Page 7 of A Gold Medal in Love
Thursday, February 5, 2026
“Imani, this is the big time. I need you to do whatever you need to fucking do to make sure this interview goes well. The entirety of America is going to see this broadcast. It’s critical. Do you hear me? No scowling, no scoffing, no sassiness. I want to see a polished professional who smiles at the camera and makes Americans root for her. Got it?” Coach demands, his hands on my shoulders as he leans down to glare at me.
I grumble and nod.
“You can start right now. Give me a smile and an enthusiastic nod,” he coaches.
I stuff my complaints down into my stomach and let a fake smile overtake my face. It feels derived, plastic, uncanny. I can’t see myself, but I’m sure I look unhinged. I feel unnatural, and I’m positive my face betrays me.
Coach grimaces at me. “Well, it’s a start. Go ahead. Camera is rolling.”
I adjust the microphone at the lapel of my blazer and resolutely walk toward the two chairs that overlook an ice rink,one already filled with a white man dressed in monochromatic business casual.
The interviewer greets me with a pasted-on smile I can tell is as contrived as my own, and reaches out for a handshake. “Imani Gray, Team USA’s best chance at figure-skating gold, thank you for joining us for a chat today.”
My smile wobbles. Fuck my life; I hate this. Why can’t I just skate my heart out instead of engaging in this dog-and-pony show? I reach out to shake his hand. “Thanks… it’s… great to be here?” Oh, marvelous. Now instead of being frosty, I’m serving America a wimp? I turn to look back at Coach, who already looks furious, as he motions for me to turn back to the interviewer whose name escapes me.
He laughs uncertainly. “We’re used to you being a little more confident. Is the great Imani Gray a little rattled at her very first Olympics?” Is it just me, or is his last sentence not only mocking but patronizing?
I sit a little taller and wipe the hesitant smile off my lips. “Absolutely not. I came to win, and I’ll be walking away with a medal around my neck no matter what. The only question is as to what color it will be.” I say with certainty.
“Ah, there’s the Imani Gray we know and… that we know. Tell us, how do you plan to react when you face Katya? What’s your strategy?” He presses, leaning toward me.
“It’s undeniable that Katya is a fierce competitor—” I cut myself off. Do I win America over by being vulnerable? Do I let them know how much I respect her? How much of myself do I display during these interviews? I never know how much is too much.
“Go on,” the man coaxes, but it sounds too hungry to my ears.
I look at this dude, who is leaning too heavily into my space, whose spittle I can see at the corners of his lips, whose sweat I can see beading at his hairline and above his upper lip, and I’msuddenly so repulsed. I know I’m hard to deal with, but couldn’t they send someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m getting eaten alive?
“Katya is a fierce competitor, but I am going to do my best to overtake her sheer skill by bringing the artistic flair that the world expects from me,” I finish my sentence with the approved messaging Coach has drilled into my brain. Yes, I’m trying to nail that triple axel to put me on Katya’s level, but the artistry is where I might pull ahead.
“That’s right.” His eyes gleam like he’s a predator who has found roadkill. “You are known for skating with unmatched passion. Tell me, where do you find yourinspiration?”
The question itself is not that unexpected. I get a variation of this all the time, but the way people have been asking me lately is… untoward. I need to put him off this line of questioning. Unfortunately, my mouth runs off before I can be diplomatic. “Excuse me,” I respond, but the way I phrase it is more of a statement than a question.
“All that passion has to come from somewhere,” he prods me, practically salivating for the answer he wants me to give, some girly, gushing romantic comedy plot where I’ve met my muse.
“It does: from a lifetime of working my way to the top. I simply have a dedication to the ice. I’ve repeated this ad nauseam to reporters over the years,” I bite out, clenching my fists on the edges of the chair.
“Now, now, Imani. No need to get upset. We’re just two pals having a conversation.” He grins broadly, the too-white of his teeth sparkling at the camera.
“I must have missed the sleepovers where we became close,” I snarl at him, placing the camera’s blinking record light to the back of my mind as he continues to inflict microaggression after microaggression on me.
He ignores my comment, continuing to press me. “I want to get to know the off-ice Imani. Who is it that inspires you so greatly?”
“I don’t think you’ll like the answer that question garners. The most important person in my life is my mother,” I respond harshly, my short manicure digging into my palm at this point.
“Sure, sure. But surely for a beautiful young thing like you, there’s a man in your life? That’s a lot of ardor you’re displaying on the ice to be limited to spending it only on skating,” he leers.
“How dare you! I am a professional athlete, and I will be treated as such!” I stand from the chair so quickly that it falls to the floor in a deafening crash.
“Now, now, Imani—” the interviewer begins.
But I cut him off. “It’s Miss Fucking Gray to you, you abhorrent creature! We are not familiar. I should never have consented to do this interview. It’s the same song and dance every single time. My personal life is off-fucking-limits. If I were with some person, it wouldn’t be anyone’s business but my own!” I unwind the mic pack from my body and throw it onto the floor with rage.
“Such a shame that such a talented performer is such anangry woman,” the man is saying into the camera behind me as I walk off. “This is Donald DeMarco, signing off from the figure-skating practice facility and leaving you with a burning question: Is Imani Gray queer? Her use of “some person” in relation to her dating life is very telling.”
I’m sure the boom mic picks up my scream as I try to charge DeMarco, but I feel arms band around me as I jump for him.