Chapter 1
CHAPTER
ONE
BLAKE
“Blake. Blake. Blake.”
The sound of my name penetrates the fog of sleep, and I groggily croak out a “Whaaaat?”
“You have to get up. We’ve just touched down in Milan,” Charlie says matter-of-factly.
“But I was just about to fight the biggest of the dragons with a super cool sword,” I complain, lolling my head to the side to crack an eyelid to look at my best friend.
“Tell your brain to bookmark it for later; we have to check in at Olympic Village. I hope they roomed us together again. I don’t want to deal with anyone. I don’t even want to deal with you, but you never listen when I tell you to leave me alone.” Charlie raises an eyebrow.
I grin at her in response.
Charlie is my absolute best fucking friend, though she would never admit that she feels the same way about me.
We’re coming to the Olympics as rivals—she’s playing for Canada, while I am on Team USA, but we both play for the Toronto Succubi during the PWHL season.
She has a rosy peach complexion like I do, 5’10”, with long brown hair, and she’s a forward.
Whereas I have long blond hair, cornflower blue eyes, a fully tattooed body, dimpled cheeks, and a 5’11” frame that makes me a beast as a defenseman.
She’s super reserved and pensive, while I’m your typical masc golden retriever.
That is, until I’m in the bedroom or on my skates.
As the resident bubbly extrovert on the team, I immediately zeroed in on her when she joined the team. She was very resistant to being friends with me, but I knew from the jump we were meant to be a team on and off the ice. Guess who won that battle?
She loves me; I know she does, but she always keeps her cards close to her chest. I love that about her.
Even though we are both in our late 20s, I never grew out of my impulsivity.
I do my best, but the ADHD sometimes comes out on top.
She keeps me in check, and I bring a silly goose brightness to her life.
We balance each other out. When we are playing on separate teams, who is going to keep me from going postal?
I chuckle inwardly. Olympians, prepare yourselves for the hurricane that is Blake Floquet.
The plane lands, and I shake out my limbs with relief. Eight hours isn’t so long a flight, but I get pretty antsy if I have to stop moving for any amount of time. While I stand in line behind Charlie waiting to deplane, I lean forward and put my elbows on Charlie’s shoulders.
“Hey, psst. Hey,” I whisper into her ear.
“Blake, get the fuck off of me,” she chides me as she shakes her shoulders.
“Let’s get a drink after we drop our bags in the room,” I continue, not moving.
“Yeah, fine. We can toast to our first night in Milan,” she agrees, trying to jar me off her body.
“You’re the best, Char,” I beam, kissing her on her temple.
“You’re disgusting. Keep your lips to yourself,” she grumbles.
“I looooooove youuuuuuuu,” I croon.
She grumbles in response.
“But for real, should we bet on who will win the gold?” I ask her, still with my arms thrown around her.
“We could, but I hate to take advantage of you like that,” she parries.
“Hello? Team USA has a good as fuck team this year,” I remind her and blow air into her ear.
She pushes my face away from hers, and I finally step back, putting my limbs where they belong.
She’s been annoyed enough; my work here is done.
“Team Canada won in Beijing, and we’re going to win in Milan.
It’s destiny. I fully expect you to make it difficult for us, but you’re going to end up with silver. Sorry, not sorry.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” I scoff at her as we walk into the airport terminal, past the various signs in Italian.
“I pay attention to my contemporaries’ statistics.
I know the components of each team. Unfortunately, you’re the best player on your team, and you’re not there to score goals.
You’re only there to try and stop us from scoring goals,” she continues as I come up alongside her, and we follow the signs to baggage claim.
“I know what my job is when I’m on the ice, thanks,” I huff as we step onto an escalator.
“I’m just pointing out what you haven’t thought about, Little Mx.
short-sighted. You’re not enough to carry that team, no matter how good you are.
But I will dry your inevitable tears and hold your hair when you get sloppy drunk about it.
” She brings a hand up to my arm and soothingly rubs circles into it.
“And who says I would get sloppy drunk if America places silver and not gold?” I deflect as we step off the escalator and stop to read the information board.
“Please. We’re talking about you here,” Charlie snickers.
“Hmph. Yeah, all right. Fine. You promise, then?” I give her my best puppy dog eyes.
“Jeez. Yeah. But you have to promise to do everything to prove me wrong. There will be no getting smashed in honor of my victory and your defeat if you don’t give me everything you’ve got. Promise?” She throws me a look as we stop at the indicated baggage claim carousel.
“What do you think this is? I’m gonna check you so often you’re gonna hafta name your bruises after me,” I grin at her while I take off my snapback, shake out my hair, and secure it back on my head, after putting all my hair under the hat.
“I don’t even know why I try with you,” she sighs. “Stop showboating, or I’ll make you carry my luggage.”
“Too bad I don’t have a service sub around here to do it for us.” I look around the airport. “Speaking of which, you think they’ll have those same fucked up beds they had in Paris to ‘prevent them from fucking?’”
