Chapter 22
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
IMANI
This is it. The big show—it’s here.
And I hate everything. I hate what I’m wearing, I hate my hair and makeup, and I hate this fucking song.
None of it feels like me. I’m about to skate out onto the ice for white America, and that blows.
Sure, it’s Coach Lowell’s fault for forcing me into these decisions, but I went along with them.
After being raised by a proud Jamaican immigrant, I threw away everything about myself that makes me special just so I could have a seat at the table—and I never even got one; it was all platitudes and carrot-chasing.
To make matters worse, when I stepped on the scale for my morning weight, the angry number yelled that I’ve been giving in to Blake’s dimpled smiles far too much.
Every bite is evident in the numbers, and when I took an inventory of my body, I could see how it was showing up for everyone else to notice.
This white man-approved outfit is too tight, and I want to rip it off my body like the Hulk and crush the judges under my smash.
I take a deep breath and blow it out. Turning to Blake, I simply beg with my eyes.
They meet my look and soften their gaze, crouching down to my eyeline. “What do you need, Cupcake?”
“Lowell is in my head, and it feels awfully Caucasian in here. Hashtag Olympics-so-white,” I mutter.
Blake squints at me, but I know it’s not from offense, just them trying to figure out the best thing to say to me while holding space for my Blackness.
“That’s very valid. The thing is, two things can be true at one time.
Lowell set you up to be white-washed, and you’ve just now unlocked your rage about that.
Even if you go out there and win the gold medal their way, you’re shaking up the system, Imani.
You know that. And then…” they trail off, leaving me room to come to my own conclusions.
“And then I can burn it all down,” I finish, finding some confidence.
They grin, letting me process.
“I can come back in four years, as a gold medalist, and do things my fucking way,” I nearly growl as though just showing up as myself will be an act of vengeance.
Blake leans forward as though to kiss me, and then coughs into their fist. “Now, tell me what you’re going to do.”
I stand up straight, and they stand tall, looking down at me expectantly.
“I’m going to go out there and skate my ass off.
I’m going to win that gold goddamn medal.
No matter what pretty palatable package I’m in, at the end of the day, I’m the proud daughter of Black immigrants, and I’m not going to let anyone forget who I am. Ever. Again.”
“Triple axel?” Blake checks.
“I’m nailing it,” I respond, narrowing my eyes, but not at them—at the obstacle that is that jump.
“Let’s fuckin’ go!” They whoop. The sound is drowned out by screams and applause as the current skater bows on the ice.
We trade places at the gate, and I wait, guards off, as the items thrown onto the ice in her honor and admiration are collected. When the floor is clear, I skate out onto the ice and wave at the audience.
The last interview followed by firing Coach unlocked something in me.
I’m all smiles and warmth, but inside, I set the intention that this is for all the Americans who voted for Mamala.
Everyone else can fuck off. But for those people, I’m going to pour all of myself into this so I can stand on that platform.
For once, I empty my mind of every browser tab.
I don’t worry about the impending conversation with Blake; I push the world’s prejudices to tomorrow’s to-do list. I’m unconcerned with who will coach me now that I’ve fired Lowell, and I don’t give a shit about diet or exercise.
I don’t even fuck with the intrusive thoughts that try to pile in and tell me I’m not Good Enough?.
I begin my routine, and I simply… get lost. I execute every spin and jump with admirable technique and precision. My dance is full of the passion and artistic expression that viewers have come to associate with an Imani Gray performance.
I exist for this, one with my skates. I feel the rhythm as only I can, completely outmatched by my competitors. I live in every movement, being born anew and dying in dramatic agony on every flick of my wrist and angle of my foot. I am nothing; I am eternal.
I’m locked in. I haven’t just overexercised for nothing; every moment on this ice has been leading me to these two final skates, beginning here with the short program.
And before I know it, I’m in final position.
I come back to my surroundings, finding my way out of the unreality I had dissolved in.
The first thing I feel is the lights bearing down on me.
My body is covered in diamonds of sweat that sparkle off my brown skin.
I zero in on Blake, and it looks like they’re crying openly and whooping wildly like they’re an extra on Jersey Shore.
And the crowd? The crowd is screaming as they bequeath me a standing ovation.
I keep my smile plastered on my face as I wave and skate off the ice, picking up a teddy bear along the way. When I make my way to Blake, I try to talk, but it comes out through the smile that can’t move. “Did I just…?”
“Become the second American, and seventh Olympian of all time to land a triple axel in the games?!” They burst with excitement.
I cock my head, the smile still stuck. “Uh-huh, yeah, that.”
“Can I hug you?” Blake checks.
“Please, Sir,” I respond, unmoving.
Their arms wrap around me, and then I’m being picked up. Blake holds me impossibly tight as their tears drip down onto my bun. A litany of Cupcake comes from their mouth, and I’m not sure they mean for it to come out at all, nevertheless whispered so lovingly.
“I can’t move. I can barely breathe,” I warn them as I begin to float from my balloon back to Earth.
“Shall I carry you like the Queen you are?” Blake laughs in offering.
“I think maybe you should put me down?” I hesitate, not actually wanting to leave the cocoon of their muscular body.
“Of course, Cupcake,” They reply easily, setting me down gently.
