Chapter 21
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
BLAKE
After my celebratory shotgun post semi-final win, I head to the makeshift studio where Imani is doing her latest interview.
I’m all hopped up on a fresh win and the prospect of facing my best friend Charlie in the final on Thursday.
In another reality, Charlie and I are trading insults and psyching each other out at the pub, but in this one, both of us have our hands full with…
well, let’s face it: both of us are head over heels for the women we’ve met in Milan.
I just don’t know what either of us is going to do about it.
That seems like a tomorrow problem.
For now, I’m going to see if I can scoot over to the interview in time to pump Imani up/calm her nerves before she puts on the mic pack.
Unfortunately, I do a bang-up (facetious) job of sneaking onto set, and by the time I have my pretty girl in my sights, she’s under the glaring lights.
I hear her laugh delicately, and I smile in response. That’s a fake laugh, for sure, but it’s a convincing one. I’m sure no one knows how plastic it is except for me. I guess she didn’t need a pep talk after all.
Seeing her coach, I make a beeline and step in front of him.
“Excuse me!” He whispers harshly. “I am monitoring my athlete. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Oh, my apologies. I’m Blake Floquet, Imani’s roommate,” I introduce myself, holding out a hand to shake his.
In a move mirroring the first time I met my favorite ice queen, the coach glances down at my proffered palm and snorts in disgust. “I’m aware of who you are, Ms. Floquet.” Then he brings an arm up and tries to move me bodily out of his view.
I hold my position easily. I’ve got a lot of muscle on this guy—good fucking luck to him. “It’s Mx., thanks. We need to talk about Imani. I need your help,” I correct and then begin my explanation of why I’m bothering him.
Coach rolls his eyes. “I could not give less of a shit. Stop wasting my time.”
“Allow me to rephrase. Imani needs your help,” I pivot in my phrasing.
“Of course she does. That’s quite literally my job. Now, if you’ll move out of my fucking way.” The coach clenches his fists in frustration.
Like this guy is going to fucking punch me. I wish a motherfucker would.
“I think Imani has a problem,” I try, undeterred.
“No shit. I can’t get her to interview properly or to land a fucking triple axel. Who are you telling?” Coach asks in a bored tone.
“Have you not noticed how little she eats, how much water she drinks, how she obsesses over her weight, and how much she practices?” I continue, unwilling to let this guy steamroll me. If I don’t let my father do it, I’m certainly not going to let this small-dicked piece of shit do it.
“Listen. It’s… Blake, right?” He begins, and I’m immediately suspicious of his tone.
“I understand you’ve gotten a little attached to her.
Women like you… I get it. But Imani is under strict supervision.
A highly trained team monitors all of her intake and output.
” The coach pats my shoulder with fake affection, and I inwardly grin that he has to reach up to do it.
I could kill him. The misgendering and lesbophobia are nothing I haven’t experienced before; I can handle it. But this man is knowingly assisting Imani in the destruction of her mind, body, and spirit, and that is something I cannot abide.
Taking his wrist that is still resting on my body in my hand, I apply pressure to it.
I can’t say I crush it, because I’m sure that with the amount of rage I have riding my body at this juncture, I might actually make powder of his bones.
But I do apply just enough strength to make him wince in pain.
“Don’t ever fucking touch me again. Got it?
” I accompany the words with a face I’ve only blessed a few souls with, but I know how unhinged my demonic smile looks, because he tries to back away in fear.
“I will get Imani the help she needs. If you won’t help me, then you’re not going to stand in my way. ”
The coach glares at me, but says nothing.
Releasing his clammy limb, I brush my hands down the thighs of my pants as though I can erase his germs from my skin, then I move away from him to watch Imani finish her interview.
The person they paired her with today is a different one than usual—she’s a blandly dressed white woman with a severely cut blonde bob. She’s lobbing easy balls at Imani, inane questions about what we can look forward to for the short program and the free skate.
As the interview clock ticks to a close, I watch her smile get cruel, and I internally groan.
Why do these people feel the need to end on “tough questions?” Usually, it’s some insult wrapped up in a pretty package, so that you look like the asshole if you react.
What happened to the other interviewer, the one who was afraid of Imani’s outbursts? I guess we’ve graduated.
Her blonde head leans in toward Imani as though creating a visage of confidentiality.
“Tell me, Imani, what makes you so good? Is it because you have something the other skaters don’t?
There have been rumors circulating lately.
” The interviewer looks pointedly in my direction until Imani turns to follow her gaze.
Imani’s confused stare locks with mine as I make my face as placid as possible. This is up to her to handle however the fuck she wants, and I’m going to stand behind whatever direction she takes her answer.
I watch as her expression melts from confused to surprised to determined. Everything in me wants to wink at her, but I stay as still as I can to the outside observer while my fingers dance around each other nervously in their pockets.
Imani turns back to the blonde devil and lets out a tinkling laugh. “Why, Margot, of course I do! You know, it’s time I talk about it.”
