Chapter 9
CHAPTER
NINE
IMANI
I come back to a blessedly empty room. Lucky for me, Blake must still be at prelims. Hopefully, they watch some of the other teams, review some tape, or even just go for a drink—anything to keep them out of this room.
Practice today was dogshit. I almost feel like I’m regressing.
Coach certainly treats me like I am. We’re of the same mind—that anything less than gold is a loss.
If I were to call Mummy, she would talk some sense into me…
but can I really afford not to listen to Coach right now?
After all, I agree with him. I crave the gold so much that I fall asleep with the taste of metal in my mouth every night.
I absolutely cannot go home without destroying the competition and bumping Katya to silver.
I make sure the door is locked so that I can have some advance warning if Blake slips through the door, and then I strip so I can look over my problem areas in the bathroom mirror.
I showered in the facility and made sure to weigh myself before I was waterlogged.
I’m still not at my target weight. I feel like the needle never dips down to that precious fucking number.
Every day I weigh myself, hoping for at least a pound less.
Since cutting even more calories upon my arrival in Milan, I’ve seen one pound come off.
It’s not enough, and I’m clearly stagnating.
I either need to practice more or eat less—maybe both.
Forcing my body into cooperating is the only way I’ll get off this plateau, and if I’m dizzy or discombobulated for a while, I’ll recover.
Everyone knows that the body is resilient and eventually gets used to a calorie deficit.
So I’ll stay patient and keep on course.
Looking in the mirror, I run my hands over my visible ribs, down to my protruding hipbones.
Growling, I harshly pinch the cellulite on my thighs, the baby fat still coating my stomach, and the saddlebags torturing me on my hips.
I work so hard on this body, and this is how it repays me—I’m still so fucking fat.
Interrupted from my pep talk by the key in the lock, I slam the bathroom door closed and hastily throw on my short skirt, wrap sweater, and legwarmers. I smooth my hair into its typical bun and try to be casual as I go into the shared room.
Blake is noisily tossing things from their gear bag into their closet while they snap their fingers and bop their head to a beat only they can hear.
I’m still shaken from whatever the fuck happened in that bathroom last night, but I guess my curiosity about them is too piqued for me to stop the “What song is in your head?” question that comes out of my mouth.
They abruptly turn and flash a brilliant smile at me. “Hey, Cupcake. How do you know there’s a song in my head?”
My lips quirk in an almost-smile. “You don’t realize that you’re practically a one-person show right now?” I tease Blake. “You’re dancing.”
“Nah, I’m stimming,” they smile.
“Stimming?” I ask in confusion.
“Totes. A lot of neurodivergents have to get out their excess energy. It also helps calm our nervous system when there’s a lot of external stimulation. And some of us have to be in constant motion. Stimming,” Blake recaps.
“Hm,” I muse, not wanting to be a bitch about this. “May I ask what sort of neurodivergent you are?”
“Sure, Cupcake. I’m ADHD.” They smile again, clearly not feeling one iota of shame about this, and I’m glad they don’t.
“So… no song?” I clarify.
“Oh… well… I guess there is a song. I have ‘Last Girls At The Party’ stuck in my head,” Blake nods.
“I don’t know that one,” I shrug.
“The Beaches?” They prompt, giving me a band name.
“Oh, sure. Lesbian band… white girls, right?” It dawns on me.
“Yeah! That’s them,” Blake confirms.
“Cool, cool. Yeah, I’ve never listened to them much.” I cough into my fist. The awkwardness of this is creeping in on me now.
“What do you listen to?” They ask, with what appears to be genuine curiosity.
I scoff. “I’m a queer Jamaican woman. Griff, of course. But seriously, a bunch of shit. I have to keep my songs for routines fresh.”
Blake laughs. “Respect. Love her. I also love ‘a bunch of shit,’” they tease. Before I can even process what’s happening, Blake barks, “Aha! The ice queen Imani is smiling. Look, y’all! I made her smile! Alert the media!”
My smile turns into a fresh scowl as I fold my arms. “Don’t remind me. Maybe if they talked to me the way you talked to me, it wouldn’t be a fucking issue.”
“What if you pretended you were talking to me?” They cock their head.
“You would never,” I say, the words slipping out confidently before I can stop them.
“Not on purpose,” Blake confirms. “I would also apologize as soon as you called me out.”
“I know that,” I say, realizing it’s true. I do feel betrayed by their sudden departure from the bathroom, though. “Maybe I should call you out for last night, then,” I icily add.
Blake drags a hand down their face as they groan. “All right. Sit down. Let’s talk it through.” They walk to their bed and sprawl lazily out onto the covers, gesturing for me to sit across from them.
I sit gingerly on the edge of mine, folding my hands into my lap, and stare right into their eyes. Blake tries to hold the contact, but their eyes jump around my face.
