Page 42 of A Gold Medal in Love

I regret nothing.

“The doctor will be with you shortly,” the sweet nurse tells me as she closes the door.

I collapse back onto the medical bed and howl. “Please, Sir! Let me come now!”

Blake laughs. “Shh, Cupcake. You’re going to make a scene. Tsk tsk. Wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

“If I’m quiet for you, will I get my way?” I loll my head in their direction and whine.

“With the way you were on the way here? I think not,” Blake says with that voice that is on the fence of serious and laughing. Then they ratchet the vibration up.

I moan and bring one of my hands to the crotch of my leotard to apply pressure to the little bullet that’s taped to me and trapped in there, grinding against my palm while my other hand digs into the bed above my head. “Sir, Sir, Sir,” I chant, absolutely having lost the plot to the desire that’s riding me so high. The edge of orgasm takes hold of my body, and I tense, ready to let go and burst into pieces.

That’s when the toy goes limp against my clit.

“Now, now, Cupcake. Who does your orgasm belong to?” Blake asks sternly.

“You, Sir,” I eke out, taking my hand away from the gusset of my costume and flinging it above my head, my whole body going limp in defeat.

“Oh, so you do remember. That’s excellent. You don’t get to assist. We have to start the whole process over now, I think. Hm,” Blake pauses and then sighs. “Yes, that sounds good. So sad to have a ruined orgasm. Sad for you, anyway.”

A woman with brown skin like mine walks in with a white coat, and I struggle to sit up. “Let’s get this over with,” I tell the doctor.

She laughs, a happy sound that reaches into my ears and places lightness there. “You athletes are all the same—quick visit, out the door to create more damage. Job security for me, I guess. Hi there, I’m Dr. Ebert. Who do I have the pleasure of meeting today?”

“Hi, Doc. I’m Imani Gray,” I try to say as pleasantly as possible.

She nods and smiles. “No doubt a figure skater. My favorite, don’t tell the others.” Dr. Ebert looks over at Blake. “And who are you, my dear?”

Blake, who is lounging casually in their black sweatpants, cherry red tee with the sleeve ends rolled just-so to show off their muscles, and backward Cardinals hat over their long blond hair, responds, “The others.” The doctor has the grace to look embarrassed, but Blake quickly saves her. “I’m just kidding. I’m Blake Floquet. Hockey, if you’re interested.” They throw an arm over the next chair and give the doctor a wink.

The doctor’s eyes go wide as she gets visibly ruffled, but recovers enough to direct her attention back to me. “Imani, what happened to bring you in today?”

“I fell during a jump, but it’snothing.” I pause to glare at Blake. “I even walked here on my own, despitesomeonetrying to carry me.”

“Ah, the girlfriend is worried that it could be more than a strain. I see.”

The doctor says more inane things as she makes notes, but my brain went white when she said “girlfriend.” I dare a peek at Blake, and they’re as shocked as I am. Their rosy skin displays a lovely blush for me to read, and I have to say that seeing them flustered is a nice change. I wonder if I could make them do that later, and if they get red all over their chest down to those delicious tits.

“Imani? Can you tell me what you’ve eaten today?” The doctor asks, and I get the impression it’s not the first time she’s repeated herself.

Now my face is hot, but one person in this room can read me despite the lack of tells. Goddamnit. How do they do that? And how do I make it stop? “What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say that your bloodwork was concerning. I just have a couple of questions about it—no need to be embarrassed. I assure you that I’m on your side. Have you had anything to eat or drink today?” Dr. Ebert inquires with a concerning amount of gentleness.

My hackles immediately go up. “Okay, well. I don’t have a problem. I eat a well-balanced meal that my nutritionist and Coach approve for me. It’s designed to keep me at the top of my game. So maybe just do your job and look at my ankle, yeah?”

“Imani,” Blake warns with a threatening tone.

I look over at them, realizing I must really be in trouble if they’re using my real name.

“This does actually indirectly affect your ankle, Imani. I promise I’m only trying to take care of your health.” Turning back to her, I see Dr. Ebert’s eyes fill with sadness, but it just makes me angrier.

“I maybe forgot to eat today, but that’s not indicative of my normal schedule. That’s not an everyday occurrence,” I defend, crossing my arms and blocking my body from both of them.

“I’ll get some X-rays of your ankle and get you out of here, then,” Dr. Ebert sighs and walks out of the room.

I hear the defeat in her voice, but I’m not ready to face what it means. And when I look over at Blake and see them staring at me with fear and worry in their eyes, I’m not ready to face that either.