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Ethan
Someone bangs on our door at 6:30 AM—not a room service tap, but full on hinge-rattling pounding. “Get up,” Gray’s voice demands, muffled through the thick hardwood, “and open the door.”
He rattles the handle so hard I’m scared he’s going to break it open and barge in on us stark naked in bed, Victor snoring on top of me with his legs wrapped around mine.
As Victor makes irritated sleeping animal noises and rubs his eyes, I pull on jeans and throw a pair of sweats at his face. There’s nothing I can do about the snacks and pillows everywhere, the mattress on the floor, or the faint tang of cum and sweat in the air, aside from throwing open the windows on my way to the door. If Gray doesn’t know exactly what’s going on as soon as he walks in, I sure wouldn’t hire him as my lawyer.
My passive-aggressive “Good morning” is cut off as Gray shoulders past me. He steps over Victor, who is still fighting with his pants, and turns on the TV, flipping the channel wordlessly until he finds BBC News, broadcasting in English with Italian subtitles.
“...completely unexpected turn of events,” the broadcaster picks up mid-sentence, “the World Anti-Doping Agency is opening an investigation into swimming star Victor Lang’s 2016 Olympic doping record, where he tested positive for multiple performance enhancing drugs and earned a three-year suspension. Their spokesperson announced that they received a ‘credible’ anonymous tip, possibly from one of the online communities that has—”
Victor hits the power button on the TV so firmly it almost falls off the back of the table. He stands there for a moment, not saying anything, then turns and starts fishing through his luggage for a shirt like nothing ever happened.
I open my mouth, but I have no idea what to say.
“I’ve been on the phone with the WADA and USADA since four o’clock this morning,” Gray announces in a steely tone, watching Victor’s back as he tosses clothes all over the floor. “In ten minutes, we’re leaving for the hospital.”
Victor spins around, holding a pink t-shirt to his chest, his eyes dark. “Why?”
“You’re giving them a blood sample.”
He takes a step back. “No, I’m not.”
Gray merely raises one eyebrow. He seems even less interested in anyone's bullshit than usual.
“What’s the sample for?” I ask. “It’s not like he’s doping now.”
“They are trying to confirm that the original blood sample belonged to Victor.”
I blink. When the scandal broke, everybody wondered if there was a mistake in the lab results—inaccurate levels or a false positive. Suggesting the blood belonged to a completely different person poses questions that have never even crossed my mind.
“I’m not doing this,” Victor repeats, pulling on the pink, scoop-neck tee, which has a gold leopard-print pattern that would be absurd on anyone else. He looks pleadingly at Gray.
“Funny, I don’t remember asking you.” Gray’s voice is dry. His brow furrows. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class, Victor? Help me help you.”
“Of course the sample belongs to me. I shouldn’t have to go through all this bullshit just tostayguilty.”
Gray turns to me. “Ethan, you’re going home the day after tomorrow. This commercial won’t be released for a while, if ever, and there’s no need to keep you from your family. I’ll get you your boarding documents later today.” He pushes off the desk. “Downstairs in five minutes, both of you.”
When the door shuts behind him, Victor picks up one of his bags and throws it against the wall, scattering underwear and headbands on the floor. He’s breathing hard.
“Victor.” Ignoring me, he crouches down to lace up his sneakers. “Do you have a thing about needles or something?”
He snorts derisively.
“Then I don’t understand. If the sample is yours, then I assume you’d want to clear that up. If it isn’t, and you know it isn’t…” I trail off as his back stiffens.
“Listen.” He doesn’t turn around to face me. “That fucking inquisition, back in 2016, it was a nightmare. The press, the articles, the testimonies. I was getting death threats; I couldn’t set foot outside.” He rubs his hands down his face. “The thought of dragging all that shit back, all these insane people on the internet, the predatory reporters... All for nothing.”
“I see.” I stare at my hands and try to convince myself that I believe what he’s telling me.
Stuffing his phone and wallet in his pockets, he opens the door. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
In the elevator, our eyes finally meet. “Two days,” I say.
He studies the ornate design of the elevator ceiling. “Uh-huh.” Biting my lip, I turn my focus to a faded copy of the hotel restaurant menu attached to the wall.
“Hey,” he says as he unlatches the cage door at the bottom. His face is pale and his eyes look red from lack of sleep. “Two nights. Remember?”
