Summary:
Winners don't always come first.
Canadian ski cross phenom Cedric Bérard has spent his life chasing speed, glory, and his best friend Austin down every mountain they could find. They’ve always pushed each other harder, faster, closer to the edge—until one night, Cedric falls in a different way.
One kiss. One touch. A tumble into something neither of them planned for. Suddenly Cedric’s dream isn’t just about Olympic medals—it’s about Austin. The way he makes Cedric feel weightless, the way desire hits harder than any crash on the snow, the way one night leaves Cedric craving more.
But every fall has consequences. One mistake on the mountain leaves Cedric’s future in pieces—his shot at the Games, his friendship with Austin, and the love he never expected to find. Because some falls don’t just end a race—they change the course of a life.
Ski-Crossed Lovers is part of the Love On The Podium shared queer romance series.
Summary:
It was just supposed to be one night. Just a good puck to forget all about the stress of her upcoming hockey game…
Charlie Lajoie is no stranger to hard work. One of the best players in the PWHL for the Toronto Succubi and the daughter of one of the best hockey players in the world, there’s a lot of pressure for her to succeed on Team Canada in the Milan Winter Games.
When Olive Miller is unceremoniously dumped by her girlfriend before their big Italy vacation, she decides to go on it alone to finally get the long-awaited break from work she so desperately needs.
A night of rest and relaxation is what both women need, and who better to turn to than a fellow Torontonian in Italy? What starts as one night to release some stress quickly turns into more as Charlie can’t help but fall for Olive. But can their whirlwind fling go from a good puck to lasting an entire season?
From cozy sapphic author Rochelle Wolf comes a new hockey romance full of high heat and low stakes.
A Good Puck is part of the Love On The Podium shared queer romance series.
Summary:
Delivering a stone down the ice has never been so complicated.
Local curling legend Perry Hasting’s life is all about curling and Evan, and he likes it that way.
He still can’t believe Evan followed him out of a party all those years ago, just because Perry told him to. He tries not to think about the day Evan realizes Perry isn’t enough for him.
New to the curling world, Evan Baily learned to curl because of Perry’s love of the game.
He’ll do pretty much whatever Perry asks of him, and has discovered not only does he love Perry’s game, he’s more than halfway decent at it. But he’s not so oblivious he doesn’t see Perry cracking under the pressure of Evan’s intensity on and off the ice.
Who knows how things might have gone, if not for that one fateful tournament, a sucker punch, and a bossy Skip suddenly in need of a new team.
Suddenly gold medal dreams they never knew they had hinge on undeniable chemistry and unexpected partnerships. The road to the winter games is a long one, but Alan Channing could give Perry and Evan everything they’ve always wanted, both at the top of the podium and in love.
On the Button is part of the Love On The Podium shared queer romance series.
Summary:
Team USA serves a different sort of competition as figure skating’s frosty ice queen meets hockey’s golden retriever.
Imani Gray is known as the Olympics’ ice queen, and she’s smart enough to know that moniker has a dual meaning. Her whole life has been one battle after another, but it’s all been leading up to this: the chance for figure-skating gold.
Nothing is going to stand in her way: not the Russian favorite, not the reporters who keep using microaggressions that cause her to tank interviews, and certainly not Blake Floquet, the arrogant masc hockey player who she’s forced to room with in the Village.
As her career reaches a peak, she starts to unravel, but there’s one unlikely person who stands ready to catch her, and their dimpled offers to help might just be her saving grace on the way to win it all.
This is an FX kinky sports romcom featuring two messy lesbians. Please check the author’s website or front matter for content notes, and if you have any questions, please reach out to the author.
A Gold Medal in Love is part of the Love On the Podium shared queer romance series.
Mara May is the princess of cross-country skiing. All she needs to finish her career on a high note is the gold medal she was denied four years before by firebrand, Kirby Bonham. And Kirby is still the only one standing in her way.
After upsetting the sport’s princess, Kirby milks her newfound fame for all it’s worth, becoming a reality-TV star. But now Kirby must prove her gold medal was more than a fluke.
Mara and Kirby have history. History of trash talk, upsets, and trading podiums. Their rivalry becomes the flashiest story in primetime when they can’t keep their contempt or chemistry to themselves. As Mara’s princess persona and Kirby’s carefree façade crumble under the pressure of the Games, rivalry warps into passion. But during the most important competition of their lives, there’s too much at stake to fall in love.
Cross-Country Love is part of the Love on the Podium shared queer romance series.
Ski-Crossed Lovers by Allison Temple
CHAPTER ONE
World Cup 2025
Falling is part of skiing. From the first time I ever stood on a hill, I was taught that. I was maybe all of three years old, with a helmet that looked like a hollowed-out bowling ball, and a second-hand snowsuit that had been my brother’s the winter before. I don’t remember much from that far back, but I remember the howl of frustration that escaped my lips as I crashed to the snow for the fifth time that run. My legs were like wet noodles, bent at weird angles, and the heavy snow made it hard for me to swing the unwieldy skis around.
“Come on, buddy,” the ski instructor said. “You gotta learn to get up on your own. You’re always going to fall. It’s part of skiing.”
Looking back, that instructor was probably a bored nineteen-year-old who couldn’t believe he’d been assigned babysitting duty on the beginner slope. So what did he know?
But he’s right in that falling is inevitable. It just sucks when it happens in the Big Final of the last World Cup event of the year. Sucks extra hard when all I had to do was finish in the top three to qualify for the Olympics, and now I’ll have to wait the whole off-season to earn my place.
I pick the snow out of my collar. The fall was a good one. The kind of yard sale that would make that old ski instructor pause the whole winding snow snake of kids to hike back up the mountainside and help child me collect myself and my gear, while calling me things like “kiddo” and “little dude” in the hopes of distracting me enough so I don’t cry.
