Page 64 of A Gold Medal in Love
“Sure, we can arrange that—on the day you stop secretly liking it,” Blake croons, running their thumbs over my cheeks.
I push them away, crossing my arms. “I do not, that’s ridiculous,” I pout.
Blake leans in to kiss my forehead. “You like it. Just as much as I like it when you’re a brat.”
I neither confirm nor deny, but pivot. “I’m sorry you didn’t win your game,” I say, referring to the USA versus Canada gold medal match.
Blake grins and nuzzles into my neck, pulling me into their body by my hips. “Didn’t I?”
Silent for a beat, I melt into them, uncrossing my arms and running my hands over those suited biceps. With that logic, I guess I won two. “I want to keep playing,” I finally respond.
A big laugh comes muffled into my neck, and then, “Cupcake, haven’t you learned by now? You can have anything you want.”
EPILOGUE
Imani
FOUR YEARS LATER
Olympics Day 18
February 2030
Erykah Badu spits her final bars in the edited-for-time version of “Q.U.E.E.N.” as I strike the final pose in my exhibition skate. Speaking of “electric ladies,” I feel Janelle Monáe’s words viscerally; my blood thrums in my veins, and I feel as though the sparks emanating from me are infecting the whole arena.
I have definitely felt “the price of fame” since winning my first gold medal four years ago, but for the first time in my skating history, I have never felt so liberated. After winning my second gold medal, I stand before the public in the bright orange costume with beading harkening toward my Caribbean heritage—the one I wear to perform for Mummy. I chose a song that reflects who I am, and danced with a body that is at its peak performance due to intense nourishment.
Smiling broadly, I shake out my twists that belie four years of natural growth. I do, of course, usually have my hair up in aprofessional bun for my performances, but this is the exhibition skate—a dance that’s meant to showcase artistic expression. This year, it was as personal as it could possibly be, and I wanted my hair to be gracefully flying around me with every jump and spin.
Picking up several bouquets, I kiss and wave to all the folks in the audience giving me standing ovations. My actions aren’t exactly broadly popular these days, but enough people have come around to the way I do business now. My brand is honest, sincere, and expressive, and a lot of my audience finds that no matter what struggles divide us, my message is relevant to all.
Also, there’s a lot to be said for sheer talent and dedicated practice that lubricates my way forward. It turns out that life as a gold medalist comes with its own set of privileges, something I never let myself forget.
At the gate, Blake stands, eager to pull me into their arms, resplendent in a revealing emerald suit that sets off the golden strands of their hair, which is falling around their face loosely.
Dropping the bouquets at our feet, I spring up into Blake’s arms, throwing my legs around their waist, and slipping my hands into their hair.
They catch me easily, laughing at my enthusiasm. “What happens when my reflexes slow down, Cupcake?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re my beefcake machine. But I’ll stop jumping into your arms when you get old and retire,” I retort. This insult is especially pointed because as soon as they turned 30, I started teasing them about getting old, and the jokes haven’t stopped since.
“Any chance you have to knock my ego down a peg you take, my bratty little thing,” Blake sighs melodramatically.
“I’ve actually been conspiring with Charlie for the last four years. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.” I shake my head in mock sympathy.
“I have got to stop leaving you and my best friend in a room together. The two of you will be my downfall,” Blake grins.
“No, your downfall will be that decrepit body of yours. How do you even do your job anymore?” I tease without shame, because they are still one of the best defensemen in the league, thirty-two or not.
“I think my downfall will be the annoying ass wife I have, don’t you?” Blake raises an eyebrow, digging their fingers into my hips just enough to elicit the beginnings of painful pleasure.
“Better than my downfall that will be carrying around this huge rock that is a liability when I skate,” I pout, slipping an arm away from their neck to gaze at the wedding bands on my hand.
“Yeah, it’s so terrible. You hate it so much you didn’t take 5011 pictures of it to post the perfect one on your socials when I proposed,” Blake reminds me with false sincerity.
“It was right after I got out of residential treatment; my head wasn’t right. It probably still isn’t, now that I think about it. Should I fire my therapist? She should be checking me on this shit,” I deadpan, slipping the beringed hand back into Blake’s hair to play with the silken strands.
“Oh, definitely. She hasn’t held up her end of the bargain. Four years of supporting you in recovery, through all your relapses, constantly reminding you that recovery isn’t linear when you slip, working as hard as you do to assure yourself that perfectionism is the enemy, yeah, no, I see it. She’s crazy, can’t be trusted, obviously,” Blake mocks me mercilessly.