "Sorry."
She shrugged. Chuck took that as permission to focus his attention back on the game. He grabbed hold onto the edge of the faded couch cushions below him as the ticker at the top of the screen announced that this was a set point. "C'mon," Chuck said. "C'mon, c'mon."
This time they rallied, hitting it just within the lines on the third volley. By that point, Chuck was on his feet; at a look from the receptionist, he sat down, sheepishly. Sarah and Carina took the next point, too. Things seemed like they might be looking up…until Carina couldn't get under the ball in time and it shot into the audience instead of toward the Brazilians.
The Brazilians celebrated. Carina and Sarah headed for their bench, identical stormy looks on their faces.
