Page 14 of A Gold Medal in Love

Right now, I love them too. The stands are full; Milan has brought the heat. I’m thrilled to be standing in front of people who love the art of figure skating. But, really, it’s not about them.

As Felix Mendelssohn’s scherzo from the ballet “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” begins to fill the arena, I tune everything and everyone out. This is between me and the music. For the team event, Coach wanted music and choreography that plays it as safe as fucking possible. I, at least, got to pick how we achieved that. The song is from one of my favorite ballets based on one of my favorite plays. (I love the unhinged theory that Shakespeare was a woman. Fight me.)

Joy blasts through my blood, filling my entire body, adrenaline riding me just high enough that I feel strong. I feel good.

My routine starts slow, making full use of the allotted two minutes and 40 seconds. This is where I excel at setting the scene. One of the six required elements for a short program is the step sequence fully utilizing the ice surface. This is the easiest part technically, but the most challenging part for skaters who lack the artistic excellence that I am considered an expert in. And since I am the best at this, this is where I win over my audience.

I can’t stop the laugh of delight that escapes from me as I dance across the ice, toe stepping into rapid chassés, finishing with edge changes.

In short, I make that arena my bitch. But, like, as an artist. Honestly, because this is my easiest program with the least amount of pressure, I allow my mind to wander.

Should I be surprised that the first thing that pops into it is a blond-haired, dimpled, tattooed god?

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Imani.

I shouldn’t even call Blake a god in my mind. They could probably intuit my thoughts, and it would feed their ego even more.

It’s not like I’m straight… I’m definitely not. I’ve been a lesbian since my first awkward fumble with a high school boy. Swearing the male population off after that, I resolved that it was better that I focus on my career. Also, I thought there was something wrong with me, until college when a girl hit on me for the first time. Well, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with me after that. I’m lucky that it was easy for me to figure out that I am a lesbian.

I barely clock that I execute a textbook triple lutz in my routine. Maybe the crowd responds, maybe not—I’m too focusedon the thoughts scurrying through my head. One hundred browser tabs are open, and one of them is Coach’s voice, telling me how disappointed he is about that jump. “If only you could do a triple axel, Imani.”

I only feel the steadying presence of the ice underneath my feet.

And wonder how Blake would react if they saw me skating.

Another browser tab pops up—the praise Blake would heap on me if they saw me dancing so unfettered as I am right now. Oh, how it would feel to let their words wash over me. I imagine it said in their dark, serious voice, with them staring directly into my eyes.

Holy shit.

I might spontaneously combust.

Do I want that? Do I want to become entangled with a—ugh, disgusting—hockey player?

I arabesque, throwing myself into a camel spin at the same time as I throw myself into fantasies of being with Blake.

I get further carried away by the melody of the music. Continuing with my routine, I fall into my fantasy—Blake’s cornflower blue eyes blowing out with desire as they crawl over me in bed, worshipping my body.

Or would they be silly in bed? Which Blake would I get? They seem to get incredibly serious when they are being sexy. No matter, this is all hypothetical. In my mind, they’re polished and serious, mouth-wateringly dominant.

I skate into an upright spin, feeling my back arch beautifully, then finish the combo by transitioning into a sit spin. I feel electricity running through my veins as I execute my movements flawlessly.

The peaking of my adrenaline pushes my fantasies forward. What if I just… let myself have them? What if I just let the high of crushing this routine carry me right back to the room, and I toldthem I wanted them? What if I could have them for the whole Olympics? What if I could spend every night with them between my legs (or me between theirs—I shouldn’t assume, and I’ll take either scenario)? What if I could let myself have this one thing, when I let myself have so little?

The music arches just as I showcase a flawless split jump. My pulse is pounding. My enthusiasm is infectious. I am one with this dance and this music. I am melding into them so strongly I might never be able to take this costume off—I will simply live in sequins and tutu for the remainder of my days.

I laugh as I imagine Blake and me in bed, them carefully pulling the bottom of my leotard to the side to insert something into me. It could be their fingers, but Goddamn it would be hot if it were a strap. Yes, that. Maybe I want that anyway. Maybe I want to be fucked in my pure, fairy-like, pretty girl leotard. My whole body flushes at the thought, so apparently that is something that is a full-body yes.

Intoxicated by my own imaginings, I lovingly work into a butterfly spin, gratified that my body moves the exact way I want it to.

The browser tab containing Katya tries to move forward in the queue, but I simply have no room for it or for her. Katya may be better at technicals, but I lead her on artistic every single time. No one loves this motherfucking ice more than I do.No one.

And anyway, I’m too busy with Blake’s hands all over me. It would feel so good to have a curtain of their long blond hair fanning over my body as they fuck in and out of me.

But alas, a browser tab I have been ignoring comes right to the forefront. The big question is: what if Blake doesn’t want me? What if they flirt like this with everyone? What if I’m nothing special at all to them? What if they’re just sweet andhelpful with everyone they meet? Worse than those thoughts: what if they feel sorry for me and I’m just someone pitiful?

It’s enough to pop my balloon and send it squealing right back to the earth. However, it’s not enough to make me lose my footing. I finish out my stunning routine with two back-to-back triple lutzes and pose for the ending.

Finally, I close down my daydreaming and focus on the audience, basking in their applause, purposefully not looking at the judges. Their faces are intentionally unreadable, anyway. It’s better to end a routine letting the hoots and hollers from the crowd soak into my soul, knowing that something that touched me so deeply held a fragment of meaning to them as well.