“I’m sorry that was a bit hot-and-cold of me. I shouldn’t have followed you into that bathroom, I shouldn’t have trapped you against that sink, and I certainly shouldn’t have almost kissed you,” they lay out with the seriousness they show whenever the situation requires it.
“That’s what you’re apologizing for? What the fuck, Blake? I want an apology for not kissing me. I want an apology for leaving,” I refute, my hackles rising.
Blake throws their head back, groaning. “Listen. We shouldn’t do this.”
“Oh, do go on. Why shouldn’t we fuck? Do illuminate me,” I bite out.
“For a couple of reasons, I feel like. But the biggest one is that I don’t think I can do vanilla with you,” Blake sighs.
“I don’t know what that means. You don’t do vanilla?” I scoff at the excuse.
“That is absolutely not what I said. I said I don’t think I can do vanilla with you,” they explain, searching my eyes.
Goosebumps immediately cover my body, and I tuck myself further into my sweater. “What—” I cough. “---What do you want to do with me?”
“Are you sure you want to hear this?” Blake hesitates.
“I’m not a child,” I huff, folding my arms again.
“Oh, Cupcake, I’m fully aware,” they respond as a wicked smile creeps onto their lips.
“So tell me,” I bluster while I’m dying inside.
“I want you underneath me begging. I want you on your knees, face pressed to my boots. I want you waiting for my every command,” Blake says in a low voice, that wicked smile erased but a fresh gleam in their eyes. “Do you know what D/s dynamics are?”
“I think so,” I say shakily, trying to catch my breath. “I take it you’re the ‘D?’”
“That’s right,” Blake nods. “Very good, Imani.”
The surprising praise from them when they’re in this authoritarian role makes a whimper sneak out.
“That,” Blake snaps, not missing a single beat. “I think you’re a natural submissive. That’s why I don’t think I can do vanilla with you.”
“But…” I don’t even know what I want to argue with. I’m so confused. I started this conversation being defensive after rejection, but now… I’m feverishly hot. And I don’t know what to do.
“I know my limitations, and I have to be the responsible party here. I’m a Dominant, even if I’m not your Dominant.
So, no, Imani. We will not be kissing. We will not be fucking.
We will not…” Blake trails off and blows out a heavy breath.
“We will not be enacting any of the various fantasies I have concerning you. Just. No.”
I want to say how much I want them. But apparently not only am I a natural submissive, whatever the fuck that means, but I’m also just your average queer girl.
Sure, a sapphic is telling me that they find it hard to control themselves around me, but what if they don’t like me like me?
What if this attraction is all in my head and I embarrass myself?
No, I can’t let on how much I like them. Furthermore, I won’t.
Okay, it also flashes into my mind to get on my knees and kneel for Blake, so maybe I kind of get the point about the submission.
Do other girls get into the idea of begging so freely?
I don’t make that a habit in my daily life.
I’m Imani fucking Gray. But Blake makes me feel…
like I can just… Something about the way they command a room, maybe?
Then I come back to something Blake said. “What are these various fantasies?” I ask, turning my nose up with the question as though I’m not even into this—like I’m not sitting here about to fucking cream myself.
They throw their head back and laugh. “Nope. Cupcake, you are so not reeling me in. We had our adult conversation about it. We don’t need to go any further with this, got it?”
I can tell the spell is broken. Blake’s mind is made up. This is the end of that conversation. Too bad the discussion itself was hotter than most of the sex I’ve had—and I’m not exactly inexperienced, despite my age.
Blake stands up, and I have the genuine torture of watching them peel their regulation tracksuit off their tattooed, muscular body and changing into well-worn boyfriend jeans, a cuffed blue tee that I don’t notice matches their eyes at all, thank you, and a St. Louis Blues snapback.
Well, fine. That’s just fine. I don’t need to have a stupid fucking fling at the Olympics, anyway—no matter how delicious (and now unobtainable) my roommate is. I can stay focused on my performance.
Realistically, I don’t even have time for a fling when I should be working on that Goddamn triple axel.
Just when I’ve started to think that nailing it is within my grasp, I land the slightest bit wrong on the edge of my skate and flub it.
With a landing like that, I cannot conceivably put the jump into my free skate.
I would be risking receiving any medal at all, and I know that it’s my first Olympics.
Hopefully, I’ll have more of these to come.
But I want to come back as a gold medalist.
“See ya, Cupcake,” Blake salutes me as they leave, stopping to boop me on the nose on the way out.
“I’m not your fucking Cupcake!” I angrily yell at their back, lacking anything else of real substance to say after that whirlwind of an encounter.
“Then why have you been responding to it?” I hear Blake retort as the door closes.
Well, that’s a fine point. But also, if they’ve been and are still calling me Cupcake, doesn’t that mean that this is actually not the end of the discussion?