Page 52 of A Gold Medal in Love

The person they paired her with today is a different one than usual—she’s a blandly dressed white woman with a severely cut blonde bob. She’s lobbing easy balls at Imani, inane questions about what we can look forward to for the short program and the free skate.

As the interview clock ticks to a close, I watch her smile get cruel, and I internally groan. Why do these people feel the need to end on “tough questions?” Usually, it’s some insult wrapped up in a pretty package, so that you look like the asshole if youreact. What happened to the other interviewer, the one who was afraid of Imani’s outbursts? I guess we’ve graduated.

Her blonde head leans in toward Imani as though creating a visage of confidentiality. “Tell me, Imani, what makes you so good? Is it because you have something the other skaters don’t? There have been rumors circulating lately.” The interviewer looks pointedly in my direction until Imani turns to follow her gaze.

Imani’s confused stare locks with mine as I make my face as placid as possible. This is up to her to handle however the fuck she wants, and I’m going to stand behind whatever direction she takes her answer.

I watch as her expression melts from confused to surprised to determined. Everything in me wants to wink at her, but I stay as still as I can to the outside observer while my fingers dance around each other nervously in their pockets.

Imani turns back to the blonde devil and lets out a tinkling laugh. “Why, Margot, of course I do! You know, it’s time I talk about it.”

Margot’s face stretches into a Cheshire cat grin. “We’ve been waiting so long for this, Imani. Please do regale us.”

“The thing that makes me a powerful contender is my heritage as the daughter of Jamaican immigrants. You know what they say: melanin is my superpower!” Imani smiles delightedly, cocking her head to convey sweetness.

Margot’s face turns beet red as her mouth goes slack.

Imani’s coach growls in frustration next to me.

I grin with pride.

“Thanks for having me today, Margot.” Imani calmly ends the interview for her, not even waiting for the camera to stop recording before she stands and comes over to greet me.

Knowing that the whole studio is watching, waiting for us to do somethinggay, I school my features into a simple smile. “My, my, Ms. Gray, what spin you did there,” I praise her.

Imani bites her lip and looks away, her body following her until I get her back. “Unclip my mic, would you?”

“Of course,” I whisper, but demur as soon as I’m confronted with the smooth skin she reveals as she untucks her blouse and raises it, immediately sweeping me into a fantasy where I peel off all of her clothes and ravish her in front of all these people. I lick my lips. Oh, what a scene we would make.

She looks back at me. “Blake? Let’s go.” Imani wiggles her ass where the pack is stashed above her tailbone.

“Right, yeah,” I snap back to the moment as I move quickly to remove the equipment.

Her coach steps in front of her closely, getting into her space. “What inthe fuckwas that interview, Imani?” He leers over her, trying to use his height to intimidate her. If anyone is going to use that move on her, it’s going to be me, and it’s going to be because it’s hot, not because I’m belittling her.

“Back your shit up right motherfucking now,” I growl so that only the three of us can hear.

He glares but does as I say. “Lose your guard dog and then come talk to me. I swear it, Imani, I’ll fucking quit if you don’t get your shit together. You think you’re going to be invited to The White House if you start throwing around the race card?”

Imani tenses. “Why would I want to go to the goddamn White House?”

Coach blusters. “What do you mean? It’s a time-honored tradition.”

“So is protest. If you think I want to be anywhere near that oversized carrot, you’re out of your mind,” Imani says with resolve.

“Where is this coming from? You’ve always toed the line for your fans. Sure, you’re a little rough around the edges, but you’ve never taken a hard political line. You always do the right thing, assume the right appearance. You don’t always say the right thing, but we’re working on that,” Coach says, his voice dripping with condescension.

“When you say ‘assume the right appearance…’ You’ve gotta be shitting on my dick. I think you mean I try to look aswhiteas possible, don’t you?” Imani bites out.

“I’ve always looked out for your best interests. You know that. We’re a conservative country, Imani,” Coach laughs.

“No. We aren’t,” Imani refutes. I’m proud of her for standing her ground and refusing to give this man an inch. How much of this shit has she taken since he’s been coaching her? Too much. “Get out of my face. I need time to think.”

His alabaster face turns violet. “You can’t win without me. You were all passion, no technique, before I met you.”

“Really? Then why did you agree to coach me, Lowell?” Imani asks, sudden amusement in her voice.

“Because I knew I could make the first Black gold medalist. I’ll be a legend when I’m done with you. And we are not done,” he now insists.