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I nod.
Victor
I am a little scared of needles. I’m more scared of hospitals. I slept in an ER waiting room once, trying to work up the courage to ask them for help. In the end, I calledhimto come get me, because I couldn’t do it, and I told him I was sorry.
In the car on the way to the hospital, Ethan puts his hand flat on the seat between us and I do, too, our pinkies about an inch apart. After hearing him say “I love you,” I was honestly terrified that I’d never want to touch him or come near him again. That I had tainted him. But he’s just the same, that solid, gentle presence that keeps my soul tied to the ground.
“This is a hospital?” he asks incredulously when we pull up to an ancient building with pillared arches and sweeping staircases. He digs out his phone as he follows me inside, nearly tripping on the steps. “God, it’s from the sixteenth century.”
“That’s why I didn’t want to come.” I hold the door open for him so I can postpone going inside. “They stick a leech on your arm; it takes hours.”
A tall, blond man in a suit stands up when we enter the waiting area and offers his hand to Gray. “I’m Patrick, WADA. I’m just here to collect the documentation.” His voice has a Canadian lilt. One minute I’m asleep in Ethan’s bed, the next I’m in a fucking hospital with a WADA goon waiting to collect my blood.
Before Patrick can speak to me, I push past Ethan and follow signs around the corner to the nearest restroom. Inside the men’s toilet, I lean my weight against the wobbly door so no one else can open it and pull out my phone. I can't feel my fingers as I fumble to make the call.
“Victor?”
“Dad.” I close my eyes. “Do you know what’s happening? Where I am?”
“I just heard.” He’s fucking furious; I can hear it in the harsh grate of his voice. “The messes you fucking make, Victor.”
“I know,” I whisper. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry.” He always said I should become stronger, because great people become legends by embracing their hardships. Instead, I broke. He's never forgiven me for disappointing him.
“Did you talk to that Ethan boy? I heard you two were all over half the country.”
“No.”
“He’s a very moral person, sees the world in black and white. He wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around this if it got out. He’d never look at you the same.”
“I—” I clear my clogged throat. “I know. He has nothing to do with this. Just pay him his money and let him go home.”
“Does that mean you’ll do as you're told from now on? Like we agreed?”
“I will. But Dad, the WADA rep is fuckingstandingout there, waiting for the paperwork. What do I do?”
“Just give them your blood and come back to the hotel.”
“Dad…” I pull in a deep, shaky breath. “Are you sure—”
He hangs up on me.
The nurse that takes my blood doesn’t speak much English, but she’s gentle, the first person today not to yell at me. To her, I’m just another patient. When she notices I’m shaking a little, she hands me a bottle of water. She gets the needle in without me feeling it and fiddles with the small vials until they fill with dark blood. Watching them makes me sick.
She insists on walking me back to the waiting room. When she sees Ethan jump up like a fucking idiot, his eyes all worried, she smiles and pats my arm. “Ask him buy you espresso; feel better.”
“Grazie,” I mumble, pulling my sleeve down to hide the cotton pad attached to my arm with adhesive strips. Gray and Patrick are at the administrative desk, so I step close to Ethan and lower my voice. “The nurse says you owe me an espresso for being a brave boy.”
He fights a smile. “Were you a brave boy? I thought I could hear you complaining all the way out here.” But he puts a hand on my arm before remembering and pulling it away. “I saw a cafe across the street. Wait here.”
I lean against the wall, itching for a smoke, as he asks Dad One and Dad Two for permission to go outside. Not being allowed to roam freely shouldn’t bother someone who didn’t leave his house for six years, but I was just getting used to exploring a bigger world than the inside of a dark half-bath. I guess once Ethan leaves, I won’t have a reason to go anywhere.
We cross the cobbled street to a grotty cafe with unstable chrome-and-plastic furniture. Ethan orders a cappuccino and buys me a sealed bottle of iced coffee. He frowns at me as I pick at the bandage on my arm.
“Don’t say ‘That wasn’t so bad now, was it’,” I grumble as he sits opposite me.
“I wasn’t going to,” he lies. “But I still don’t get it. Why would someone doubt your test results?”
I’ve been thinking ever since I got off the phone with Dad, and I know what to say. “Athletes can adjust the timing of their steroid doses to give clean blood work. I was good at it. I passed the first Rio dope test.”
