Page 60 of A Gold Medal in Love

“Because it’s hard, and because you had enough going on that I figured it wasn’t the right time, if ever there was going to be a right time. I’ll tell you anything you want to know, though. I don’t have any secrets from you, Imani,” Blake informs me, and I have to trust that they mean it, because they used my serious-time name.

“What else are you holding onto, Mx. Toppy Top?” I question, knocking at their skull with my knuckles.

“Nothing unusual. A lifetime of dealing with homophobia and transphobia, coupled with my confusion regarding my gender and sexuality, as well as the additional casual trauma of Catholicism. NBD,” Blake shrugs.

“Was it hard to come out as trans in the league?” It suddenly occurs to me that they’re one of only two non-binary players in the PWHL.

“No, not at all. I definitely made up how hard that would be in my head. Reporters are douchecanoes, but I’ve told you aboutthat before and how I regularly deal with that,” Blake says, and I’m not sure if I’m taking it pointedly or if it’s meant to be.

I don’t want to think about coming out in my own sport, so I change tack, thinking of my poor Sir. “You take care of me all the time. Who takes care of you?” I press, feeling incredibly selfish for all the bratty behavior.

“Well, Charlie. And you do take care of me. It helps to take care of you. It settles me,” Blake tries to assert.

I narrow my eyes. “I don’t think that’s a real thing. Nope.”

“Shh. Just let me love you.” Blake places a finger on my lips.

Opening my mouth, I chomp at their finger, but they’re too quick for me. “Oh, like it’s hard to love me?” I definitely say this with bratty intent, but secretly, I do need to check.

Blake grins. “Easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

BLAKE

Olympics Day16

Thursday, February 19, 2026

Sitting in half-dress on the locker room bench, I riffle through my gym bag for my post-game beer and stare at it intently. “When I come for you next, it’s going to be on the heels of a win,” I explain to the can in a serious voice.

Saint chortles next to me. “Floquet, you losing your shit already?”

“What? It’s calledmanifesting, motherfucker,” I retort to her.

“You learn that garbage in therapy or something?” Saint laughs.

“As a matter of fact, I did, asshole.” I grin at her. “You should think about sorting yourself out in the same manner.” I’ve seen the way she stares at an unknown-to-me girl on her phone. The pictures are at least a decade old, as seen by the out-of-date clothing, but it seems like the longing pang of Saint’s heart is as fresh a wound as ever.

“Fuck off, Floquet,” is her lame response, as she huffs and gets back to taping her stick. Her brown skin betrays no blush,but I stare for just a second to see if I can detect it by a different metric.

Shrugging, I kiss the logo on my future beer, and tuck it underneath the bench for safekeeping. At home, I have a little mini-fridge for this ritual of mine, but it’s not like I could come to the Olympics and ask for such a thing, so I enact my traveling game plans for the games. Fuck it; a warm beer never hurt anybody.

The team is going through their own rituals as I look around the room, but there’s an undercurrent of nervousness, anxiety, and restlessness. Most of my players have never shown at an Olympics before, and now that they’ve made it this far, the tension sits taut at their feet like a tripwire, ready to fuck them up at a moment’s notice.

Time to Captain the shit out of things.

I bang my stick on the floor in a hurried rhythm, looking into each eye that meets mine, encouraging the girls to get in on the movement. The team picks up their sticks with smirks and grins, and before you know it, the raucous sound has beckoned Coach.

Petras waltzes into the room with a fitted and masculine suit, clipboard at the ready, but when I make eye contact with her and up-nod, she sinks into an open seat and lets me captivate my audience.

I stand without my stick and raise my arms, whooping loudly, then pointedly cut off the sound so that the room quickly follows me into silence. “All of us have a journey that has led us to this day. We have bled, we have cried, we have sacrificed so that we could sit next to each other on this bench in this uniform. But what no one tells you about professional sports is that at some point, the game becomes a job, a habit, a matter of routine. We look at our lives and wonder, ‘What would I do if it isn’t this? Who am I without a stick in my hand?’ Do you think that medal is won by people who do this because they have nothing else?No.To stand on that podium means that every single portion of your soul was feral to taste that metal. So, I want you to do me a favor right now,” I demand of everyone. “Close your eyes—zero in on the reason for you to win this game. I don’t give a shit how stupid it feels, or if the reason seems minuscule or unworthy of muse. You don’t have to tell me, you don’t have to tell anyone else, you just have to see it clearly in your head. You’re going to play for spite, for glory, to earn the post-game beer—” I hear a few knowing chuckles here. “You’re going to play for your heart, your soul, your reason. And I know if you do that, we’re going to go home as gold medalists. Elbows up! How does that sound, assholes?”

The locker room erupts into cheers and applause, sticks banging together in cheers, whoops, and growls.

“Oh, Captain, my captain!” Saint croons jokingly next to me, nudging me with her arm. “You’ve been in Canada too long.”