A Gold Medal in Love (Love On the Podium #4)

Prologue

IMANI

“Again, Imani, again!” Coach’s voice booms through the practice rink, echoing off the corners of the room and seeming to hit me like shards of the ice I’m skating on.

I huff out a growl, shake out my limbs, and lean in to pick up speed in preparation to retry the jump I’ve been trying to nail all practice long.

When you’ve just won the silver medal in the World Figure Skating Championships, you need to practice your ass off to ensure you have a fighting chance for the gold medal at the Winter Olympics.

When you’re a Black, second-generation immigrant in a notably white sport, the stakes seem even higher.

I’ve been figure-skating since before most children could read, since Mummy accidentally flipped the television channel to the sport, and I was dazzled by all the pretty girls in their pretty costumes doing the prettiest routines.

I was obsessed to the point of driving Mummy crazy over it, so she used all her spare income to put me in lessons.

The first time I was on the ice, it was like everything made sense.

Mummy likes to tell the story as though I put on my first pair of skates and glided around the rink like I was made for it, but that’s not exactly how it happened.

In reality, I fell over and over. When I came home, my bruises covered me like a Pollock painting.

I spent Kindergarten being questioned by teachers over and over about my home situation.

I was terrible. But the feeling that bloomed in me the first time I stepped onto the ice was irreplaceable.

I may not have been a natural, but I loved it more than I loved anything else.

Even as much as I was a rule follower, I found myself getting in trouble when I had to stand in line at school––my feet ached to practice my moves.

Many times, Mummy would threaten to take me off the ice if I couldn’t stop being squirrely at school.

Luckily, she never did—otherwise, I wouldn’t be where I am now: Imani Gray, Olympian at age 18.

What a world.

Thanks to Mummy, I’m a student at the University of Miami and headed toward gold.

Miami is one of only three U.S. schools with a varsity figure skating program, and it’s where I’ve wanted to go since I was a little girl.

Mummy put up no argument since Miami is also where I was born and raised.

Who knew South Florida would have both a thriving Jamaican population and a figure-skating culture?

If you ask me, it sounds like it was meant to be.

I’m not very religious (a source of much disappointment to my family), but figure skating is who I am. It’s my true purpose in life.

And I’m going to do everything to get that goddamn gold.

Maybe not Tonya Harding-level “going to do everything.” You can bet those white folks would throw my ass in jail if I broke rival Katya Artyomov’s legs.

Even if part of me really wants to. I spend half my time being enthralled by her performances and the other half seething that she’s so much better than I am.

For as much training as I have, it seems like I can never compare to the generational talent of the Russian skater.

She’s everything I’m not—white, blonde, charming, and effortlessly thin.

No, not just thin—delicate, petite, dainty.

Meanwhile, my skin is sienna Black, my hair constantly needs a perm, my coach yells at me for scowling at reporters and fans alike once I’m off the ice, and maintaining my weight sometimes feels like a full-time job.

I try the triple axel again, and again I fail. I cringe as I hear Coach throw his clipboard in a rage.

If I could just nail this jump. If I could just nail this jump. If I could just nail this jump…

I could beat Katya and win, and show everyone how much a Black woman belongs at the top of the sport.

Mabel Fairbanks wasn’t ever allowed to compete at the Olympic level due to her race but still ended up in the Figure Skating Hall of Fame; Debi Thomas won bronze at the Olympics in 1988; Surya Bonaly attempted the first female quad at the 1992 Olympics; Starr Andrews was the first Black woman to medal in 35 years; and I’ll be damned if Imani Gray doesn’t end up on the list of exceptional Black female skaters.

I won’t let anything get between my destiny and me.

I skate over to the gate while Coach Lowell eyes me with distaste. His ice-blue eyes dissect me as he runs a hand through his thinning blond hair. When I make it to him, he glares down at me, his lanky height dwarfing my 5’3” frame.

“I need to hydrate,” I explain as I grab a bottle and sit.

I down the liter of water and mentally calculate. That’s eight for today. I’ve met my personal quota, but I still have practice, and I can probably down another one or two before I go to sleep tonight. If I skip dinner, I can eke out more ice time while also avoiding more calories.

I do some mental math and cringe. I’ve had more calories today than I would like, but I also feel sluggish and dizzy.

Eyeing the protein bar in my bag, I concede that I’ll allow myself to have it only if I cut more calories from tomorrow’s meals to make up for it.

