Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
BLAKE
I slide onto a barstool in what’s become my official Milan pub. It’s not that it’s been a hard first day, but I do want to just take a breath, watch the day’s highlights, and have a brew with my bestie.
Because we aren’t on the same team, our schedules don’t match up, and it makes me anxious.
How am I supposed to take care of my girl if I don’t even know where she is?
I saw her in passing during our preliminary rounds today—teams USA and Canada both killed it, thank you very much, and without breaking much of a sweat, might I add?
I pull out my phone and fire off a text after nodding to the bartender.
Me: Where’re you? I’m at the bar
She responds quickly while I’m throwing my hair into a bun.
Charlie: I’m decompressing. Just without you.
Me: Well, come decompress here. With me
Charlie: Blake, I promise that you can have a beer without me. It’s entirely possible for you.
Me: Pfft. I know that. I’m worried about YOU, sugar tits
Charlie: *eye roll emoji* I’m fine. You know we both beat everyone soundly. I just need to zen out. Today was so much.
I think back to the dazzling lights and booming sounds of the opening ceremony we just left. Yikes. It was a lot for me, too, but mostly I was trying to pay attention and be as still as possible to “represent America in the manner which it deserves.”
First of all, America is a mess right now.
America doesn’t even deserve the medals we are going to give to her.
She needs to be put in the corner for real.
Which, I suppose, she is, being on the UN human rights watchlist. I can’t decide if it’s fortunate or unfortunate that we were allowed to compete and not banned like Russia.
Money talks, and it has a lot of bad things to say with its bloody currency.
I snap back from my digression when the bartender puts my beer down in front of me. I offer him a winning smile, tip a gulp back, and continue texting Char.
Me: Yeah, it was really cool, but I couldn’t wait to get out of there
Charlie: You? A squirrel? Color me shocked.
Me: Wow, Char, you’re so funny. Come be a comedienne in person
Charlie: My obnoxious roommate is off doing who fucking cares what, so I’m going to enjoy my room for as long as I have it.
Me: What if I begged you?
Charlie: The great Dominant, on their knees for me? Hm.
Charlie: …still no. You have other friends, you know.
Me: Yes, but I love you the best!
The message shows as read, but no dots that precede an incoming message pop up on my screen. I try to goad Charlie one last time.
Me: Okay, heard. Enjoy your FLING *music emoji* *red heart emoji* *two girls emoji* *orange heart emoji* *white heart emoji* *pink heart emoji*
Sighing, I put my phone on the counter and direct my attention to the various screens with their Olympics coverage.
Drinking my delicious beverage from the gods, I start bopping my head along to the songs playing for the figure skating short programs. I’m not even thinking about Imani until suddenly she fills the screen in a little pink number that has me salivating.
But then, I’m no longer focused on how fuckhot she looks.
Her performance is sheer art. I know jack about figure skating or dancing, but this woman is delivering something that should win her team gold.
Shit, I’ll give her a medal of my own if she doesn’t receive her flowers from the committee.
To someone who knows nothing of this sport but knows how to command the ice on a pair of skates, she looks like she has it all: charm, artistry, and technicality.
Her jumps are flawless, her dancing is magnificent, and the whole time she skates, she graces the audience with a smile I’ve never seen on her face.
Imani Gray was born to figure skate, and I’m lucky enough to be alive to see it. Holy shit, this bitch sleeps two feet away from me.
I watch it all fall apart as soon as an interviewer approaches her post-performance.
“Imani, can you tell me what was happening between your coach and you during the kiss and cry?” The same man from yesterday grins into his microphone.
“I thought I made it clear I’d be taking no more questions from you?” She glares into his eyes, another camera angle situated right behind the man’s back for the best viewpoint.
He laughs awkwardly. “Surely, a little disagreement between colleagues is nothing to end a relationship over?”
She leans over and speaks into the microphone that he’s placed under her chin. “You don’t deserve to be in the same airspace as I do; nevertheless, be called a colleague. That’s enough questions for today.”
With that, she turns away, tutu flouncing, giving the interviewer her back.
Another camera tries to press into her from the front, but she grimaces and flashes a double bird before it quickly goes dark, and the screen picks back up on the man.
He straightens his tie and tries to regain his composure. “As usual, such a beautiful performance from such an ugly person. We are left to wonder if Olympian Gray saves her romance only for the ice. Vote in the poll by texting the number below…”
I sigh into my empty stein and pull out my phone. I have got to help her with these assholes before it wrecks her career, and in the meantime, she can keep me company. A little eye candy never hurt anyone, right? Right.
I’m sipping my brewski when Imani walks through the door in what we were required to wear for the opening ceremony.
She makes the standard Team USA sponsored by Polo Ralph Lauren look fucking adorable.
The patriotic country club chic linen pants and blazer combo look perfectly placed on her buttoned-up self.
“Why are you grinning at me like that?” She bites at me as she sits down on the stool next to me.
“Because you look like I’d love to corrupt you,” I waggle my eyebrows and make a point of lingering as I look her up and down. Honestly, who could help themselves? She’s such a little good girl. Well, not with reporters.
