Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
IMANI
Walking into the hockey arena, I’m immediately assaulted by how different the energy here is.
I’m not too excited about admitting it, but I may have decided that, between practices, I would maybe go check out one of Blake’s preliminary round games.
I hate myself for it, but I just want to see how Blake is on the ice.
Are they the goofy, playful person they are during their usual moments, or does the Dommy Dark Daddy energy come out when they’re…
what the fuck do they play? I know there are different positions, but I couldn’t begin to imagine what they’re called.
Maybe that’s better. I couldn’t bear to be seen as giving simp vibes.
I’m not that girl. Ugh. I’m not even this girl.
What the fuck am I doing here? Blake and I are nothing, less than nothing.
I’m just some girl who gets wet when Blake lowers their voice and reads me for filth.
Honestly, that sounds disgusting to say, even in my brain, where no one can hear it.
Okay. Let me just… It’s fine. There’s a chance I’ve already been seen here, so it would be even weirder if I up and left now.
“Imani Gray, now showing signs of flakiness. Could the competition be getting to her?” Or whatever the fuck they would make up to say about me because they can’t find actual sports news to report.
I buy two bottles of water from a vendor, calculating how much water I’ll have had today if I drink them. It’s not as much as yesterday, but there’s still time. Maybe I’ll get another water at halftime, or whatever the fuck they call it in hockey.
Looking around, I find myself in a sea of red, white, and blue.
There are no other colors, so at least I blend in since I wore my Olympics-approved tracksuit after morning practice.
It does strike me as strange, though, since I believe we normally have an opponent at the Olympics.
I might not know a lot about hockey, but I’m pretty sure the hockey team doesn’t play itself.
Turning toward the woman who is brandishing an American flag in the seat next to me, I shamefully ask, “Ma’am, can you tell me the team we are playing in this game?”
“Czechia, doll!” She answers in the most Southern of accents. Coming from Miami, I’m not really from the South, but I would recognize a Georgian dialect if I ever heard one, and this woman is for sure a peach.
“Thanks a bunch,” I try to answer as positively, but I can tell I’m doing that awkward plastic smile again, because she sniffs and turns away from me.
Well. I guess she isn’t going to help me understand this game. Fuck. I turn to my left, but it’s a dude bro who is so white you just know his pawpaw was (or still is) in the Klan.
So I’m definitely alone for this exercise.
I let my mind wander as I take in the noisy crowd, so unlike a figure-skating crowd. Are they going to be like this the whole time? Do they quiet down once the players get onto the ice, or…?
This is kind of a lot. I might be able to get into it if Blake were here grinning at me the whole time.
OMFG. This simp shit has got to stop.
Except… I know exactly the moment Blake comes onto the ice. Despite second-guessing myself, I look up on the big Jumbotron and sure enough, starting defenseman, number five, Blake Floquet.
I take a shaky gulp of water as I watch them skate into position behind other players for puck drop. And it’s like I can see Blake’s characteristic grin from here as they jostle the opposing team’s players while they dominate the arena.
It’s interesting to see how they utilize the rink.
I see from watching Blake that their relationship with the ice goes as deep as the one I have with it.
The difference lies in the way we commune with that frosty surface.
My bond is artistic, delicate, and feminine.
Blake’s is aggressive, powerful, and dominating, even as much as it is respectful.
Which… honestly, is how I feel when they interact with me. I feel just that—dominated, even while I’m being respected. Blake peels apart every corner of my mind and gently caresses it.
Hilarious to think about as I watch them aggressively hit a Czech player from behind, causing the woman to slide into a sprawl on the ice, which results in a blown whistle with them sent to what looks like an adult time-out.
Everyone in my section boos, so it either wasn’t a cool thing for Blake to do, or we don’t like the decision about it.
It hits me that the game is obviously where Blake lets themself off the proverbial leash.
Enraptured, I watch them throw off their helmet, take down their hair, and shake it out before pouring a bottle of water on their head that was handed to them by one of those angry people in black-and-white stripes.
I think it’s obvious that this attraction to Blake needs to go from our active imaginations to the physical plane. The question is, what do I want it to look like? They said a lot of hot things in our conversation yesterday, but do I want all of those things? Could I handle all of those things?
Blake gets out of the glassed-in box reoutfitted for their task and takes off like a bullet, this time hitting a player from the side and stealing the puck before passing it to another American player.
Both people I’m sandwiched between scream their hearts out, so the verdict is in: we love number five. I guess I’m in good company, but I still feel too awkward to cheer like the rest of the arena. I’m just a displaced figure-skater, what can I say?
One thing I can do is let a smile creep over my face while watching Blake on the ice.
They seem really good at this ice hockey thing, but I have to confess to wondering how they’d be as a paired partner.
I sigh as I imagine us dancing together on the ice, Blake lifting me into beautiful positions and then slowly lowering me to the ground, making sure to press our bodies intimately together in a sensual move as they do so.
