Page 61 of A Gold Medal in Love

I simply shake my head at her antics. She makes me think of my own brat, prepping for her long skate, which is later today—my very ownraison d’être,the focal point I pictured when I asked it of my team. I want nothing more than to celebrate joint gold medals with her this evening.

When we make it to the third and final period, the game is tied two-two. The other piece of my heart—though in a platonic way—Charlie, has scored one of those goals as her team’s dominant forward. Even though the USA is at high risk of losing to Canada, and considering how much chirping Charlie and I have been doing throughout the entire game thus far,goddamnam I so proud of her. She is an incredible player, and I almost wish I could sit in the stands and watch her fully, instead of catchingglimpses of her while I’m playing the game myself at breakneck speed.

Regarding my own skill, I have, even as a d-man, put a biscuit in the basket—all the better to taunt my best fucking friend with, honestly.

We skate past each other on the way to our respective benches. “You can’t put more on the board? Damn, it’s a shame when the defense is making the offense look so bad. Char, get your life together,” I taunt.

Charlie says nothing in response, just looks back at me dogging her, and shakes her head.

I grin, winking and hoping it’s readable through the mask, before I hop over the board and tug my helmet off to give myself a little air during this scant break.

The tension is thick in the air, folding around our bodies and permeating more strongly than the scent of sweaty women.

I close my eyes and count to ten, visualizing like I told my players to do, and before I know it, I’m back on the ice.

Saint gets the puck on a breakaway, and I shift my play so that I can do everything I can to make sure she stays on it, but right now, the rest of my teammates are letting her down by not rallying up the ice to support.

“Don’t shoot now, don’t shoot now,” I chant, like I can get her to realize her potential icing call with mind-melding.

But instead of shooting, the Canadian player on her heels makes a move to steal the puck. Unfortunately, it looks like Saint was about to pick up even more speed, and instead of the Canadian succeeding, she just puts her stick right into Saint’s skating path.

Wide-eyed and already screaming, I watch Saint go down hard. Time stops so that I can hear her screams ricochet around the rink, and I skate with a vengeance over to her writhing body.

I kneel on the ice, pull her helmet off, and put her head in my lap as soon as I make it over there. As the EMTs triage her, I pet her braids and brush her tears away from her cheeks. We say nothing; she just stares up at me while the medics cut her uniform away to reveal a nasty compound fracture. She’s probably already in too much shock, so I keep her face tilted toward me.

“Ma’am, we need the area clear so that we can put her on a stretcher,” one of the EMTs tells me.

“Of course,” I agree easily, not bothering to give a shit about being misgendered right now. I rub final circles into Saint’s cheeks and skate away, standing next to Coach Petras as they cart her off the ice and away to the hospital.

The ref blows the whistle to signify a return to gameplay, and Coach just pats my shoulder in comfort.

We may have lost a critical player, but this is the nature of fucking hockey. It’s not war, but the consequences can be life-changing or even deadly depending on the gameplay. I can’t think about Saint right now. I have to rally this team so we can win the Olympics—it’s the only option I have.

We lose. We don’t lose badly, but it’s a loss anyway.

Charlie scores the final goal, and I want to craugh—cry/laugh. Instead, I just go through the handshake line, helmet tucked under my left arm, and when I make it to my best friend, I grip her hand tightly with my right hand, putting my left on top for emphasis.

Her expression is cool but smug, and I let her have it—after all, she earned this. No matter what injuries occurred in that game, she brought the heat.

But after the formality of the handshake line, I barrel straight into her before she can escape to her team’s locker room.

“Ugh, fuck, stop!” Charlie cries as I bear hug her, using the height and weight I have to pin her in place and pepper obnoxious kisses all over her face. “You’re the fucking worst friend I’ve ever had in my life!”

“I’m so proud of you!” I crow, ignoring her cries.

“We didn’t just win because Saint went down, you know,” she grumbles.

“I would never say that. You won because you earned it, Char,” I agree, finally letting her loose from my hold.

Charlie shakes her limbs out like my phantom is still holding onto her, and it’s probably true. BFFE, bitches. “I can’t stand you.”

“Yeah, I love you, too. I hope the game helps you pull. Where’s the elusive girl you’re in love with? She watchin’?” I question intrusively as usual; I know that’s her favorite.

Charlie’s face cycles through beaming happiness and annoyance.

I laugh. “Go celebrate and bone down. I have a free skate performance to attend, and I have to make sure I look like a snack.”

“Later, Floquet.” Charlie turns to go.