Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
IMANI
With excitement and a big grin that is undeniably real, I skate onto the ice for my Team USA short program in my sequined pastel pink leotard and tutu.
I may not be a media darling or a fan favorite off the ice.
But here, live and in person, about to deliver one of the best short programs of this competition? The crowd fucking loves me.
Right now, I love them too. The stands are full; Milan has brought the heat. I’m thrilled to be standing in front of people who love the art of figure skating. But, really, it’s not about them.
As Felix Mendelssohn’s scherzo from the ballet “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” begins to fill the arena, I tune everything and everyone out.
This is between me and the music. For the team event, Coach wanted music and choreography that plays it as safe as fucking possible.
I, at least, got to pick how we achieved that.
The song is from one of my favorite ballets based on one of my favorite plays.
(I love the unhinged theory that Shakespeare was a woman. Fight me.)
Joy blasts through my blood, filling my entire body, adrenaline riding me just high enough that I feel strong. I feel good.
My routine starts slow, making full use of the allotted two minutes and 40 seconds.
This is where I excel at setting the scene.
One of the six required elements for a short program is the step sequence fully utilizing the ice surface.
This is the easiest part technically, but the most challenging part for skaters who lack the artistic excellence that I am considered an expert in.
And since I am the best at this, this is where I win over my audience.
I can’t stop the laugh of delight that escapes from me as I dance across the ice, toe stepping into rapid chassés, finishing with edge changes.
In short, I make that arena my bitch. But, like, as an artist. Honestly, because this is my easiest program with the least amount of pressure, I allow my mind to wander.
Should I be surprised that the first thing that pops into it is a blond-haired, dimpled, tattooed god?
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Imani.
I shouldn’t even call Blake a god in my mind. They could probably intuit my thoughts, and it would feed their ego even more.
It’s not like I’m straight… I’m definitely not.
I’ve been a lesbian since my first awkward fumble with a high school boy.
Swearing the male population off after that, I resolved that it was better that I focus on my career.
Also, I thought there was something wrong with me, until college when a girl hit on me for the first time.
Well, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with me after that.
I’m lucky that it was easy for me to figure out that I am a lesbian.
I barely clock that I execute a textbook triple lutz in my routine.
Maybe the crowd responds, maybe not—I’m too focused on the thoughts scurrying through my head.
One hundred browser tabs are open, and one of them is Coach’s voice, telling me how disappointed he is about that jump.
“If only you could do a triple axel, Imani.”
I only feel the steadying presence of the ice underneath my feet.
And wonder how Blake would react if they saw me skating.
Another browser tab pops up—the praise Blake would heap on me if they saw me dancing so unfettered as I am right now. Oh, how it would feel to let their words wash over me. I imagine it said in their dark, serious voice, with them staring directly into my eyes.
Holy shit.
I might spontaneously combust.
Do I want that? Do I want to become entangled with a—ugh, disgusting—hockey player?
I arabesque, throwing myself into a camel spin at the same time as I throw myself into fantasies of being with Blake.
I get further carried away by the melody of the music. Continuing with my routine, I fall into my fantasy—Blake’s cornflower blue eyes blowing out with desire as they crawl over me in bed, worshipping my body.
Or would they be silly in bed? Which Blake would I get? They seem to get incredibly serious when they are being sexy. No matter, this is all hypothetical. In my mind, they’re polished and serious, mouth-wateringly dominant.
I skate into an upright spin, feeling my back arch beautifully, then finish the combo by transitioning into a sit spin. I feel electricity running through my veins as I execute my movements flawlessly.
The peaking of my adrenaline pushes my fantasies forward.
What if I just… let myself have them? What if I just let the high of crushing this routine carry me right back to the room, and I told them I wanted them?
What if I could have them for the whole Olympics?
What if I could spend every night with them between my legs (or me between theirs—I shouldn’t assume, and I’ll take either scenario)?
What if I could let myself have this one thing, when I let myself have so little?
The music arches just as I showcase a flawless split jump.
My pulse is pounding. My enthusiasm is infectious.
I am one with this dance and this music.
I am melding into them so strongly I might never be able to take this costume off—I will simply live in sequins and tutu for the remainder of my days.
I laugh as I imagine Blake and me in bed, them carefully pulling the bottom of my leotard to the side to insert something into me.
It could be their fingers, but Goddamn it would be hot if it were a strap.
Yes, that. Maybe I want that anyway. Maybe I want to be fucked in my pure, fairy-like, pretty girl leotard.
My whole body flushes at the thought, so apparently that is something that is a full-body yes.
