Page 10 of A Gold Medal in Love

“I’m staying, Cupcake. Let me in or don’t. I’m not going anywhere when you need me,” I assert.

She sobs harder into the pillow. Yep. That’s what I thought.

“Can I touch you?” I ask, making sure to get her consent before I move any further.

She shrugs in reply, so I stroke her back gently until she turns her tear-stained face to eye me suspiciously.

And good goddamn, the way my stomach clenches thinking of the ways I could get her below me with mascara running downher cheeks. But, no. I may be a daydreamer, but I’m not an asshole. “Hey, it’ll be okay,” I coo, refocusing on her well-being.

“Why are you being nice to me?” She warbles out.

“I have a secret for you,” I whisper. “You ready?”

Even while upset, she manages to roll her eyes at me.

“I’m just nice. There. Now you know. Don’t go telling my team, or they’ll give me more Captaining duties,” I snicker.

“They let someone as self-absorbed as you be the Captain?” She tries to say meanly, but the fact that her body is quivering in all the places I’m touching her kind of cuts into her intended tone.

“Well, the other choices are less appealing. I basically always win it by default. You see, I may be self-obsessed, but I also have a real penchant for being the one people call when they are in trouble,” I explain with a smile in my voice.

“Okay, can you go work on someone else’s problem? I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t want you here,” she tries to push me away verbally, but her body is melting under my palms as I rub out the knots in her back.

“Sure, sure. Why don’t you tell me how you would get your revenge on that dumpster fire of a person if you had your way?” I coax her.

“First, I would—wait. You’re not going to tell me it’s my fault?” She squints a brown eye at me.

“Your fault? Christ, no. That guy was out of line. When you’re a fem presenting person in front of a camera, people think they can ask you whatever the fuck they want to and rely on your media training to sit there and take it. I mean, there are definitely ways to butter up your interviewers so they get distracted and don’t revert to bullshit lines of questioning, but that doesn’t mean that anybody should blame you for what happened today. He was a certifiable dick,” I reassure her.

My hands fall away from her as she sits up and stares at me dead in the eyes, then cracks a smile. “A whole bag of dicks.”

“A semi-truck full of dicks,” I grin back at her.

Her smile breaks. “Coach blamed me and said I needed to fix my media image.”

I groan. “Of course. Well. Do you need help?” I cock my head.

“I do, but… are you offering?” She hesitantly asks.

I give her an enthusiastic nod. “You should see my interviews. Every time someone brings up my gender, I just charm the pants off them and completely redirect them to my mad, mad skills.”

“But then they just get away with being transphobic cans of garbage,” Imani points out, her features crumbling into a scowl.

“Oh, Cupcake. You misunderstand. I embarrass them and then take over the conversation.” I can’t help myself. I reach out and run my knuckles across her cheekbone.

She startles, but stays focused on my words. “You do what now?”

“It’s called spin, Imani. And I’m a pro,” I say teasingly, imagining my hand moving down from her cheek to encase her neck. Instead, I pull my hand back.

I’m surprised when she grabs my hand with both of hers and pulls it into her lap. “Okay, how would you have spun today?” She asks excitedly.

“So, I would have laughed at him for asking what myaheminspiration was, and then said there were far more interesting things about me than who I was or wasn’t sleeping with. I would have asked him if he got to the top of his field by collating petty gossip instead of delivering coverage of some of the most elite sports in the world. And then while he was blushing a furious red, I would have taken the opportunity to wax about what an incredible honor it is to stand next to this generation’s top competitors and how I would not only be winning a medal formyself but for every little queer kid.” I pause. “I mean, maybe you wouldn’t say the queer part. But you get what I mean.” I peer at her more closely. Would she say the queer part? Never mind. That’s not the point of this talk.

“Okay, but how do you stay calm enough to do that?” She inquires, gripping my hand tighter in her hold.

“I’m a pretty great compartmentalizer. I smile at the world and then knock people onto their asses when I play. Also, I rant to Charlie and my therapist. That helps.” I squeeze her hand back.

“Oh, is Charlie your girlfriend?” She asks, all wide-eyed innocence while I peer into her eyes to figure out if that’s a leading question.