Page 17 of A Gold Medal in Love

“Why are you grinning at me like that?” She bites at me as she sits down on the stool next to me.

“Because you look like I’d love to corrupt you,” I waggle my eyebrows and make a point of lingering as I look her up and down. Honestly, who could help themselves? She’s such a little good girl. Well, not with reporters.

She coughs into her fist and looks away, but I can see her pulse jump in her throat. It encourages me further.

“So, let’s talk about how you’re going to charm these reporters,” I say as I flag down the bartender.

“You mean you’re going to take a break from flirting with me?” She asks in a voice that very much translates how she doesn’t believe a word of that idea.

“I think you’ll find that I can do both the teaching and the flirting at the same time, especially considering how much you like the latter,” I return smoothly.

“Ha! Who says I like the flirting?” She scoffs.

“Can I touch you?” I ask with intensity, realizing I might be changing the dynamic if I continue this thread.

“I guess so,” she hesitantly responds.

I take her hand, delicately pushing her sleeve up. Oh-so-slowly, I run my fingers over her arm. “Just as I thought. Goosebumps,” I say in a low tone.

We lock eyes, my blue eyes surely blazing into her deep brown ones.

The bartender shows up at just that moment and interrupts us.

I abruptly pull away from her and take a big gulp of beer.

“Just a water, please,” she manages to squeak out.

“Fucking Christ, Imani. You can have one singular drink. It’s not going to kill you,” I tease her.

“That’s just empty calories!” She rebuffs.

“She’ll have a vodka soda, thanks,” I tell the man.

She glares at me, to which I cock my head and smile.

“So. I know these reporters have shit for brains, but you just need to treat them more subtly than you have been,” I turn the conversation.

“Oh, so you saw my latest stunner,” she sighs.

“It was a fan favorite, for sure. The fan in question being me. I did truly enjoy it, but you’re not winning anyone else over with this shit,” I tell her with tough love.

“So how would you have responded, then?” She asks angrily.

“To the original question about what looked like a messy situation between your coach and you? Diplomatically, but reminding the audience who the fuck I am. For instance,” I sit up straight, fold my hands in my lap, and try to act ladylike. “‘Every coaching relationship is fraught. When you’re gunning for the gold, it’s understandable, nay, expected.’ Insert charming smile here. ‘I’m not just here to be the best, I’m here to perform at my best, and that means pushing myself even when I’m winning. The American public deserves nothing less.’ And then you smile, wave like the queen you are, and thank him for his time. Get the fuck out of there and go throw darts at his picture or however you need to deal.”

“So you’re not saying to stop being confident, just to be smarter about how I convey it,” she muses.

“That’s correct. Watch some of my interviews. My enemies call me arrogant, and they’ll still do that with you, but you just have to smile in the right places, Cupcake,” I explain.

At my use of ‘Cupcake,’ her lips quirk, and I’m just quick enough to catch the motion.

The bartender arrives with her drink, and I pointedly wait for her to take a sip before announcing, “I’ll be right back.”

When I come back from the bathroom, our seats are empty. I turn around to see Imani’s high ponytail weaving through the crowd toward the bathroom, utilizing a different path than I had taken to get back.

I groan. “We’ll be right back, barkeep,” I order gruffly, abandoning my beer on the bartop to follow in Imani’s wake.

Before she can close the door, I’m pushing through behind her. I lock the one-stall bathroom door behind me, turningtoward her where she’s staring at me from right in front of the sink, a bewildered expression covering her face.