Crying’s not an option now. Not with the world watching and the national team maple leaf on my chest. I get to my feet, waving my arms so the coaches and officials at the bottom of the slope know I’m okay. The other three racers are in the finishing area, cheering and high fiving each other. Austin’s already got his helmet off, which makes him easy to spot with his long blond hair shining in the late afternoon sun. Did he win? He was ahead of me, but close enough I could have taken him in the last downhill section. Until Jean-Marie from the French team cut me off. Bastard. The last turn was tight, with the three of us trying to find the advantage that would put us ahead. The Norwegian was out of the running entirely. That is, until the final jump, where a gust of wind hit me while I was airborne. It was like an invisible hand grabbed my bib from the back and yanked on me so I landed off balance. I should have been able to catch myself. I’ve done it a million times before, in training and during races. But today just wasn’t my day. I ate snow hard, and the other three left me in their tracks.
I love ski cross so much, but you never know how your day is going to end.
Once I’ve got my skis back on, I make my way to the bottom, so that at least my time will be officially recorded, even if I’m so far behind even the slowest skiers in qualifying I barely deserve to be there. Still doesn’t stop Austin from throwing his arms around me like I won the whole thing.
“Zed! Did you see it?” he asks. He’s smiling so hard his eyes crinkle at the corners like an old man’s, which is saying something given that we both turned twenty-two last fall.
“Unless you mean did I see the snow caked inside my goggles, then no, man. I did not see anything.” I’m not even wearing my goggles. They’re pushed up on my helmet. But when I take them off and give them a shake, the lens is cracked. Jesus. That really was a good fall. Go big or go home. And it seems the best I’ve got is a chance to go home.
“I did it. Zed. Are you listening?” Austin’s hopping up and down on his toes. The buckles of his rigid reinforced plastic ski boots rattle where he’s loosened them after he was done his race.
“Yes, I’m listening,” I say, even though I’m still examining my busted goggles. Good thing the season’s over. Even the sponsors start to get antsy when you ask for your third replacement pair of something in a year. It’s been a tough one. Every race has been the most important race of my life because each one is another chance to get closer to qualifying for—
Realization hits and I look back up at the big illuminated leaderboard.
1. GRIMM, A (CAN)
First place, Austin Grimm representing Canada.
Holy shit. Holy—
“Grimm!” I shout. “Holy shit, Grimm. You did it. You’re going to the Olympics!”
Then we’re hugging and jumping up and down and screaming. Someone slaps me on the back. I glance over my shoulder and it’s Matthieu Girard. He came first in the Small Final earlier this afternoon, but it didn’t matter. He already qualified at the meet two weeks ago in Switzerland.
“We’re going to Cortina!” he says, and my heart swells. I grew up watching Matthieu race. This is his third games. He’s been the Canadian ski cross champion six times in the last ten years, and always in the top ten nationally. Even being on the same team as him is the sort of thing that makes me wonder how this is my life. To be on the same Olympic team as him? Wild.
Only I’m not on the same Olympic team. Not yet.
He seems to have the same realization I do. Probably sees it on my face. I’ve never been good at hiding things. Never really needed to. I’ve known what I wanted since I was big enough to put on a pair of skis, and I knew the only way to make it happen was to work my ass off. To ski harder and train harder than everyone else. So many of the kids in my ski club were there to go fast and have fun. For some, that was even enough to get pretty far in the regional race circuits. Good for them. But I knew it was going to take more than goofing off to make it to this level. And when I met Austin? The race was on.
“Don’t worry, Cedric,” Matthieu says with another pat on the back. He says my name in the French Canadian way: Say-dreek. “There’s still next season. That was a tough break today. You’ll get it next time.”
My ears turn flaming hot inside my helmet. Sometimes when Matthieu talks to me, I want to roll over and ask him to rub my belly, the way Luna, our old German shepherd, would do when you called her a good girl. But I’m not a dog. Or a kid. I’m a man with a serious ski career. My hero worship for Matthieu Girard will stay a secret until the day I die.
Even though he probably knows.
Austin’s talking to a reporter, all smiles. Ski cross isn’t exactly a high-profile international sport. We’ve got our own World Cup circuit, but when it comes to media coverage and sponsorships, we’re a lot farther down the food chain than the alpine events like slalom, or even a lot of the other freestyle ski and snowboard competitions like big air and the half pipe. Still, we have a following, and I hope everyone at home sees Austin’s excitement. He’s had an awesome season, including a couple lucky podium finishes that no one expected early on. That’s why he’s qualified already. Matthieu is right. I’ll get there. In our little duo, Austin’s always had the raw talent and style. I’ve been the technician. But there’s room for both on the Olympic team. Canada can send up to four athletes to the Olympics, and only two spots have been filled. There’s lots of time to catch up next season.
“You should have given him more room on that last turn,” Ivan says as he comes up to me. He’s the Team Canada ski cross head coach. He won the Olympics in Lake Placid in the downhill. That was like twenty-five years before I was born. He’s a grumpy bastard who never says anything nicer than “Do it faster next time” and “I told you to stay low in the turn,” but most of the time he’s right.
I hang my head. “I know. But we were side by side. No one had right of way.”
Ivan purses his lips. His sunglasses are on the top of his head, and the tan lines around his eyes and at his temples talk about decades spent wearing them while sunlight reflects off the snow. Most people don’t know you can tan in winter. Probably because if you live in the parts of Canada (i.e., most of them) where winter is spent with a scarf around your face, a toque squished down over your eyebrows, and a sun that never actually breaks through the endless days of grey cloud cover, you’re almost definitely also vitamin D deficient. But if you live your life on the mountains, above the cloud line and where the air is thinner, you can look like you just walked off the beach all year long.
