Page 8 of A Gold Medal in Love

“If you don’t calm down this fucking instant, I’m going to quit and leave you with no coach on the eve of your Olympic debut,” Coach growls in my ear.

I nod, deflating, while I push his arms off of me and turn to face him. “Before you say anything, that interviewer goaded me.”

“Imani, how many times do we have to go over this?” He runs a hand through his hair, the blond strands markedly bright against the angry red face he’s sporting.

“His questions were offensive!” I protest, my voice still raised after the encounter with that douchebag DeMarco.

“You’re treated just like any other female athlete, Imani!” He reminds me, placing both hands on my shoulders to shake my whole body.

“That doesn’t make it right. That reporter is worse than anyone I’ve been with so far. You can mark Donald DeMarco off the interview list. I refuse to sit through another session with him. I won’t do it. He’s a piece of shit racist, and a sexist pig.” I wiggle out of his hold and cross my arms.

“Well, Imani, you’ve scared off the nicer interviewers. No one wants to work with you anymore,” he explains gruffly.

“I’ll be nicer! I’ll behave! Just don’t put me through that again. He’s upsetting me on purpose!” I beg of him.

“You’re being dramatic, Imani. If you could just be more likable, you wouldn’t have these problems, you know! The other competitors don’t seem to make scenes in the middle of their screen time,” Coach yells back.

“Excuse me? You think I was the one who made that a scene?” I gasp with affront. “Did you not watch that interview? Were you just standing over here filing your nails?”

“I was here for the whole thing, Imani. You are the one who blew that out of proportion,” he tells me.

“You’ve gotta be shitting on my dick. Do you have fucking ears, Coach?” My face is so hot at this point that I think my brain might well be boiling.

“Imani, I swear to Christ, if you don’t clean up your interview act, I will quit. I refuse to be a part of a team that doesn’t have its shit together off the ice. Do you hear me? I. Will. Quit,” he threatens me, crossing his own arms.

We stand there staring at each other while the camera crew cleans up around us, giving the two angry people in the room a wide berth. Both of our eyes narrow further and further until we barely have them open in slits.

Finally, he turns away from me and begins to walk away, throwing his hands up in the air.

“Wait!” I yell after he makes it a couple of paces from me.

He halts in his tracks but doesn’t turn.

“Coach, don’t quit on me,” I beg him.

“Are you going to clean up your act when the camera is on you?” He huffs, turning around to face me and raising a pale eyebrow.

I crack my neck, smooth my skirt down, and stare him dead in the eye. “Yes, I’ll work on it. But you’re going to support me, and I’m never going to interview with that fuckstick ever again,” I demand in return.

“Imani, you cannot go around calling people fucksticks. That is part of the deal of you becoming a polished figure-skater,” he points out.

“I wouldn’t have to call people fucksticks if they weren’t, in fact, fucksticks,” I parry.

“Get some goddamn media training, or this is over, Imani. You think you’re mistreated now? You’ll get blacklisted,” he explains, snapping his fingers. “Poof, a career gone up in flames before it can even begin.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll learn to play their reindeer games better,” I mutter, still loud enough for him to hear my answer.

“Great. Now get the fuck out of my face and start learning how to be a lady.” He shoos me away with a hand.

I screw up my face, then turn away and practically run back to my room. I hope Blake is too busy with… whatever their schedule is to come in any time soon. I need an angry cry, and I need it stat.

When I enter the quiet of my empty shared room, I fling myself down on my bed, bringing the sad excuse for a pillow to my face and screaming into it, letting my mascara run into its white fabric. I wish Mummy were here to help. I could always call her, but there’s a chance she hasn’t seen the interview. I don’t want to draw her attention to it in the lucky case she misses it.

I know I’m unpalatable. I don’t want to be anyone except myself. I don’t want to throw away who I am to appease the American public. And I sure as fuck am not going to sacrifice myself on the altar of patriarchal white supremacy to get myself there. I just have to figure out a way to play the game while also keeping my values. I have to figure out how to show the best of myself while also standing up for myself.

But how the fuck do I do that?

And who the hell is going to help me?