Dance like that really is just translating sex to the audience via an ice-skating medium, so perhaps I should just bite the bullet.
I could go up to Blake and be like, “I’m yours, Sir.” No, too much.
The game starts again, and I realize I’ve daydreamed my way through the break between game times. The score is 0-0, but the USA crowd seems excited like they aren’t worried about the lack of scoring at this point in the game.
My two bottles of water are gone, but I missed the window to get another.
I could go right now, but I’d miss an opportunity to see Blake perform.
They aren’t always on the ice, but it’s not like anyone has a little clock flashing to tell me how long their break time has left.
The whole thing is dicey… just like the idea to fuck my roommate at the Olympics while I’m aiming for a gold medal.
I feel a vibration in my pants pocket and pull out my phone to see that Mummy is calling me.
Silencing the call, I scooch out of the aisle and up the stairs, finding a quick hideaway to call her back.
She’s so busy with her umpteen jobs that when she calls, I answer.
I make the fucking time when she can fit me into her life, as scarce as those opportunities arise.
“You just send me to voicemail now?” She answers when the call connects.
“Just until I can get somewhere I can talk, Mum. It’s noisy in here,” I explain, shifting to plug my other ear so I can hear her better.
“Hm. It does seem loud. Where are you?” She questions, her voice getting louder, like that will help override the cacophony in this arena.
“Um. Well. You’re going to laugh, but I’m at a hockey game?” I spit out nervously.
“Hm. Interesting. Tell me more about this. What drew you to a hockey game?” She perks up her voice.
“I’m allowed to have hobbies in my off-time,” I defend.
“Of course you are. You’re the one who’s all ‘gold medal or bust, Mummy. Winners never quit, and quitters never win. Blah, blah, blah,’” she parrots.
“I don’t sound like that,” I huff.
“Sure. You’re evading. What drew you to a hockey game?” She presses.
“Just seeing what Milan has to offer, that’s all,” I respond vaguely.
“Tell me, dear daughter, what Milanese food have you had recently?” She changes tack.
I shift the phone to my other ear and turn away from the sound of the game. “Mm. Went with a friend to a local place, nothing big,” I say casually.
“Aha! This is about a girl!” She exclaims wickedly.
“Goddamnit, my defenses are so poor with you,” I complain, slumping where I stand.
“Did my beautiful baby meet someone all the way in Europe?” She prods me with obvious excitement in her voice.
“It’s my roommate. The room arrangements got weird. They’re a hockey player,” I mumble.
“They? You’re rooming with more than one person? Is this a throuple sort of scenario? I don’t know if I’m enlightened enough for that. Maybe call me back and start the conversation over,” she teases me.
“No, Mummy,” I whine. “The person uses they/them pronouns. It’s just one person.”
“Okay, so who is this ‘they?’” She gleefully asks.
“No, stop. I don’t have time for this. No one in America cares who I pick up; they care who I beat to get to number one,” I bluster.
“Imani, what’s the point of getting that medal if you’re not even enjoying yourself? Would you please let this person take you out, show you a good time, feed you a good meal? You are eating, aren’t you?” She demands from me.
“Of course, Mummy,” I lie immediately. “I just told you that we went to dinner. Can’t go to dinner and not eat anything, can I?”
“All right. And you’re sure that Coach is treating you right? We can get someone else if he’s not, you know,” she assures me, though I know she’s already paid a fuckton and I won’t waste her money.
“We literally can’t. I’m days away from my final competition. This is the big show,” I argue.
“You’re being evasive again.” She raises her voice, but only just.
“Mummy. He’s fine. He’s going to take me there,” I insist.
“You know, I’ll love you just the same if you don’t get a medal at all, you know.” She softens her voice.
“No, I’m going to win. I have to.” I harden my voice.
And I do have to. She’s sacrificed so much for me to get here.
I have to make it all worth it—every shift she’s taken, every spare cent she’s allocated to my training, and every missed holiday.
She’s devoted her life to getting me here.
The least I can do is repay that love by going home with a shiny medal—the shiny medal.
“Okay,” she says with a resigned sadness. “But have some fun with this girl—this person?---along the way, okay? For your Mummy who can’t be there? Do this for me.”
“This is all for you,” I reassure her firmly.
“You’re right. You’ve done me proud. You’re there, representing this country that gave us a second home.
You’re there for all the little Black immigrant girls to look up to.
You’ve already done everything for me and everything for your legacy that you need to.
The next step is to just have some fun in between all those grueling hours of competition and practice.
Please, Imani. Enjoy your Olympic experience.
Make it a story worth telling,” she begs me.
“I—” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“Oh, baby, I’ve got to go. I’m so proud of you! I love you so much!” And with that salutation, she hangs up the phone.
I stand there blankly with the phone still held to my ear. Mummy just pretty much… told me I should make her proud by fucking Blake?
Okay, well. That’s batshit. I don’t care what she tries to say; I need to win gold.
But maybe… maybe I can do it on my knees for Blake.