Page 2 of A Gold Medal in Love

“Oh, you’re listening to me now? Where was this attitude when you interviewed after the Championships earlier today?” He questions me.

I scowl. “The reporters ask dumb as fuck questions in those interviews. I’m more than tits in sequins. It would be nice to be treated like a professional.”

“You’re treated like any other athlete. People like to get to know the person behind the camera. You have to offer some humanity to the public,” he presses.

“Why? Is there a secret personality score on the card I don’t know about? ‘Imani Gray: costuming-top marks, technical-top marks, artistry-top marks, likability-oh, but she’s a bitch. No medal for her.’” I scoff.

“You joke, but it makes more of an impact than you think. There’s internal bias in scoring. Plus, you’re not just competing for a medal. You’re competing for sponsorships. No one wants a cunt on the front of their Wheaties box.” He raises an eyebrow.

“I wouldn’t need to be likable if I could nail this jump,” I complain.

“Negative, Imani. You need to nail this jump,andyou need to be charming. This is not an either/or situation,” he argues.

I grumble under my breath.

“Stop arguing with me and think of the rewards. Pretty girls get pretty money,” he offers.

“Let’s go for another hour?” I ask Coach.

Coach taps his foot on the floor as he waits for me to return to the ice. “Yeah, how much of the next hour are you going to spend pussy-footing around?”

I screw my face up in response but say nothing as I walk back out onto the ice. I skate harder and harder, warming back up with a double toe loop.

“That’s bush league, Imani!” Coach yells from outside the boards.

I flip him off in my mind and skate into a split jump followed by an upright spin. The moves are broken up by the natural artistic flair that I skate with when I come out on the ice for fun. I’m doing it now instead of trying another triple axel just to fuck with Coach. I’ll get to the edge jump in a second as soon as I muster the energy.

Returning his glare with a grin as I skate past him, I give myself an internal pep talk. I can do this: Mummy didn’t scrape for me so I could disappoint her—I have a legacy to create. I push off with my takeoff leg, swing my free leg forward, quickly cross my legs in the air, rotate three and a half times (yes!), but land on my ass.

“Imani, goddamnit, if you’re not going to get this jump right, what’s even the point of practicing?” Coach yells from the side of the rink.

“I’ll get it soon!” I promise, yelling back. “I’ll have it by next February!”

“You had better! I’m not going to be a loser’s coach. We’re coming home with a medal,” He growls back.

“Fuckamedal. I wantthemedal. We’re coming home withgold,” I confidently answer.

“That’s a lot of talk from a skater who keeps fucking up her triple axel landing,” Coach parries.

“I can do a triple lutz perfectly, though, and you never think that’s good enough,” I mutter under my breath.

“What’s that?” Coach snaps, the knowledge that I said something bratty fully evident in his voice.

“Nothing,” I sing-song. “Let’s go again.”

And so we do. But I still don’t stick the goddamn landing.

CHAPTER

ONE

BLAKE

Olympics Day1

Wednesday, Feb 4, 2026

“Blake. Blake. Blake.”