“You’d have made up the time,” Ivan says, ignoring my excuse. “Instead you fell. So which was the right call?”
Before I can answer, Austin finishes his interview and swaggers back towards me, arms swinging by his sides to keep his balance in his hard boots on the soft snow. I drop to my knees, holding out an imaginary pen.
“Mr. Grimm. Please, Mr. Grimm. Can I have your autograph? Is it true you’re going to the Olympics?”
At my display, Ivan shakes his head and walks away. I’m a lost cause for now. He can have all of the off-season and next year to remind me why he’s the coach and I’m the lowly athlete.
Austin laughs, rolling his eyes. “Shut up, Zed.”
“No, really,” I say, rocking back up to my feet. “You’re my hero, Mr. Grimm.”
He punches my arm, shaking his head, but his smile never fades. The late afternoon sun shines off his skin, turning the five o’clock shadow on his jaw golden. He’s beautiful. A golden boy with a gold medal. Not an Olympic one, but a World Cup medal is pretty special too.
Austin and I met when we were nine. Until he joined the ski club, I was the fastest kid on the team. But the very first day, he smoked me on the run, leaving me to eat his snow. That pissed me off. I didn’t like being second. For a few weekends, I swore Austin Grimm and I would be mortal enemies for the rest of our lives. But then one afternoon we were doing cat-and-mouse drills, practicing passing each other. In a minute where we were watching other kids doing the same, Austin whispered, “I wanted you to be my partner because you’re the best skier here,” and my conviction that I would hate him until I died turned almost immediately to respect for his superb observation skills. We were best friends by Christmas, and we’ve had each other’s backs the whole time we worked up the junior alpine circuit, before moving over to ski cross right around the time we finished high school.
As I watch Austin step up onto the top level of the podium and hold his hands up in triumph, all I can think is that we planned for this. More than dreamed. We worked our asses off. Other people would have decided to be rivals. And don’t get me wrong. I love nothing more than beating his ass in a race. But what I want more than anything is for the two of us to stand on top of the podium together while they play “O Canada.” I mean, obviously one of us will have to come in second, but most days I don’t even care who it is. If I’m going to lose to anyone, losing to Austin at the Olympics is pretty much the dream. Aside from winning gold, of course.
When the ceremonies are done, and the last of our gear is handed off to the equipment team, Austin and I board the bus back to the resort. This weekend’s competition was in Maine. The conditions were touch and go, with the milder temperatures of the late season making the snow soft and prone to grabbing your edges at the worst possible moment.
“That was so incredible,” Austin says, practically shaking with excitement as we ride the elevator back up to our shared hotel room. Accommodations were cozy this weekend, but at least the room has two beds, and they were paid for by Canada Ski. Back when we were coming up, doing junior racing and even on the NorAm Cup circuit, accommodations were often self-funded, which led to a lot of nights spent squeezed with too many bodies in a king-size bed if you were lucky or—if you were less fortunate—on the floor or, once, with a nest of pillows and blankets in the bathtub.
“The Olympics!” Kage says, gaze going dreamy. He’s the newest member on the team and just turned nineteen. He’s got a lot of raw talent, but hasn’t quite figured out how to put all the pieces together at the senior national level. “That’s so cool.”
Austin’s smile gets bigger. “We should celebrate! Go out tonight. Nothing to do tomorrow but the photoshoot with Apex.”
We all groan simultaneously. Me, Austin, Kage, Matthieu, and Andrew Spinner, who makes up the fifth person on the men’s team. Like Matthieu, he’s a veteran and the two of them tend to keep to themselves. Probably say things like “young whippersnappers” and “back in my day” when we’re not around.
So I’m surprised when Matthieu says, “A celebration would be good.”
“But the photoshoot,” I say. Not that I’m looking forward to it. It’s a necessary evil. Someone’s got to pay for the hotel rooms after all, and sponsors expect a certain quid pro quo for their generosity. But we’re athletes, not models. I’d rather do an extra weight session in the gym than smile for the camera.
Spinner huffs a laugh. “You can ski hungover. Trust me.”
Austin smacks my shoulder, making me jump. “Come on, Zed! Let’s do it.” His eyes sparkle with an electric energy that I’m surprised isn’t making his long hair stand up on end.
“There’s karaoke,” Kage says. “I heard some of the race volunteers talking about it. Supposed to be a fun time.”
The only thing I want to do less than a photoshoot is sing karaoke. Trust Kage to find out about the local nightlife. He didn’t make it out of the qualifying runs this weekend. The first day of ski cross is timed runs, with only the top thirty-two advancing to actual competition the following day. Kage finished in the low forties, which means he’s had lots of time to sit around the hill and find out where all the local dive bars and cheesy karaoke nights are held.
Still, I groan. “Guys, I don’t know.” Usually I’m up for at least a couple drinks, but there’s a knot in my hip that needs a hot shower and some vigorous massage. “I’ll probably chill tonight.” I can stretch it out. Ivan will send out footage from the races. I can watch them and figure out where things went sideways today. Besides the close turn with the Norwegian and the hand of god pulling on my bib, I mean. There are always places for improvement in every single race.
“Zeddy,” Austin says, pushing out his lower lip as he wraps an arm around my waist and rests his chin on my shoulder. “The season’s over. Let’s relax. We’ve got all summer to train.”
I go to point out that’s easy for him to say, since he’s already qualified for the Games. Same with Matthieu. Some of us have to work even harder over the next few months. There are five of us and only four spots to go to the Olympics. With two of them spoken for, my chances are getting slimmer.
But they’re all watching me expectantly. We’re off the elevator and standing in the hall. I get the feeling if I don’t commit, they’ll all follow me to my room. Maybe even into the shower.
I sigh. When I say, “Fine. Let’s do it,” the others cheer ecstatically. My legs ache as I stagger to my room to change. I really would prefer to stay in tonight. With Austin in the games, all pressure is on me to qualify too and reach our goals.
