Page 3 of A Gold Medal in Love

The sound of my name penetrates the fog of sleep, and I groggily croak out a “Whaaaat?”

“You have to get up. We’ve just touched down in Milan,” Charlie says matter-of-factly.

“But I was just about to fight the biggest of the dragons with a super cool sword,” I complain, lolling my head to the side to crack an eyelid to look at my best friend.

“Tell your brain to bookmark it for later; we have to check in at Olympic Village. I hope they roomed us together again. I don’t want to deal with anyone. I don’t even want to deal with you, but you never listen when I tell you to leave me alone.” Charlie raises an eyebrow.

I grin at her in response.

Charlie is my absolute best fucking friend, though she would never admit that she feels the same way about me. We’re coming to the Olympics as rivals—she’s playing for Canada, while I am on Team USA, but we both play for the Toronto Succubi duringthe PWHL season. She has a rosy peach complexion like I do, 5’10”, with long brown hair, and she’s a forward. Whereas I have long blond hair, cornflower blue eyes, a fully tattooed body, dimpled cheeks, and a 5’11” frame that makes me a beast as a defenseman. She’s super reserved and pensive, while I’m your typical masc golden retriever. That is, until I’m in the bedroom or on my skates.

As the resident bubbly extrovert on the team, I immediately zeroed in on her when she joined the team. She was very resistant to being friends with me, but I knew from the jump we were meant to be a team on and off the ice. Guess who won that battle?

She loves me; I know she does, but she always keeps her cards close to her chest. I love that about her. Even though we are both in our late 20s, I never grew out of my impulsivity. I do my best, but the ADHD sometimes comes out on top. She keeps me in check, and I bring a silly goose brightness to her life. We balance each other out. When we are playing on separate teams, who is going to keep me from going postal? I chuckle inwardly. Olympians, prepare yourselves for the hurricane that is Blake Floquet.

The plane lands, and I shake out my limbs with relief. Eight hours isn’t so long a flight, but I get pretty antsy if I have to stop moving for any amount of time. While I stand in line behind Charlie waiting to deplane, I lean forward and put my elbows on Charlie’s shoulders.

“Hey, psst. Hey,” I whisper into her ear.

“Blake, get the fuck off of me,” she chides me as she shakes her shoulders.

“Let’s get a drink after we drop our bags in the room,” I continue, not moving.

“Yeah, fine. We can toast to our first night in Milan,” she agrees, trying to jar me off her body.

“You’re the best, Char,” I beam, kissing her on her temple.

“You’re disgusting. Keep your lips to yourself,” she grumbles.

“I looooooove youuuuuuuu,” I croon.

She grumbles in response.

“But for real, should we bet on who will win the gold?” I ask her, still with my arms thrown around her.

“We could, but I hate to take advantage of you like that,” she parries.

“Hello? Team USA has a good as fuck team this year,” I remind her and blow air into her ear.

She pushes my face away from hers, and I finally step back, putting my limbs where they belong. She’s been annoyed enough; my work here is done. “Team Canada won in Beijing, and we’re going to win in Milan. It’s destiny. I fully expect you to make it difficult for us, but you’re going to end up with silver. Sorry, not sorry.”

“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” I scoff at her as we walk into the airport terminal, past the various signs in Italian.

“I pay attention to my contemporaries’ statistics. I know the components of each team. Unfortunately, you’re the best player on your team, and you’re not there to score goals. You’re only there to try and stop us from scoring goals,” she continues as I come up alongside her, and we follow the signs to baggage claim.

“I know what my job is when I’m on the ice, thanks,” I huff as we step onto an escalator.

“I’m just pointing out what you haven’t thought about, Little Mx. short-sighted. You’re not enough to carry that team, no matter how good you are. But I will dry your inevitable tears and hold your hair when you get sloppy drunk about it.” She brings a hand up to my arm and soothingly rubs circles into it.

“And who says I would get sloppy drunk if America places silver and not gold?” I deflect as we step off the escalator and stop to read the information board.

“Please. We’re talking about you here,” Charlie snickers.

“Hmph. Yeah, all right. Fine. You promise, then?” I give her my best puppy dog eyes.

“Jeez. Yeah. But you have to promise to do everything to prove me wrong. There will be no getting smashed in honor of my victory and your defeat if you don’t give me everything you’ve got. Promise?” She throws me a look as we stop at the indicated baggage claim carousel.

“What do you think this is? I’m gonna check you so often you’re gonna hafta name your bruises after me,” I grin at her while I take off my snapback, shake out my hair, and secure it back on my head, after putting all my hair under the hat.