She coughs into her fist and looks away, but I can see her pulse jump in her throat. It encourages me further.
“So, let’s talk about how you’re going to charm these reporters,” I say as I flag down the bartender.
“You mean you’re going to take a break from flirting with me?” She asks in a voice that very much translates how she doesn’t believe a word of that idea.
“I think you’ll find that I can do both the teaching and the flirting at the same time, especially considering how much you like the latter,” I return smoothly.
“Ha! Who says I like the flirting?” She scoffs.
“Can I touch you?” I ask with intensity, realizing I might be changing the dynamic if I continue this thread.
“I guess so,” she hesitantly responds.
I take her hand, delicately pushing her sleeve up. Oh-so-slowly, I run my fingers over her arm. “Just as I thought. Goosebumps,” I say in a low tone.
We lock eyes, my blue eyes surely blazing into her deep brown ones.
The bartender shows up at just that moment and interrupts us.
I abruptly pull away from her and take a big gulp of beer.
“Just a water, please,” she manages to squeak out.
“Fucking Christ, Imani. You can have one singular drink. It’s not going to kill you,” I tease her.
“That’s just empty calories!” She rebuffs.
“She’ll have a vodka soda, thanks,” I tell the man.
She glares at me, to which I cock my head and smile.
“So. I know these reporters have shit for brains, but you just need to treat them more subtly than you have been,” I turn the conversation.
“Oh, so you saw my latest stunner,” she sighs.
“It was a fan favorite, for sure. The fan in question being me. I did truly enjoy it, but you’re not winning anyone else over with this shit,” I tell her with tough love.
“So how would you have responded, then?” She asks angrily.
“To the original question about what looked like a messy situation between your coach and you? Diplomatically, but reminding the audience who the fuck I am. For instance,” I sit up straight, fold my hands in my lap, and try to act ladylike.
“‘Every coaching relationship is fraught. When you’re gunning for the gold, it’s understandable, nay, expected.
’ Insert charming smile here. ‘I’m not just here to be the best, I’m here to perform at my best, and that means pushing myself even when I’m winning.
The American public deserves nothing less.
’ And then you smile, wave like the queen you are, and thank him for his time.
Get the fuck out of there and go throw darts at his picture or however you need to deal. ”
“So you’re not saying to stop being confident, just to be smarter about how I convey it,” she muses.
“That’s correct. Watch some of my interviews. My enemies call me arrogant, and they’ll still do that with you, but you just have to smile in the right places, Cupcake,” I explain.
At my use of ‘Cupcake,’ her lips quirk, and I’m just quick enough to catch the motion.
The bartender arrives with her drink, and I pointedly wait for her to take a sip before announcing, “I’ll be right back.”
When I come back from the bathroom, our seats are empty. I turn around to see Imani’s high ponytail weaving through the crowd toward the bathroom, utilizing a different path than I had taken to get back.
I groan. “We’ll be right back, barkeep,” I order gruffly, abandoning my beer on the bartop to follow in Imani’s wake.
Before she can close the door, I’m pushing through behind her. I lock the one-stall bathroom door behind me, turning toward her where she’s staring at me from right in front of the sink, a bewildered expression covering her face.
“You did not just abandon a drink in a public place full of strangers,” I say darkly, stalking toward her until she backs against the sink, pressed against it as I tower over her petite frame.
An unintelligible sound emanates from her lips as her wide eyes stare at me.
“Do you know how many people could drug you while my back was turned? We’re not just talking about losing your spot on the Olympic team, Imani.
We’re talking about you being carried home to some man’s apartment and being raped, killed, or sex trafficked.
Things you shouldn’t have to think about at the tender age of 18, but things you nonetheless must think about because it’s vital to your fucking survival.
Do you hear me?” I say it slowly, in a voice so deep it must be the lowest octave I’ve hit in a while, so dark that Imani shakes in my arms.
Her mouth is a little ‘o,’ but nothing else comes from her.
“Say that you hear me, Imani,” I demand, gripping her chin and leaning down so that we’re nose-to-nose.
“Yes, Ma’am,” she ekes out.
“‘Yes, Sir,’” I can’t help but correct, even though it’s not at all the time to be going into the type of dynamics I like.
I watch her pulse go haywire anyway. “Yes, Sir,” she breathes, as though it’s the first time I let her take a real taste of me.
And, really, it is. This is who I am in the dark. This is who I am in a dynamic. This is who I am unleashed.
And suddenly, I realize what I’ve done. I’ve locked us in this bathroom, pressed Imani up against the sink, demanded her submission, and I’m half a breath from kissing her.
She knows it. Instead of fighting me, she sighs into me, closes her eyes, and opens her lips just enough to prepare for mine.
God fucking damnit. I have to get out of here, and now. I’ve pushed this way too far, and look what I’ve done.
I back up, dropping my hold on her body, and unlock the door.
“That’s what I like to hear,” I blithely offer in response to her ‘yes, Sir,’ throwing a haphazard wink at her as I throw open the door and escape.
I see her confused yet betrayed face on the way out.