But one night of fun won’t hurt.
Will it?
A Good Puck by Rochelle Wolf
CHAPTER ONE
OLIVE
Olive kept replaying the moment in her head.
“We really aren’t right for each other,” the ex-who-shall-not-be-named said to her over the phone yesterday. Yesterday. The night before their big anniversary trip to Italy. And on the phone?!
Olive had wondered why her ex was acting distant lately, not really as excited for their upcoming trip as she was. It was hard enough taking the time off work for three weeks. The least her ex could’ve done was tell her sooner so she could’ve tried to cancel the vacation, or at least tried to look into getting a refund for the trip. But it was looking as if Olive would be stuck here in her apartment, single and alone for the next few weeks instead.
The thought of going back to work filled Olive with a dread even stronger than the idea of this breakup.
She sighed dramatically, scrolling through her phone. She’d barely gotten any sleep, and she was supposed to be on her way to the airport now, but that was the last thing on her mind.
Olive’s doom scrolling ended when a call from her sister flashed across the screen. Oh God, she was going to get anxiety panics every time she saw someone calling her now. The memory of yesterday was too fresh.
“Yes?” Olive asked when she answered, not even bothering with a pleasantry.
“Shouldn’t you be on the way to the airport now?” Bronwyn asked.
“What part of ‘I don’t have a girlfriend to go with anymore’ don’t you understand?”
Bronwyn sighed, and Olive could picture her shaking her head at her. “Just go anyway. You said the vacation was paid for already, right? She already told you she won’t be there, so you may as well take advantage of the shitty situation.”
“That’s ridiculous, I can’t just go by myself,” Olive immediately refused.
“Why not? You’re thirty, aren’t you?”
Olive gasped. “How rude! I’m a sensible twenty-nine. Don’t remind me. I don’t want to be dealing with a quarter-life crisis in addition to heartbreak.”
“First of all, your quarter-life crisis would’ve been five years ago. And are you sure you’re really mourning the breakup and not just the idea of being in a relationship?”
That was entirely too much logic for one sentence, and Olive didn’t bother with a response. When she didn’t answer, Bronwyn continued her tirade.
“Just go. I think you really need this, Olive. Just you and the Italian views, good food and good vibes. You need a vacation from work. Do you really want to spend the next three weeks moping?”
“…No,” she eventually responded. “Exactly. Just go. And let me know when you get on the UP Express. I’ll be stalking your location.”
Ah, Olive had forgotten she could see where she was on the Find My Friends feature of their iPhones.
“Is that how you knew I was still at home?”
“Of course. You know checking in on my Sims is my favourite activity,” Bronwyn said with all the seriousness in the world.
Olive shook her head. “Kids these days.”
Though they were only six years apart in age, Bronwyn definitely made Olive feel every year of it when they talked. It wasn’t that Olive was overly serious or stuffy, but she’d been to climb the corporate ladder at a young age to make sure their family was provided for. It hadn’t really left her with much time for fun or spontaneity, which was probably the real reason she was so averse to going on this trip on her own.
Talking to Bronwyn made her rethink that, though. Maybe she was too stuck up for my own good.
Olive could be fun. Olive was a fun person, at least Natalia had thought so before she unceremoniously dumped her. Maybe the problem was that the fun never lasted, and that reality always kicked in. But on a vacation, reality would be thousands of kilometres away.
“Okay, I have to go. It looks like I have a plane to catch,” Olive said. Bronwyn’s cheering was more than enough to convince her that she was making the right decision.
On the Button by Jaime Samms
CHAPTER 1
ALAN
Dropping the pages I’d been studying, I pinched the bridge of my nose, rubbing at the tender gouges my heavy glasses had left in the skin. I only needed them for reading, so I rarely wore them.
“You know I could have summarized all of that for you into a nice video,” Michael said, sitting down across from me and handing over a beer.
“The numbers don’t stick unless I see them.”
He sighed, because he knew that about me. “Though I don’t see why it matters. This is such a nothing tournament. Doesn’t count towards any of your stats or standings.”
“I know.” I glanced around the room, as if looking for someone who might overhear me in the privacy of my own living room. “We aren’t working well as a team. Having some of the best curlers doesn’t necessarily mean we’ll win if we can’t work together. I’m just trying to integrate—”
“Let me stop you right there,” Michael said, a hand flat over the spread of papers. “I do know why you decided to play in this little bonspiel. I know what you’re worried about.”
“I want to get to the Olympics, but honestly…?”
“Not with this team.”
It was my turn to sigh and take a long drag from my bottle. “It was a mistake agreeing to the twins.”
“Our bank account was completely empty. We needed the money.”
“It was too high a price.”
Michael remained silent, because he knew what I was talking about. It wasn’t just that our four-man team didn’t work well together on the ice. As our alternate, the dynamics didn’t affect Michael as much as they did our Vice-Skip, Carol. While Carol’s public persona gave a lot of golden retriever energy on camera, his actual vibe was a lot more vizsla. He thrived on personal connections and closeness.
The Darren twins were not the ones to give him that. They didn’t listen to me on the ice, they made Carol feel disconnected and anxious, and truthfully, while they could deliver a stone accurately on a perfect ice surface, they didn’t tend to adjust quickly enough to less than ideal conditions. Neither of them trusted my calls for brooming.
They’d grown up playing in an exclusive club with all the perks and privileges and none of the adversity that made a good curler a great one. Add to that the more volatile twin, Jason, was pissed off he hadn’t been made Skip, and yeah. As a team, we were more than a bit of a hot mess.
“I was hoping a nice, low-stakes tournament might give us that final push to… I don’t know.”