Intoxicated by my own imaginings, I lovingly work into a butterfly spin, gratified that my body moves the exact way I want it to.
The browser tab containing Katya tries to move forward in the queue, but I simply have no room for it or for her. Katya may be better at technicals, but I lead her on artistic every single time. No one loves this motherfucking ice more than I do. No one.
And anyway, I’m too busy with Blake’s hands all over me. It would feel so good to have a curtain of their long blond hair fanning over my body as they fuck in and out of me.
But alas, a browser tab I have been ignoring comes right to the forefront.
The big question is: what if Blake doesn’t want me?
What if they flirt like this with everyone?
What if I’m nothing special at all to them?
What if they’re just sweet and helpful with everyone they meet?
Worse than those thoughts: what if they feel sorry for me and I’m just someone pitiful?
It’s enough to pop my balloon and send it squealing right back to the earth. However, it’s not enough to make me lose my footing. I finish out my stunning routine with two back-to-back triple lutzes and pose for the ending.
Finally, I close down my daydreaming and focus on the audience, basking in their applause, purposefully not looking at the judges.
Their faces are intentionally unreadable, anyway.
It’s better to end a routine letting the hoots and hollers from the crowd soak into my soul, knowing that something that touched me so deeply held a fragment of meaning to them as well.
I smile broadly and wave, skating off the ice to the gate and to my awaiting coach, who is waiting for me with a mildly displeased face.
Grabbing my blade guards from him and scooping up a Gatorade, we walk over to the kiss and cry while my teammates excitedly interrupt me and hug me in gratitude. I accept a bouquet of pink roses from one of them and kiss her platonically on the cheek.
The exhaustion hits me as soon as I sit down, my adrenaline rapidly deflating my whole posture. I put my body onto my knees, lying down on them for a brief second, and taking several deep breaths.
“Imani,” Coach interrupts my tension release.
I sit up and open the bottle of electrolytes, blinking at him and patiently waiting for what he has to say, the ardor of my teammates fading at the sight of his sour face.
“I don’t want you to get swept up in accolades and forget about our goal. You need that triple axel to win gold,” Coach chides me, in a soft enough voice that only I can hear, mindful of the cameras pointed directly at us.
It pauses the gulps of the cucumber lime beverage I’m inhaling for recovery.
I paste on a big fake smile in mind of being on the television screen of everyone in the world and speak through my teeth. “Of course I haven’t forgotten about the triple axel,” I attempt to reassure him.
“Are you sure? You seem unfocused lately. I heard you went out with a hockey player yesterday,” he bites back.
I wince, briefly shocked into silence, but quickly recover. “That’s not any of your fucking business.”
“People talk, Imani. How does that look? A figure skater going out for a lackadaisical meal with someone who is outside her circle and is very loudly out?” Coach continues.
My fake smile grows broader. “I guess it tells people there’s more to me than being a figure skater.”
“I don’t think it sends the message you want to send,” he prods me.
I look down at the roses and Gatorade in my hands.
Focusing on the Gatorade, I find somewhere to focus my anger.
I do the math for the calories, tabulating how drinking it will bring my calorie count for the day.
Maybe I can do less for dinner? I can always afford to cut extra calories.
There are so many portions of a meal that aren’t necessary.
Doing the math empowers me to look back up at Coach. “I think it sends a message that I’m a whole person, and one that isn’t an asshole, since that’s the memo the media wants to send,” I defend through my enamel.
“Okay, but her?” Coach scoffs.
I turn more rigid. “It’s them, actually. And you should be thankful. They’re helping me with my media problem. Since you made that ridiculous ultimatum that you would walk if I didn’t. So, you only have yourself to blame, Coach.”
He rolls his eyes, but it’s then that the announcer starts up, and we both turn toward the cameras to wave in preparation for my score.
I have a nearly perfect score for someone who has no quads in my routine.
Because Katya competes as an AIN, this virtually ensures Team USA’s position to win the gold if I can bring the heat for the free skate.
It’s a team event for a reason, but I fucking sealed the deal—I got us here.
Half of me is elated and validated. However, the other half of me hears Coach.
He’s so loud in my brain that I leave the kiss and cry trying not to do the second half of the moniker.
It’s all I can do not to keep tears out of my eyes.
But I’m Imani Gray. I don’t do that in public.
I’d rather come off cold than come off emotional.
Putting aside my performance elation and putting on my facade makes my mind clear. It doesn’t matter what Blake wants or what I want. We have to keep our relationship as professional as possible. I will not get involved romantically or sexually with anyone here.
But they’ve already seen me break down. So maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if we were friends?