Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
IMANI
Well. I did it. I’m here, in Olympic Village, in my room, unpacking my bags as an Olympic figure skater. I’m an Olympian. Me. Nothing in my life has ever felt more right.
I wish Mummy were here with me, but she couldn’t afford to come.
I guess staying in Milan for nearly a month was a big ask of her.
It’s fine; I know she’ll be watching me obsessively from home.
And she’s only a text or a phone call away.
The time difference is six hours. That seems pretty manageable.
I finish arranging my costumes in the closet, putting them in the order in which I’ll wear them, and run my hands over their textured fabric.
I take out the dress I wear for Mummy when I bring her to the rink for special one-on-one performances.
It’s so obnoxious that it makes me laugh, but it’s her favorite of my outfits.
It’s extra as fuck, with so many sequins and feathers, in a bold orange that complements my skin so much it’s sinful, there’s no skirt, and the midriff is done to look like I’m bare.
I’m absolutely not allowed to wear it here.
Just like most skaters, I’ve had it drilled into my skull to be creative with my costume while also playing it safe.
We can get points deducted if our dress is too garish—and this is capital “G” garish.
But I can’t help but love it. At this point, it feels like the secret side of my skating, since I only wear it to perform for Mummy.
I sigh and hang it back up, closing the door to the closet and looking into the small room that boasts two of the tiniest twin beds I’ve ever seen in my entire life, separated by a scant amount of walking room.
As I do, the door that leads to the hallway opens, and I turn to greet my roommate, even though I’ve been informed I’m not rooming with another figure skater, but instead a member of the women’s hockey team.
This should be an interesting experience.
I’ve never really gotten along with the hockey girls.
People think that we should have things in common since we spend our time on the ice, but the culture is so different that I find I cannot relate to them.
But I’m horrified when the person who walks in the door is male. I don’t know who he is and how he got into this room, but he’s wearing a baggy Team USA tracksuit and a backward hat. Tattoos creep out from around the top zipper and sleeves, making his tall height seem even more imposing.
“Sup,” he up-nods me as I stand there stunned.
I cough into my fist pointedly. Surely, he’ll realize he’s gotten the keys to the wrong room soon. I mean, I’m clearly a woman. And this is the last place they’d want coed room assignments.
He haphazardly throws all his bags onto the bed and comes near me with an outstretched palm. “Cool to meet you, I’m Blake.” The tenor of his voice is accented with a blinding grin that I suppose he’s used to using on scores of women, but I will not be one of them, thank you very much.
I eye him with distaste and raise my hand, only to smooth my hair back into my bun. “Listen, I’m sure you’re very… lovely. But as you can see, I’m a woman. I think there’s been a mistake. I’m supposed to be rooming with Blake Floquet, another woman, not you, a man.”
“Right.” He takes his outstretched hand back and uses it to pull his hat off, revealing long and luscious blond hair. “I’m not a man. I’m not a woman, either. Although this is the correct room.”
“Well. You have to be one or the other, don’t you?” I cross my arms and cock my head.
“Not really. There are plenty of people who don’t fit into a binary—gender fluid, genderqueer, agender, nonbinary, intersex, etc. I’m nonbinary, and I use they/them pronouns,” they tell me.
“Oh. Shit. Sorry. I didn’t—I mean. I’ve never met anyone—Yeah. Okay,” I stumble over my words.
They grin at me, shake out their limbs, and hold a hand out to me yet again. “So. Now that that’s settled, you wanna try this again?”
I place my palm in theirs, their callouses scraping against my delicate skin. I shift uncomfortably and pull back quickly. “Imani. Gray. Figure skater. First-time Olympian.”
“Blake Floquet. Hockey player. Third-time Olympian.” Then they smile at me, and this one is softer, less aggressive, warmer, and welcoming.
I nod succinctly. “Nice to make your acquaintance. Should we go over our schedules to make sure we don’t interfere with each other’s routines?”
Blake raises an eyebrow at me. “I’m pretty sure that both of us will be in and out of here constantly—no need to bog ourselves down with trying to remember the exact times.
The events run during the day, and then we sleep at night.
We find some spare minutes to practice and eat, rinse and repeat. What more needs to be said?”
“I just think it would be good if we knew what we could expect of each other,” I say with clenched teeth. “I printed out a copy of my schedule for each of us. Here’s yours.” I hand them the piece of paper with my whereabouts.
“Whoa. You think you’re training enough, cupcake?” They look at me wide-eyed as they place the paper on a bedside table.