“They would have to be on board with that idea,” Michael pointed out. “And they aren’t. They’re here for the potential podium run, and nothing else.”
“I’d rather give their sponsor the money back and bootstrap our own run than do it with them, if I’m honest.”
“Which explains all this.” He sat back, sipped his beer, and flipped idly through the papers on the table. “You don’t really care what their stats are in terms of whether we can beat them. You’re looking for new players.”
I nodded. “I just wish all the clubs kept stats.” I waved at a small stack of printouts from two of the clubs that would be participating in the same tournament that we had entered. “The guys from Timmins and Hurst are out. They’re all too young. No experience.”
“The Timmins guys have good stats.”
“Not very many of them. And not under pressure. Do they have stamina and grit? Stats don’t show that. Thunder Bay has a couple of potentials. I only need one.”
“You can’t replace one twin and not the other,” Michael warned.
“Oh, I have no intention of it. But I have you for Second, and Carol as Vice. I just need a Lead.”
Michael leaned over the table again. “You have to put Carol back on Lead. It’s what he’s good at.”
“And I will. If I can. He’s a decent Vice, and finding a new First will be a lot more likely than finding someone who can hold down the Vice spot.”
“I just hate that for him. He’s not thriving.”
“I suspect he’ll be a lot more comfortable with just about anyone other than a Darren brother.”
“You’re not wrong. What about the guys from the Sault?”
“No idea. Sault Ste. Marie and Sudbury don’t keep the kind of stats that would help me. Which is why I have a plan.”
Michael sagged. “Tell me.” He sounded more resigned than interested, but I laid it out anyway.
“I looked up their house schedules. Sault Ste. Marie’s club night is Tuesday, and Sudbury’s is Friday. We could go watch them and see how they play. In person.”
“You know how long it takes to drive from the Sault to Sudbury, right?”
“Road trip. We can stop in North Bay and visit your folks. They’ll love that.”
“You need to study a map. North Bay is not remotely between those other two cities.”
“Well, no, but it’s only ninety minutes from Sudbury, so we could stay over at your place. Save some hotel fees.”
He snorted. “Jason and Cameron will love that.”
“They can suck it up. Team bonding. We need this. If they can do it and we don’t want to kill them by the end of it, we might have some hope.”
“I don’t love inflicting them on my parents, but I would love to see them on the farm.” He grinned, and it was downright mean. “Can you imagine?”
I really, really could not imagine the twinky twins in their designer everything picking their way through horse crap, but I, too, liked the idea of it.
“Plus Carol loves it there, and he could use the chance to decompress and commune with the horses.” He downed the end of his beer. “I’ll do it for him.”
He got up, took my empty bottle and his own to the kitchen.
“You’d do anything for him,” I whispered to myself. Maybe it was not super wonderful of me to use that fact in my favour to get Michael to agree to my plan, but it was a net positive. It would do Carol some good to relax where he was comfortable, with people he’d already bonded with. It would be helpful for our strategy to see some of the other teams play in person. A road trip would give us the necessary bonding experience as a team, or solidify my conviction that we needed someone new.
As predicted, the twins hated the idea, and refused to travel with us in Michael’s old SUV, so we let them do their thing in their uncle’s town car, with their uncle’s chauffeur. Michael, Carol, and I took my truck since it was newer and would be less impacted by the number of kilometres we were going to put on it.
Between the three of us, the drive from Renfrew to Thunder Bay wasn’t terrible. We had fun, even. Too bad the twins refused to join us.
Strike one against my desired net positive effect.
The Thunder Bay club welcomed us with the kind of fanfare the twins enjoyed, so that was helpful on that front. It distracted the teams from playing their best game, though, so that made it difficult to decide if any of them would be good enough.
“Not if they are distracted by this tiny amount of fuss,” Carol pointed out from where we were sitting in a booth above the sheets to watch. “All of the championships and bonspiels for qualifying are televised. They’d never survive under that kind of pressure.”
If anyone would know, Carol would.
“Technically, none of that matters, because we’re already qualified for the Trials,” I reminded him.
Michael exchanged a look with him, but said nothing.
“What?”
“Watch the game,” Michael said.
A few days later, while Michael and I were relaxing on his parents’ porch under a propane heater, sipping hot chocolate, and Carol was literally communing with the horses, Michael turned his phone to face me.
“Check this out.”
“What is it?” I took the phone and looked at the image. “Who’s this?”
“The Sudbury team. They did this charity thing, teaching kids to curl, having a mini-tournament with them, and raising money for the local clubs for their children’s programs.”
“They sound like real princes,” Jason said, plopping down in the chair next to mine and yanking it forward until he’d blocked me from most of the heat. “It’s fucking frigid out here.”
Cameron took the phone out of my hand to look at the picture of the team, standing behind a couple of little kids who held one of those giant cheques. “They look like princes,” he observed, handing the phone to his twin and going inside the house.
“Shit yeah,” Jason grinned. “I’d do the curly haired one. All that fem energy—begging to get it fucked out of him.”
“You’re a pig,” I said, taking back the phone. The truth was that Jason Darren would pretty much fuck anyone. Not his nicest quality.
I expanded the image to get a better look at the players. I hated to admit I agreed with them. The whole team were not hard to look at, but two of them, the one with curly hair Jason had mentioned, and the shorter blond next to him, were especially pretty.
It was clear, from the way Curly Hair had his arm slung over Blond’s shoulder, and how Blond was gazing at him, ignoring the camera, that they were something to each other. That intrigued me.
It wasn’t like curling was the NHL or anything, but I struggled to think of anyone in the men’s circuit who were openly out. That these two guys so obviously didn’t care who knew who they were in love with was refreshing.
I wished I’d brought my glasses out with me. I glanced up at Michael, who nodded and took his phone back so he could read the article aloud.
