Page 13 of A Gold Medal in Love

They grin and spoon up a heap of it. “Yum. I’ll burn it off on the ice, Cupcake. And if I gain a little weight, all the better to slam that weight into the opponent, yanno what I mean?”

I consider their words. What a novel idea that gaining weight in a sport could be seen as an advantage. This is just another reason for me to keep my conversations with Blake focused on the interview angle. We’re too different to be friends; nevertheless, more than friends.

Despite all the water I’ve had today, my hand shakes as I reach for my fork, so I grumble my way through the salad Blake ordered me—I eat all the chicken, but none of the dressing, thank you very much!

When Blake is humming as they finish their meal and wiping the cream sauce off their lips—an action I totally don’t zero in on—the photographer appears again and brandishes a piece of paper I can only assume is our photo.

Blake excitedly takes it from him, raking their eyes over the picture and making small noises of approval.

I reach out for it. “Let me see this monstrosity,” I demand.

“Only if you’re a very good Cupcake and don’t tear it up,” they insist.

“Yes, yes,” I sigh, realizing that at some point I’ve stopped trying to fight the pet name they’ve given me.

“You’re a lovely couple,” the photographer compliments us.

Blake hands the photo over so I can see it, and instead of telling this guy we are decidedly not a couple, they agree with him. “Aren’t we, though? Cupcake, you tell me if you think this is a good picture of us.”

I gaze at the captured moment, the two of us looking cozy together, while Blake hands the man some euros for his troubles.

“Ciao!” He departs us, and I finally look up at them.

“You shouldn’t have paid for this. It’s silly. You know we’re not together,” I chide Blake.

“Now, now, Cupcake. Enjoy your first picture of us together. It’s a good memory,” they laugh as they lean back in their seat, throwing an arm over the seat next to them and taking a sip of their beer with the other hand.

My cheeks heat, and despite my dark skin camouflaging the blush, something again niggles at me that Blake absolutely knows what they are doing.

“Why are you flirting with me?” I decide to attack the problem head-on.

“Why are you enjoying it?” They parry, leaving me gaping at them.

I laugh as coldly as possible. “And why would you ever think you could have such an effect on me?”

A slow grin spreads across their face as they raise a beautiful blond eyebrow. “Should I share your tells?” They reach across the table and take my hand in theirs, erotically caressing it with their other hand. “Should I divulge how I can read you?” Their voice is impossibly low.

My breath catches. I feel like the two of us are trapped in a room, transported to a solitary dimension where no one else exists. I cough to cover what I fear might be a moan, and pull my hand back.

Blake returns to their insouciant position on the chairs. “You’re right,” they grin. “Why give you the chance to hide all those delightful reactions from me?”

The whiplash between their dark dominance and their casual goofball sides is… overwhelming. I don’t know what to do with them, or what to make of what’s happening with my body. So I just glare at them and look away, catching the eye of the waitress, miming the sign for a check. I need to get out of here. But… fuck. We’re in the same room at the Village. I can’t get away. Closing my eyes, I find my center and gather my strength.

When I open my eyes, that shit-eating grin is on Blake’s face, like they can read my mind.

I am in so much trouble. And not just from Katya Artyomov.

CHAPTER

SIX

IMANI

Olympics Day3

Friday, February 6, 2026

With excitement and a big grin that is undeniably real, I skate onto the ice for my Team USA short program in my sequined pastel pink leotard and tutu. I may not be a media darling or a fan favorite off the ice. But here, live and in person, about to deliver one of the best short programs of this competition? The crowd fuckinglovesme.