Page 18 of A Gold Medal in Love

“You did not just abandon a drink in a public place full of strangers,” I say darkly, stalking toward her until she backs against the sink, pressed against it as I tower over her petite frame.

An unintelligible sound emanates from her lips as her wide eyes stare at me.

“Do you know how many people could drug you while my back was turned? We’re not just talking about losing your spot on the Olympic team, Imani. We’re talking about you being carried home to some man’s apartment and being raped, killed, or sex trafficked. Things you shouldn’t have to think about at the tender age of 18, but things you nonethelessmustthink about because it’s vital toyour fucking survival. Do you hear me?” I say it slowly, in a voice so deep it must be the lowest octave I’ve hit in a while, so dark that Imani shakes in my arms.

Her mouth is a little ‘o,’ but nothing else comes from her.

“Say that you hear me, Imani,” I demand, gripping her chin and leaning down so that we’re nose-to-nose.

“Yes, Ma’am,” she ekes out.

“‘Yes, Sir,’” I can’t help but correct, even though it’s not at all the time to be going into the type of dynamics I like.

I watch her pulse go haywire anyway. “Yes, Sir,” she breathes, as though it’s the first time I let her take a real taste of me.

And, really, it is. This is who I am in the dark. This is who I am in a dynamic. This is who I am unleashed.

And suddenly, I realize what I’ve done. I’ve locked us in this bathroom, pressed Imani up against the sink, demanded her submission, and I’m half a breath from kissing her.

She knows it. Instead of fighting me, she sighs into me, closes her eyes, and opens her lips just enough to prepare for mine.

God fucking damnit.I have to get out of here, and now. I’ve pushed this way too far, and look what I’ve done.

I back up, dropping my hold on her body, and unlock the door.

“That’s what I like to hear,” I blithely offer in response to her ‘yes, Sir,’ throwing a haphazard wink at her as I throw open the door and escape.

I see her confused yet betrayed face on the way out.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

BLAKE

Olympics Day4

Saturday, February 7, 2026

After beating Japan soundly yesterday, Team USA is playing Sweden, fresh off their loss to Charlie’s beloved Canada. And I’m… in rare form. That’s the only way to describe the way I’ve narrowly avoided any roughing penalties so far. But honestly, it’s on the horizon.

My blood is boiling, and I lament the double standard for men’s and women’s hockey. I was raised in NHL culture, and in men’s hockey, when a player puts blood on the ice, he goes to the penalty box. In women’s hockey, the penalty is much more severe. I’m used to the Jill Saulnier Rule—insert eye roll here—where we not only accrue a penalty but get ejected and even traded. Wild behavior from the PWHL, acting as though all the sapphics in attendance don’t want to see a girl fight. Get the fuck out of here, man. It’s horse shit, but roughing is liable to get you suspended for several games. So, heard. When we’re up on the board and an opposing player has been at my girls the whole night, I’ll chance a penalty for some mild violence to take themout and proudly leave the game with a misconduct if it’s really worth it. But in the Olympics?

Shit… In the Olympics, if you get a misconduct, you might not get invited back. You might besmirch your country’s reputation and appearance so severely that the committee takes your medal back. It’s absolutely not worth it. That’s at least true of both men’s and women’s hockey, so I can’t be too upset about the double standards here in Milan.

However, one of the Swedes is really fucking pissing me off, and I can’t even look forward to going home to the league and taking that bitch’s helmet off. I’m skating more angrily, pressing forward into the ice more when I retrieve the puck. I got one assist in the first period, and by now, in the third, I have so much TOI (time on ice), I can tell that Coach approves of how I’m conducting myself.

Unfortunately, my ace performance is not enough to detract from the thoughts circling the drain. I’m always an aggressive defenseman, but today’s killer instinct is brought to you by my imagination. Much like how I’m constantly reviewing tape for plays in my head, that mental projection screen has decided to play the last look Imani graced me with as I ran out the door.

I managed to avoid her after our almost-kiss, sneaking into our shared room after she had fallen asleep (or pretended to). It was such a relief to not torture myself further by staring into those deep brown eyes which would hold… lust? Betrayal? Anger? A secret fourth option?

I have to get my shit together for real. Not for this game—this game is smoking hot. The tempting pout of Imani that is plastered all over my brain is honestly making me a better player. But I have to figure out what the fuck I’m doing with her. She’s so young, and I’m so… well. I’m so me. I’m not trying to pull a Christian Grey here, I promise. I don’t think my desires are dark or depraved, and I certainly don’t hide abusebehind dominance. But the heavy BDSM I’m into is kind of a lot, especially for an 18-year-old.

Sure, I’m making a lot of assumptions here. She could be one of those twisted little perverts who know themselves well enough to know they like the kinky shit young—totally legitimate.

Wow, that’s hot to think about. Focus, Blake!

Breaking from what the real event in my head is, I skate alongside a Swede who just made a breakaway, quickly steal the puck, and pass it to Saint. When the biscuit flies into the basket via a crisp snap shot, I raise a leg and my stick hand to do a victory slide to her. Encircling her with my arms, I slam our helmets together as we scream our shared joy at our handiwork.