“‘Local curling legend Perry Hasting.’” He paused, expanded something and squinted at the screen. “I think that’s the one with the hair—‘and his team, currently sitting at the top of the Sudbury rankings, had a very successful day, raising…’ blah, blah, blah.” He skimmed through the article. “Nearly ten K,” he muttered. “Good for you, guys. Ah, Here. ‘Skip, Perry Hasting, Vice, Robbie Chan, Second, Evan Baily, and First, Shaw Kerry, expected to take the grand prize in the Northern Ontario Recreational Open in two weeks, say they are looking forward to meeting last-minute tournament entry, Olympic hopefuls, Alan Channing, Carol Renard, and the Darren twins, Jason and Cameron in what should prove to be a challenging match-up. “We plan to give those guys a run for the local podium,” Baily said when asked if he thought they could still take top honours. Just because we play in a house league doesn’t mean we don’t have skills. And the best Skip ever.” With the full, enthusiastic backing of his team, Perry quietly agreed they might have a chance. “I’m excited to give it try,” he admitted. “We’ll see.” The tournament is scheduled’ yadda, yadda.”
Michael grinned. “Cocky fuckers. I guess we will see.”
“We’ll kick their skinny asses,” Jason muttered.
“Maybe.” I was intrigued, though. That they’d taken an entire weekend to curl with a bunch of kids, raised money for their programs, and had the kind of confidence to go on record saying they thought they could be a challenge for us, all made me very interested in meeting them.
“Hey, how long are we stuck here?” Jason asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“I’d like to go watch them play on Friday,” I said. “See what we’re up against.”
Jason snorted. “Sure. Sounds fun.” He got up and called into the house for Cameron, asking if he wanted to go into town for the afternoon.
“So much for bonding,” Michael muttered after they drove off.
“Honestly—” I settled more comfortably under my lap blanket. “—I am less and less interested in bonding with those two. I’d rather be struggling to do this with teammates we can respect than for it to be financially easy and have to deal with those two.”
“So can we replace them before the deadline?”
“The deadline only matters if we’re replacing more than one player. We can cut them loose and take on one guy and just not have an alternate.”
Michael nodded. “I guess we’ll see.”
I wished he sounded more convinced, but I wasn’t going to change my mind. If there was any way I could get to the Olympics without those two albatrosses, that’s what I would do.
Pulling out my own phone, I started drafting an email to their uncle, who had been so heavily on board with us taking them on. I’d only been at it a minute before Michael muttered something as he handed me my glasses which he’d had in his breast pocket.
I grinned at him, “Thanks.”
He just shook his head and went back to gazing out over the horse paddock.
Things were going to change. I didn’t send the email right away, but I felt better having drafted it.
Then I started googling. Was it considered stalking if I was only interested in their curling careers?
Seeing them in person two days later threw all my careful only-interested-in-their-curling thoughts out a very high window. Perry Hasting and Evan Baily were both adorable. They were so clearly a couple and I forced myself not to flirt. Or I tried to, but I’m only human, and they were not subtle.
“Oh my god,” Michael grumbled after the introductions, when we were sitting at a table, watching their game. “You like them.”
I shrugged. “What’s not to like?”
He sighed. “You don’t get to assess their skills,” he said. “Carol and I will decide if they’re any good. You are not going to be objective.”
“I can be objective.” I waved when Evan glanced up and saw us watching.
“I can be objective,” Michael sing-songed at me. “Put your moon eyes away and get your game face on. This is serious.”
I couldn’t help a crooked smile. He was right. Of course he was right. This was serious. Very serious. Very seriously adorable young men who I very much hoped were also excellent curlers. Otherwise, I was going to be one sad son-of-a-bitch after tonight.
A Gold Medal in Love by Alex La Bruyere
PROLOGUE
IMANI
Friday, March 28, 2025
“Again, Imani, again!” Coach’s voice booms through the practice rink, echoing off the corners of the room and seeming to hit me like shards of the ice I’m skating on.
I huff out a growl, shake out my limbs, and lean in to pick up speed in preparation to retry the jump I’ve been trying to nail all practice long.
When you’ve just won the silver medal in the World Figure Skating Championships, you need to practice your ass off to ensure you have a fighting chance for the gold medal at the Winter Olympics.
When you’re a Black, second-generation immigrant in a notably white sport, the stakes seem even higher.
I’ve been figure-skating since before most children could read, since Mummy accidentally flipped the television channel to the sport, and I was dazzled by all the pretty girls in their pretty costumes doing the prettiest routines. I was obsessed to the point of driving Mummy crazy over it, so she used all her spare income to put me in lessons. The first time I was on the ice, it was like everything made sense. Mummy likes to tell the story as though I put on my first pair of skates and glided around the rink like I was made for it, but that’s not exactly how it happened.
In reality, I fell over and over. When I came home, my bruises covered me like a Pollock painting. I spent Kindergarten being questioned by teachers over and over about my home situation. I was terrible. But the feeling that bloomed in me the first time I stepped onto the ice was irreplaceable. I may not have been a natural, but I loved it more than I loved anything else. Even as much as I was a rule follower, I found myself getting in trouble when I had to stand in line at school––my feet ached to practice my moves. Many times, Mummy would threaten to take me off the ice if I couldn’t stop being squirrely at school.
Luckily, she never did—otherwise, I wouldn’t be where I am now: Imani Gray, Olympian at age 18.
What a world.
Thanks to Mummy, I’m a student at the University of Miami and headed toward gold. Miami is one of only three U.S. schools with a varsity figure skating program, and it’s where I’ve wanted to go since I was a little girl. Mummy put up no argument since Miami is also where I was born and raised. Who knew South Florida would have both a thriving Jamaican population and a figure-skating culture? If you ask me, it sounds like it was meant to be. I’m not very religious (a source of much disappointment to my family), but figure skating is who I am. It’s my true purpose in life.