“I have to do what it takes to win the gold medal, and I’m not going to get there by taking breaks,” I bite out, hackles raised.
“What makes a medalist is their ability to prepare prior to these two weeks. If you haven’t figured it out by now, you’re not going to figure it out in the eleventh hour, cupcake,” they tell me, and then flop down onto the bed. “Damn, these shits are uncomfortable.”
“Stop calling me that.” They just said a lot of things that piss me off, but I figure I should address the most pressing: the pet name.
“Stop calling you what?” They stop digging around in a duffel bag and look up at me, their blond strands obscuring their face before they flip it out of their face. “Cupcake?” They grin at me again. Jesus. They must get everything they want with that grin, and it pisses me off to think about it.
“Yes. Cupcake,” I agree bitingly, smoothing out my skirt.
They just laugh in response, further angering me. “Aha!” They say, pulling out a protein bar. They offer it to me. “You want one? I always have a shit ton. Charlie says I’m a garbage disposal.”
I sniff and turn my nose up. “Do you even pay attention to how many added sugars there are in that brand of bar? I only eat sugar-free protein, thanks very much.” I ignore the part about Charlie, not bothering to ask who the fuck that is.
Blake shrugs. “Sugar is fuel, too. Whatever, Cupcake.” They flop back onto the bed, bite into their bar, and turn to eye me.
I feel positively dissected and uncomfortable. Why couldn’t I have been roomed with another figure skater? We would have been frosty to each other, barely spoken to one another, and kept quiet if we were stuck in here at the same time. I have a feeling Blake is going to make me talk to them. Gross.
“You wanna come with my buddy and me to get a drink?” They ask me.
“Um. What?” I startle back.
“A drink. Beer? Or maybe—” They assess me blatantly. “---Yeah, you’re a vodka soda with lime girl if I ever saw one.”
“First of all, I’m only 18. I’m not allowed to drink. Second of all, have you forgotten your entire purpose of being here? You’re going to ruin your competition physique by injecting poison into it? That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard,” I scoff at them and sit down on the edge of my bed.
“Okay, Miss Thang. The legal drinking age in Italy is 18, so you’re gucci here. And one, okay two, maybe three beers isn’t going to stop me from being at the top of my game,” they parry, taking more bites of that disgusting protein bar.
“You’re going to have three beers? How are you even an Olympian? You don’t deserve to be here if you can’t even take this competition seriously,” I condemn them harshly.
“Oh? Please tell me about being an Olympian, Cupcake. I’ve never done this before, so I have no idea.” They look at me pointedly and roll their eyes.
“Just because I’m a first-time Olympian and it’s your third doesn’t make you superior to me,” I defend.
They toss their wrapper to the side, hop up from their bed, move the couple of paces across the room to my bed, and crouch down to my level.
Putting their face right in mine, they lower their voice to a soft and almost sultry tone.
“No, Cupcake, it doesn’t. I’m not the one with a superiority complex here, hm? ”
I halt momentarily, my pulse rising. Blake’s irreverent goofiness became so serious just now.
I find myself out of words, unable to even breathe, as my dark brown eyes stare into their blue ones.
I’m not the only one who is trapped, though.
Something is happening here, but I’m not sure what it is.
Neither of us can move; we just continue to gaze into each other’s eyes.
Finally, Blake breaks the spell, abruptly standing up and pasting that trademark grin onto their face. “Well, I’m sure the next two weeks with you are gonna be thrilling. See ya later, Cupcake. I’m gonna go have a drink.” They rush out the door, letting it bang shut behind them.
“Don’t call me Cupcake!” I yell at their retreating back, but I don’t think they heard me. I’m sure I would have heard a big laugh at my continuing to protest the name. In fact, I think my vehement opposition to the name might be spurring them on.
Blake is… unprecedented. I’ve never met anyone like them before.
I’m not talking about never meeting someone nonbinary, although that’s true, too.
But they’re such a big personality. It’s something I’ve seen before in hockey players, but they seem to take it to the max.
I think it feels so different because most hockey players are insufferable egotists, and Blake is one pace away from that, but they come off more assured and confident.
Maybe it’s because their ego is attached to that almost puppy-like goofiness.
I guess it could be worse. I could be rooming with someone mean. Blake isn’t, just obnoxious. Sigh. I can do this. I can spend the next two weeks around them. Mostly because I will be avoiding them any chance I get. Which shouldn’t be hard since I’ll be busy nailing that triple.
The road to gold starts right now. And Blake Floquet will have nothing to do with it.