Page 47 of A Gold Medal in Love

Conversely, this might just be what a dynamic looks like when you’re in love? Because when I strapped her the other night, I think I spied her own fall in her devoted gaze. But I don’t know whether to panic, be elated, or door number three: all of the above.

Several problems exist, though. I don’t know if there’s space in Imani’s life for me outside of these two weeks; I’m not even sure what that would look like since we live so far apart and have two opposite schedules; and there’s also the looming of whatever is going on with her “diet,” which I’m beginning to suspect is a much larger issue than the Type A rigid figure skater regularity she pretends it is.

Can those factors even change the reality that I’m sunk for infamous ice queen Imani Gray?

After the opera (Imani did cry, and I did, in fact, lick up her tears, much to the disgusted glances of our fellow audiencemembers), we retire to a nearby restaurant where the now familiar scene of grudging compromise unfolds.

See, here’s the thing. I’m pretty sure Imani is on the figure-skater special: starvation. I’ve been getting her to eat more, and I think it’s paying off. When I can attend a practice with her, her burgeoning strength is evident. I know I can’t be the one to fix her, but…

Goddamn, if I could just get her to eat more. Then she might land that stupid fucking jump without hurting herself and take the gold. And it would give me the ammunition I need to put her in the hands of someone who is certified to care for her health on her road to recovery…

If she would fucking listen to me long enough to agree to get help.

My face is a mask as I consider Imani over our plates of food—the ones I ordered for us as she pouted and threw a fit. In front of me sits Risotto alla Milanese, and her order is Cotoletta alla Milanese.

“I’m not eating this,” she hisses. “It’s fuckingbreaded.” Imani folds her arms and turns her nose up.

“The last time I checked, you needed carbohydrates to fuel an athletic body. Pretty sure that’s science, Cupcake.” I grin, keeping the façade of levity in place.

“I do just fine without simple carbs, thank you. It’s enough that—” Imani halts her thought, and quickly turns the bratting up to an eleven. “It’s enough that I deign to eat with you when you insist on eating like a garbage disposal.”

I spoon some of the saffron-spiced rice in cream into my mouth with an exaggeration that theatre kids would envy. “Mm. So good. The only thing that would make it better is if I were eating it off your abs.” To emphasize my words, I rake my eyes down the visible portions of Imani’s body.

“You’re an animal,” she attempts to huff, but I hear the laughter she’s trying to hide.

That’s it—I just need her to drop her guard for me. If I can make things silly and sexy, she’s more apt to loosen that rigidity she has around eating and let mefucking feed her.

Thinking of an idea, I crook my finger at her and point to the seat next to me.

“We’re going to look so silly, sitting next to each other,” she hedges before she stands up, smooths out her dress, and delicately folds herself into the chair at my side.

“Now, let’s try this again.” I spoon some risotto up, put a hand underneath it, and bring it to her lips.

“We arenotgoing to bethosedykes,” she protests, but when her mouth is open, I shove the spoon into her mouth.

“I think you’ve missed the memo on how Iloveto be ‘that dyke,’” I say with a waggle of my eyebrows.

“Okay, well, you’re not getting me to eat any more. That’s it,” Imani retorts quickly before clamping her mouth shut.

Moving to her throat, I pepper kisses all over it. “Come on, Cupcake. Just a little more. For your Sir.”

I feel her gulp under my mouth, and I know I have her hooked. Although how long my sexy tactics are going to work is a question that reverberates through my skull. We can’t keep this up. This is not the advised course of action for someone with an eating disorder. I can’t Dom someone into good mental health; that’s not how the fucking world works.

I replace my mouth with my hand, holding her in place to give her an anchor as I feed her more of the dish. Leaning into her ear, I praise her. “Good girl.”

Tears are building in her eyes, but this time I don’t lick them off—this is not a beautiful thing to see. In real time, I’m watching the girl I love fight with her demons as hard as she can toengage in the simple act of eating—a thing most of us do without internal berating or intrusive thoughts.

“Would it make you feel better if you fed Sir?” I ask softly, wondering how I can make this experience less painful for her.

Imani’s big brown eyes widen before she gives me a small smile. “Yes, please, Sir,” she agrees softly.

“Okay, but maybe save the airplane noises for at home.We’re in public, Cupcake,” I whisper in order to keep the jokes coming.

She giggles. “Behave, Sir!”

“Oh ho ho, someone thinks they’re in charge now, do they?” I question with mock-seriousness and squeeze her throat in warning before I pull away.

“Shh. No, no, I don’t, I promise!” Imani’s laughter trills in my ears.