I unwrap the bar and add 150 more calories to my EOD total—I don’t need to check the label; I rarely do.

A special skill I’ve picked up is memorizing the average calories, fat, and carbs in food so that I can do the math in my head.

“Should you be eating that? The last thing you need right now is more sugar,” Coach chides.

“You know better than that. This bar is sugar-free. And don’t worry, it’s dinner,” I explain to him.

He sighs in relief. “That’s good to hear. You’re doing so much better since you started working with that dietitian I wanted you to change over to. It’s really taken your skill to a whole new level.”

I finish chewing my bite and then answer, “Alina Zagitova was on to something when she said her efficiency rises during periods of hunger.” I pause to consider. “Although I’m hardly ever hungry anymore.”

He frowns. “Then why are you interrupting my practice to eat a fucking snack, Imani?”

“I got dizzy,” I pout.

“The water is right next to you.” He points to the bundle of liters that we always have present at my rink time.

“You’re right, of course you are.” I wrap up the half of the bar that I haven’t finished and tuck it back into my bag.

Then, I retabulate to lessen my input from 150 calories to 75.

I should still probably compensate tomorrow by eating less.

I can’t continue overeating like this, or I’ll never fit into my competition costumes.

The last time I let myself go, a girl in my ballet class commented on the fit of my leotard.

At least I’ll know if I’m gaining weight since Angela finds it to be her duty to police me.

Not that Coach won’t have me on the ice for extra hours if he sees even a hint of a belly pooch.

“Oh, you’re listening to me now? Where was this attitude when you interviewed after the Championships earlier today?” He questions me.

I scowl. “The reporters ask dumb as fuck questions in those interviews. I’m more than tits in sequins. It would be nice to be treated like a professional.”

“You’re treated like any other athlete. People like to get to know the person behind the camera. You have to offer some humanity to the public,” he presses.

“Why? Is there a secret personality score on the card I don’t know about? ‘Imani Gray: costuming-top marks, technical-top marks, artistry-top marks, likability-oh, but she’s a bitch. No medal for her.’” I scoff.

“You joke, but it makes more of an impact than you think. There’s internal bias in scoring. Plus, you’re not just competing for a medal. You’re competing for sponsorships. No one wants a cunt on the front of their Wheaties box.” He raises an eyebrow.

“I wouldn’t need to be likable if I could nail this jump,” I complain.

“Negative, Imani. You need to nail this jump, and you need to be charming. This is not an either/or situation,” he argues.

I grumble under my breath.

“Stop arguing with me and think of the rewards. Pretty girls get pretty money,” he offers.

“Let’s go for another hour?” I ask Coach.

Coach taps his foot on the floor as he waits for me to return to the ice. “Yeah, how much of the next hour are you going to spend pussy-footing around?”

I screw my face up in response but say nothing as I walk back out onto the ice. I skate harder and harder, warming back up with a double toe loop.

“That’s bush league, Imani!” Coach yells from outside the boards.

I flip him off in my mind and skate into a split jump followed by an upright spin.

The moves are broken up by the natural artistic flair that I skate with when I come out on the ice for fun.

I’m doing it now instead of trying another triple axel just to fuck with Coach.

I’ll get to the edge jump in a second as soon as I muster the energy.

Returning his glare with a grin as I skate past him, I give myself an internal pep talk.

I can do this: Mummy didn’t scrape for me so I could disappoint her—I have a legacy to create.

I push off with my takeoff leg, swing my free leg forward, quickly cross my legs in the air, rotate three and a half times (yes!), but land on my ass.

“Imani, goddamnit, if you’re not going to get this jump right, what’s even the point of practicing?” Coach yells from the side of the rink.

“I’ll get it soon!” I promise, yelling back. “I’ll have it by next February!”

“You had better! I’m not going to be a loser’s coach. We’re coming home with a medal,” He growls back.

“Fuck a medal. I want the medal. We’re coming home with gold,” I confidently answer.

“That’s a lot of talk from a skater who keeps fucking up her triple axel landing,” Coach parries.

“I can do a triple lutz perfectly, though, and you never think that’s good enough,” I mutter under my breath.

“What’s that?” Coach snaps, the knowledge that I said something bratty fully evident in his voice.

“Nothing,” I sing-song. “Let’s go again.”

And so we do. But I still don’t stick the goddamn landing.