“Grab my guards,” I tell Blake dazedly, wandering over to the kiss and cry.
“On it.” They follow me and sit next to me, handing me a Gatorade.
The action jolts me out of my haze. “This is full-calorie,” I hiss, turning to glare at them.
“Weird how that’s on purpose,” Blake deadpans.
“Don’t start with me right now,” I grind out.
Their voice goes impossibly low. “We are in front of cameras, waiting for your score. So I firmly suggest you just this once don’t put up a whole fucking fight about it and get the bare minimum of calorie restoration inside your body.”
I give Blake my most scathing look. “I’m going to drink this, but if you think I’m going to stop bratting when I do, you’re in for a shock.”
“Now why would I ever think you’d stop bratting?” Blake drawls, smirking.
“Because you’re a brat tamer; you get off on putting me in my place,” I scoff.
“You and I both know there’s no taming you, and I wouldn’t want to. Why would I want to pen in someone so wonderfully wild?” Blake purrs seductively.
I turn away and gulp the Gatorade down. When I still feel their eyes on me, I cap the bottle and turn back. “Stop looking at me like that,” I snap. “You’re fueling the rumors.”
Blake looks at me like they’re one second away from tearing all my clothes off and fucking me in full view of anyone who happens to be in the vicinity. The problem is, I want them to. And I don’t want them to ever stop looking at me like that.
The announcement we’ve been waiting for interrupts our argument, and we both turn toward the board to watch my scores arrive. I just yelled at Blake for their PDA, but my hand flies to their thigh to grip it in frantic suspense.
I watch as my score tally is shown, and then my name is moved to first place. Katya Artymov, my main Russian competition, sits blessedly below me in second. Japan’s fierce competitor, Aiko Asada, still has yet to skate, so things aren’t certain. But… I might have just clinched the short round.
I brat the whole way from the arena, through dinner, and back to our room, but Blake simply heaps praise, smiles at me with those motherfucking dimples, and meets all of my attention-seeking behavior with laughter and confidence.
I hate that I love it.
When we’re back in the room, I move to the center and make a huge show of lowering myself into Nadu, while Blake leans insouciantly against the door in a tailored navy suit, no tie, just an open white shirt unbuttoned to their sternum to show off their inked and muscled body.
Their eyes betray them as their gaze pierces into my skin—I’m almost shocked to discover that my clothes haven’t stripped away from the force of it.
My pussy, however, is soaked like they’re already inside of me.
I lower my face, awaiting orders, but peek up from underneath my lashes to watch them.
Blake says nothing, just lazily puts a forearm against the door above their head and uses the fixed point to leverage themselves slowly off their lean, making their own show of disinterest.
Then they walk past me, and I hear the sounds of them taking off the suit that I’m now thinking of rubbing myself all over later, leaving my cum on all those quality seams.
I groan aloud.
Still, Blake says nothing. Instead, they start humming another The Aces song, and I’m startled to learn I’ve heard their soundtrack so often that it’s identifiable.
“What do I have to do?!” I wail, flinging backward on the floor in dramatic fashion.
Blake’s tattooed beefcake body appears above my vision, only covered by black boxer briefs and a sports bra.
To cover up my sexual frustration, I scoff at the rainbow bands along the top and bottom of the set.
“I was so good today. Why can’t I have you?” I whine, purposefully making a gigantic fuss.
Blake crouches down to bring their upside-down face closer to me, grabs me around my neck, and forces my face up to meet theirs. “You were very good today. But we use our words, don’t we?”
I stare at their lips and lick my own. Gulping, I answer, “Please, Sir. Kiss me. Fuck me. Use me. Reward me.”
They bring our faces together and in a kiss Mary Jane Parker would be jealous of, Blake kisses me deeply, plunging their tongue into my mouth and then biting my lip so hard I wince.
“Thank you for asking. Here’s what I’m offering: you and I will have a conversation after you stand on the podium.
Until then, I’m going to fuck you like you’re a very bad girl. How does that sound?”
“Do I get to negotiate?” I question before I try to go back to their lips.
Blake squeezes my neck in warning and holds me off. “You always do. These are your scenes, too. What are your terms?”
“Can it be clear that I’m your bad girl?” I softly whisper, closing my eyes in fear of their response.
“Oh, Cupcake, there’s no question of that. You are a very, very bad girl. But I l—” Blake cuts off quickly, and my eyes fly open.
We stare into each other’s eyes for a second, neither one of us moving. Is this the moment? Listen, I don’t need this fucking complicated shit. But…
Blake loosens their grip on my neck, lowering me to the floor before standing to their full height. “I accept. Take off your outerwear. Leave your hair in the bun; leave your sweater, leotard, and legwarmers on.” Then they snap their fingers.
I move as quickly as I did on the ice, executing my orders as well as I did that triple axel.
My heart is fluttering and my body is shaking.
It’s concerning how addicted I’ve become to this.
I need to be dominated, to be hit, to be treated so roughly it speaks of worship and regard.
I don’t know if I still understand what we do, being so new to it, but I do know that the person I was before the games did not understand how much love there is in kink.
I don’t want to look at it too hard now, either.
It’s not enough that we dance around it through our actions; now Blake is struggling not to say it to me.