Margot’s face stretches into a Cheshire cat grin. “We’ve been waiting so long for this, Imani. Please do regale us.”
“The thing that makes me a powerful contender is my heritage as the daughter of Jamaican immigrants. You know what they say: melanin is my superpower!” Imani smiles delightedly, cocking her head to convey sweetness.
Margot’s face turns beet red as her mouth goes slack.
Imani’s coach growls in frustration next to me.
I grin with pride.
“Thanks for having me today, Margot.” Imani calmly ends the interview for her, not even waiting for the camera to stop recording before she stands and comes over to greet me.
Knowing that the whole studio is watching, waiting for us to do something gay, I school my features into a simple smile. “My, my, Ms. Gray, what spin you did there,” I praise her.
Imani bites her lip and looks away, her body following her until I get her back. “Unclip my mic, would you?”
“Of course,” I whisper, but demur as soon as I’m confronted with the smooth skin she reveals as she untucks her blouse and raises it, immediately sweeping me into a fantasy where I peel off all of her clothes and ravish her in front of all these people.
I lick my lips. Oh, what a scene we would make.
She looks back at me. “Blake? Let’s go.” Imani wiggles her ass where the pack is stashed above her tailbone.
“Right, yeah,” I snap back to the moment as I move quickly to remove the equipment.
Her coach steps in front of her closely, getting into her space.
“What in the fuck was that interview, Imani?” He leers over her, trying to use his height to intimidate her.
If anyone is going to use that move on her, it’s going to be me, and it’s going to be because it’s hot, not because I’m belittling her.
“Back your shit up right motherfucking now,” I growl so that only the three of us can hear.
He glares but does as I say. “Lose your guard dog and then come talk to me. I swear it, Imani, I’ll fucking quit if you don’t get your shit together. You think you’re going to be invited to The White House if you start throwing around the race card?”
Imani tenses. “Why would I want to go to the goddamn White House?”
Coach blusters. “What do you mean? It’s a time-honored tradition.”
“So is protest. If you think I want to be anywhere near that oversized carrot, you’re out of your mind,” Imani says with resolve.
“Where is this coming from? You’ve always toed the line for your fans.
Sure, you’re a little rough around the edges, but you’ve never taken a hard political line.
You always do the right thing, assume the right appearance.
You don’t always say the right thing, but we’re working on that,” Coach says, his voice dripping with condescension.
“When you say ‘assume the right appearance…’ You’ve gotta be shitting on my dick. I think you mean I try to look as white as possible, don’t you?” Imani bites out.
“I’ve always looked out for your best interests. You know that. We’re a conservative country, Imani,” Coach laughs.
“No. We aren’t,” Imani refutes. I’m proud of her for standing her ground and refusing to give this man an inch. How much of this shit has she taken since he’s been coaching her? Too much. “Get out of my face. I need time to think.”
His alabaster face turns violet. “You can’t win without me. You were all passion, no technique, before I met you.”
“Really? Then why did you agree to coach me, Lowell?” Imani asks, sudden amusement in her voice.
“Because I knew I could make the first Black gold medalist. I’ll be a legend when I’m done with you. And we are not done,” he now insists.
“I think you’ll find that we are. And I’m going to make sure everyone knows it,” she mutters so calmly that I know her vision must be blacked out with rage.
“You’re fired as of this moment,” Imani practically yells in the echoing room, ensuring that her words practically bounce off the walls.
Then she turns to me with more uncanny peace.
“Please escort me from the building, Blake.”
“It would be my pleasure,” I utter in quick response, risking a hand on her lower back in order to steer her movement forward.
She says nothing the whole way to our destination, which is, of course, the pub.
I don’t really know what to do after that heavy emotional decision, but we’re going to gamble on either door number one, food, or door number two, alcohol.
Sure, it’s Imani, so I’m thinking alcohol over food, but a bitch can try to make her eat something, too, yeah?
When we get there, we sit at the bar. I order a beer for me, a vodka soda for her, and all their small plates, not knowing what her food mindset will be right now.
I’ve definitely been where she is, but I’ve certainly never seen her so mad that she surpasses anger and drifts into the icy waters of cold fury.
The drinks arrive and she slams hers back before I’ve even taken a sip, then looks at me expectantly, those beautiful brown eyes beseeching me. I think she’s asking if I can be her brain right now. And that, I can certainly do.
I signal the bartender and ask for water, which earns me a silent glare. Petting her head in its usual smoothed back bun, I murmur to her, “I support your decision to fire him. But I’m not going to let you get drunk the night before your short program—no matter how much of a dick-for-brains he is.”
The water comes, and she sighs loudly, but then drinks some. She looks at me pointedly, eyebrow raised, and gestures to the glass, now only half-full.
“Yes, Cupcake, I see. You’re a very good girl,” I say, smiling.
Imani’s response is to tilt her face up for a kiss.
I’m hopeless for her, so my only recourse is to give in and kiss her in the middle of this full bar where plenty of other Olympians drink, licking the taste of vodka out of her mouth.