And I’m going to do everything to get that goddamn gold. Maybe not Tonya Harding-level “going to do everything.” You can bet those white folks would throw my ass in jail if I broke rival Katya Artyomov’s legs. Even if part of me really wants to. I spend half my time being enthralled by her performances and the other half seething that she’s so much better than I am. For as much training as I have, it seems like I can never compare to the generational talent of the Russian skater. She’s everything I’m not—white, blonde, charming, and effortlessly thin. No, not just thin—delicate, petite, dainty.
Meanwhile, my skin is sienna Black, my hair constantly needs a perm, my coach yells at me for scowling at reporters and fans alike once I’m off the ice, and maintaining my weight sometimes feels like a full-time job.
I try the triple axel again, and again I fail. I cringe as I hear Coach throw his clipboard in a rage.
If I could just nail this jump. If I could just nail this jump. If I could just nail this jump…
I could beat Katya and win, and show everyone how much a Black woman belongs at the top of the sport.
Mabel Fairbanks wasn’t ever allowed to compete at the Olympic level due to her race but still ended up in the Figure Skating Hall of Fame; Debi Thomas won bronze at the Olympics in 1988; Surya Bonaly attempted the first female quad at the 1992 Olympics; Starr Andrews was the first Black woman to medal in 35 years; and I’ll be damned if Imani Gray doesn’t end up on the list of exceptional Black female skaters. I won’t let anything get between my destiny and me.
I skate over to the gate while Coach Lowell eyes me with distaste. His ice-blue eyes dissect me as he runs a hand through his thinning blond hair. When I make it to him, he glares down at me, his lanky height dwarfing my 5’3” frame.
“I need to hydrate,” I explain as I grab a bottle and sit.
I down the liter of water and mentally calculate. That’s eight for today. I’ve met my personal quota, but I still have practice, and I can probably down another one or two before I go to sleep tonight. If I skip dinner, I can eke out more ice time while also avoiding more calories.
I do some mental math and cringe. I’ve had more calories today than I would like, but I also feel sluggish and dizzy. Eyeing the protein bar in my bag, I concede that I’ll allow myself to have it only if I cut more calories from tomorrow’s meals to make up for it. I unwrap the bar and add 150 more calories to my EOD total—I don’t need to check the label; I rarely do. A special skill I’ve picked up is memorizing the average calories, fat, and carbs in food so that I can do the math in my head.
“Should you be eating that? The last thing you need right now is more sugar,” Coach chides.
“You know better than that. This bar is sugar-free. And don’t worry, it’s dinner,” I explain to him.
He sighs in relief. “That’s good to hear. You’re doing so much better since you started working with that dietitian I wanted you to change over to. It’s really taken your skill to a whole new level.”
I finish chewing my bite and then answer, “Alina Zagitova was on to something when she said her efficiency rises during periods of hunger.” I pause to consider. “Although I’m hardly ever hungry anymore.”
He frowns. “Then why are you interrupting my practice to eat a fucking snack, Imani?”
“I got dizzy,” I pout.
“The water is right next to you.” He points to the bundle of liters that we always have present at my rink time.
“You’re right, of course you are.” I wrap up the half of the bar that I haven’t finished and tuck it back into my bag. Then, I retabulate to lessen my input from 150 calories to 75. I should still probably compensate tomorrow by eating less. I can’t continue overeating like this, or I’ll never fit into my competition costumes. The last time I let myself go, a girl in my ballet class commented on the fit of my leotard. At least I’ll know if I’m gaining weight since Angela finds it to be her duty to police me. Not that Coach won’t have me on the ice for extra hours if he sees even a hint of a belly pooch.
“Oh, you’re listening to me now? Where was this attitude when you interviewed after the Championships earlier today?” He questions me.
I scowl. “The reporters ask dumb as fuck questions in those interviews. I’m more than tits in sequins. It would be nice to be treated like a professional.”
“You’re treated like any other athlete. People like to get to know the person behind the camera. You have to offer some humanity to the public,” he presses.
“Why? Is there a secret personality score on the card I don’t know about? ‘Imani Gray: costuming-top marks, technical-top marks, artistry-top marks, likability-oh, but she’s a bitch. No medal for her.’” I scoff.
“You joke, but it makes more of an impact than you think. There’s internal bias in scoring. Plus, you’re not just competing for a medal. You’re competing for sponsorships. No one wants a cunt on the front of their Wheaties box.” He raises an eyebrow.
“I wouldn’t need to be likable if I could nail this jump,” I complain.
“Negative, Imani. You need to nail this jump, and you need to be charming. This is not an either/or situation,” he argues.
I grumble under my breath.
“Stop arguing with me and think of the rewards. Pretty girls get pretty money,” he offers.
“Let’s go for another hour?” I ask Coach.
Coach taps his foot on the floor as he waits for me to return to the ice. “Yeah, how much of the next hour are you going to spend pussy-footing around?”
I screw my face up in response but say nothing as I walk back out onto the ice. I skate harder and harder, warming back up with a double toe loop.
“That’s bush league, Imani!” Coach yells from outside the boards.
I flip him off in my mind and skate into a split jump followed by an upright spin. The moves are broken up by the natural artistic flair that I skate with when I come out on the ice for fun. I’m doing it now instead of trying another triple axel just to fuck with Coach. I’ll get to the edge jump in a second as soon as I muster the energy.
Returning his glare with a grin as I skate past him, I give myself an internal pep talk. I can do this: Mummy didn’t scrape for me so I could disappoint her—I have a legacy to create. I push off with my takeoff leg, swing my free leg forward, quickly cross my legs in the air, rotate three and a half times (yes!), but land on my ass.
“Imani, goddamnit, if you’re not going to get this jump right, what’s even the point of practicing?” Coach yells from the side of the rink.