“Not like it would stop you from finding strange. It sure wouldn’t have stopped you then, and it won’t stop you now.” She rolls her eyes.
“You know I love to fuck bitches up against the wall,” I laugh, proving her point.
“Oh, hey, speaking of showboating.” She curls her lips.
“I refuse to apologize for being a good time.” I elbow her in her side.
“Look, our bags. I am saved from the remainder of this conversation.” She walks up to the carousel.
After we get to the village, we split up to meet our respective coaches.
Coach Petras is a no-nonsense butch who spent years on the U.S.
team and finally got the opportunity to get into professional hockey when she was tapped to coach in the PWHL.
She’s a tall, white, short-haired brunette who is logical, thorough, and still manages to be compassionate when one of her team members is going through rough shit—whether it’s professional or personal.
Since this is not my first Olympics experience, I’ve worked with her before, and I’m excited for the opportunity to work with her again.
Not only does she always have my back as a queer woman, she also never misses an opportunity to correct someone when they misgender me.
Every time we get a new member of the team, she makes sure an icebreaker is stating pronouns, so there’s no awkwardness when I tell people I’m they/them.
I pretty much came out of the womb as a lesbian.
Not that we’re any better than Purple Heart Lesbians, but I’m a Gold Star.
Being with women always seemed like a no-brainer.
What was a more complicated journey for me was accepting my gender.
Coming from a family where pro hockey was always going to be my destiny, I was afraid to push the envelope even further than being gay.
Locker rooms were hard enough, you know?
Homophobia in sports is declining, but transphobia is still pretty intense.
It took a lot of therapy for me to be comfortable being out as nonbinary, even after CJ Jackson paved the road for folks like me.
Luckily, I’ve never had any players in the PWHL make overt comments about it, but sometimes the microaggressions get under my skin.
It’s part of why Charlie and I get on so well.
She uses female pronouns, but she doesn’t use her full name.
If someone doesn’t use our chosen names, I get a little extra.
“Floquet, here’s your room key.” Coach interrupts my musing by handing me a room key.
“Coo coo coo, now I can continue bothering Charlie. Most excellent,” I chortle.
“Uh, Floquet, you’re not with Lajoie this year.” Coach winces.
“What? Why the fuck not?” I bluster, folding my arms.
“New person in charge. They wanted athletes from the same country to room together.” Coach shrugs. “I know it sucks, but I’m sure you two can survive.” She pats my shoulder.
I throw my head back and groan. “Yeah, all right. What member of the team do I get to torture instead?”
She flips her clipboard around, pages through some papers, and looks up at me straight-faced. “Gray,” she utters.
I screw my face up in confusion. “Gray? The fuck are they? Did we tap someone who isn’t in the league?”
“Imani Gray, figure-skater,” Coach elaborates.
“Ex-squeeze me? I’m not even with a hockey player?” I gasp dramatically. “Coach, you can’t do this to me.”
“You’ll be fine,” she deadpans. “Just be…” She gestures up and down my body. “Your normal chaotic self.”
“Wait just a goddamn second.” I throw a hand up.
“Is this the figure skater who is known for being a complete ice queen? And no, I do not mean that she’s at the top of her sport, even though I have actually heard that she is.
I mean it in a derogatory way—like she’s unapproachable, unfriendly, and downright hostile. That Imani Gray?”
“So she needs some media training. Maybe you can be a good influence. Everyone knows you’re a media darling. You’re like Peeta Mellark level on charming the audience,” she reminds me.
“I think Hunger Games is an apt comparison in this case. She’s not just a Katniss Everdeen, she may be worse even than that,” I grimace. “And you want me to room with that woman? She’ll find me so aggravating, she’ll kill me in my sleep.”
“Now, now. You’ve never met a player you couldn’t win over. Isn’t that your claim to fame?” Coach tries to pep me up.
“Actually, my real claim to fame is—” I begin.
“Floquet, how many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want to hear about your sex life?” Coach cuts me off.
“So, actually, kink and sex are not necessarily intertwined, and—” I immediately begin soapboxing.
“Floquet,” Coach interrupts me with a sterner voice. “Can you pretend you’re in a corporate environment and just shut the fuck up once in a while?”
“Anyway, can you give me the information of the person who did the room assignments? I’m sure I can charm them into changing it out so I’m with Charlie, and Gray can be with whoever else who is not me,” I change the subject back.
Coach sighs. “If anyone could work their magic, it’s you, but I refuse to unleash you on someone who is dealing with way more important matters during this compressed competition schedule. You’ll survive.”
“Will I? If I go missing, make sure to question the tiny little slip of a woman who skates on weapons of death every day of her life,” I tell her.
“You spend your life on ice skates, too, Blake—as a defenseman. You’re more likely to be violent than she is,” she points out.
“How dare you. Off the ice, I’m the sweetest, biggest teddy bear of a person. I’d never,” I gasp in outrage.
“Blake? Get out of my face and meet your roommate. I’ll see you—alive and well—for prelims bright and early.” With that, she turns and walks away.
Well. Fuck.