Page 15 of A Gold Medal in Love

I smile broadly and wave, skating off the ice to the gate and to my awaiting coach, who is waiting for me with a mildly displeased face.

Grabbing my blade guards from him and scooping up a Gatorade, we walk over to the kiss and cry while my teammates excitedly interrupt me and hug me in gratitude. I accept a bouquet of pink roses from one of them and kiss her platonically on the cheek.

The exhaustion hits me as soon as I sit down, my adrenaline rapidly deflating my whole posture. I put my body onto my knees, lying down on them for a brief second, and taking several deep breaths.

“Imani,” Coach interrupts my tension release.

I sit up and open the bottle of electrolytes, blinking at him and patiently waiting for what he has to say, the ardor of my teammates fading at the sight of his sour face.

“I don’t want you to get swept up in accolades and forget about our goal. You need that triple axel to win gold,” Coach chides me, in a soft enough voice that only I can hear, mindful of the cameras pointed directly at us.

It pauses the gulps of the cucumber lime beverage I’m inhaling for recovery.

I paste on a big fake smile in mind of being on the television screen of everyone in the world and speak through my teeth. “Of course I haven’t forgotten about the triple axel,” I attempt to reassure him.

“Are you sure? You seem unfocused lately. I heard you went out with a hockey player yesterday,” he bites back.

I wince, briefly shocked into silence, but quickly recover. “That’s not any of your fucking business.”

“People talk, Imani. How does that look? A figure skater going out for a lackadaisical meal with someone who is outside her circle and is very loudly out?” Coach continues.

My fake smile grows broader. “I guess it tells people there’s more to me than being a figure skater.”

“I don’t think it sends the message you want to send,” he prods me.

I look down at the roses and Gatorade in my hands. Focusing on the Gatorade, I find somewhere to focus my anger. I do the math for the calories, tabulating how drinking it will bring my calorie count for the day. Maybe I can do less for dinner? I can always afford to cut extra calories. There are so many portions of a meal that aren’t necessary.

Doing the math empowers me to look back up at Coach. “I think it sends a message that I’m a whole person, and one that isn’t an asshole, since that’s the memo the media wants to send,” I defend through my enamel.

“Okay, buther?” Coach scoffs.

I turn more rigid. “It’s them, actually. And you should be thankful. They’re helping me with my media problem. Since you made that ridiculous ultimatum that you would walk if I didn’t. So, you only have yourself to blame,Coach.”

He rolls his eyes, but it’s then that the announcer starts up, and we both turn toward the cameras to wave in preparation for my score.

I have a nearly perfect score for someone who has no quads in my routine. Because Katya competes as an AIN, this virtually ensures Team USA’s position to win the gold if I can bring the heat for the free skate. It’s a team event for a reason, but I fucking sealed the deal—I got us here. Half of me is elated and validated. However, the other half of me hears Coach. He’s so loud in my brain that I leave the kiss and cry trying not to do the second half of the moniker. It’s all I can do not to keep tears out of my eyes. But I’m Imani Gray. I don’t do that in public. I’d rather come off cold than come off emotional.

Putting aside my performance elation and putting on my façade makes my mind clear. It doesn’t matter what Blake wants or what I want. We have to keep our relationship as professional as possible. I will not get involved romantically or sexually with anyone here.

But they’ve already seen me break down. So maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if we were friends?

CHAPTER

SEVEN

BLAKE

I slideonto a barstool in what’s become my official Milan pub. It’s not that it’s been a hard first day, but I do want to just take a breath, watch the day’s highlights, and have a brew with my bestie.

Because we aren’t on the same team, our schedules don’t match up, and it makes me anxious. How am I supposed to take care of my girl if I don’t even know where she is? I saw her in passing during our preliminary rounds today—teams USA and Canada both killed it, thank you very much, and without breaking much of a sweat, might I add?

I pull out my phone and fire off a text after nodding to the bartender.

Me: Where’re you? I’m at the bar

She responds quickly while I’m throwing my hair into a bun.

Charlie: I’m decompressing. Just without you.