“I’ll get it soon!” I promise, yelling back. “I’ll have it by next February!”
“You had better! I’m not going to be a loser’s coach. We’re coming home with a medal,” He growls back.
“Fuck a medal. I want the medal. We’re coming home with gold,” I confidently answer.
“That’s a lot of talk from a skater who keeps fucking up her triple axel landing,” Coach parries.
“I can do a triple lutz perfectly, though, and you never think that’s good enough,” I mutter under my breath.
“What’s that?” Coach snaps, the knowledge that I said something bratty fully evident in his voice.
“Nothing,” I sing-song. “Let’s go again.”
And so we do. But I still don’t stick the goddamn landing.
Cross-Country Love by Erin McLellan
PROLOGUE
Beijing Olympics, 2022
Mara May knew the melting point of gold: 1,948 degrees Fahrenheit.
She knew the atomic mass: 196.96657 u.
And the atomic number: 79.
But she didn’t know the weight of an Olympic gold medal around her neck. The heft of one in her palm. She didn’t know how fast it might warm against her skin. Or how different a gold medal might feel versus silver and bronze.
She thought it would feel very different.
Gold.
It was Mara’s sole focus. It was all that mattered.
“Mara May, have you had trouble acclimating to the altitude here in China?” a reporter from ESPN asked her.
“No. I’m fine.”
It was the pre-Olympics press day, but she could hardly focus on the reporters in front of her. She was running the Beijing courses in her head. Thinking through strategies, reviewing the strengths of her competitors. Testing herself, even as she went through the motions of making nice with the media.
She was usually terrified of press conferences. She hated public speaking. Hated having eyes on her, especially without the safety of her skis. But she was too preoccupied to be nervous.
She should have been focusing on her words and not the hamster wheel in her brain. She had a reputation to uphold. A persona. To overcome her shyness, she put on a façade for the press, and even, to an extent, for her teammates.
Nicey-nice. The good girl. Polite.
But today, her heart wasn’t in it. Her mind kept straying back to gold.
She wanted it. She was going to get it.
“This is a young team. How is the dynamic between the handful of veterans and all the rookies?” another reporter asked. The question was directed at her, but since he hadn’t said her name, she pretended it wasn’t. Eventually, someone else chimed in. Mara didn’t listen to their answer.
Reporters asked questions about the wind in Zhangjiakou. The artificial snow. Covid regulations and precautions.
She let others respond. Or she gave the blandest, shortest responses. She glanced at her teammates. The closest to her was Kirby Bonham. KB, as everyone called her, but Mara had never felt cool enough to use the nickname. Nicknames indicated a degree of familiarity that Mara wasn’t comfortable with.
Regardless, Kirby could answer. She loved to talk.
“Mara May?” said a reporter from the back row.
“Yes, sir?”
She didn’t recognize the reporter’s name once he gave it. None of this mattered. She smiled at him.
Gold.
She should have been resting. Or training.
“Why have you decided not to race in the relay here in Beijing?”
“I’m racing on an injury, so we’re limiting impact where it makes sense to do so.” She’d answered that question already, so it was annoying to answer it again.
Her hip flexor was feeling a tad weak after the Tour de Ski, so the physio had suggested dropping the less important events for the Olympics.
Not that she would ever call the relay a less important event. But they were an inexperienced team, and a medal was incredibly unlikely in the relay. Having extra rest in the middle of the Games was what was best for her. The relay team was not going to make the podium—with or without her—and giving up her spot provided another athlete extra experience with an Olympic start.
“The princess of cross-country skiing needs to win her gold medal,” Kirby said, a slyness in her voice that made Mara bristle inside. She hated that moniker, but it had unfortunately stuck. The press used it. Her teammates used it, normally behind her back and without much kindness.
“In the thirty-k mass start?” the reporter asked. He squinted down at a card in his hand as if he were fact-checking his own question. And he probably was. Some of the reporters only cared about winter sports once the Olympics came around.
“I’m racing in the thirty kilometer, yes,” Mara said. She felt too superstitious to admit that that was the race. That the race was hers. The gold was hers.
But it was.
Finally.
It was her third Olympics. She wasn’t going to lose.
She’d won gold at the World Championships. She was the top distance skier in the world. These Olympics were her coronation, and her future was golden.
Kirby was the only other American cross-country ski racer who would match the number of kilometers Mara would put on her skis at the Olympics. For most of her career, Kirby’s focus had been sprints, but in the past two years, she had started making a play for the distance races. She’d even, surprisingly, snagged the fourth start spot on the team for the thirty kilometer.
It would be good experience for Kirby to race the thirty-k. Not that Mara cared about Kirby’s development as a skier.
Gold was her one and only concern.
Her only desire.
She was going to bring that gold home to Alaska.
“How does it feel racing the relay without your objectively best skier?” that same reporter asked Kirby.
Kirby lit up like the question excited her. “Mara might be our ‘best skier.’” She made air quotes with her fingers. “But she’s not our fastest.”
Mara didn’t react. Because that was false. And because she’d trained her whole adult life, and most of her teenage life too, to lock down, tune out, and turn on the speed. The queen of compartmentalization. Or perhaps, the princess.
If she could separate herself from the intensity and pressure surrounding elite cross-country skiing, she could do the same during an irrelevant press conference.
Gold. That was all that mattered. Kirby Bonham’s outrageousness did not.
“Is that so?” the reporter said.
“Fuck, yeah,” Kirby said. “Mara’s not our fastest skier. I am.”
Mara laughed. It was a small one, but it left her before she’d realized it.
All the eyes in the room landed on her, and heat rushed to her cheeks.
Kirby glanced at her and smiled. Something about that smile threw Mara’s stomach for a loop. It pissed her off. And made her feel funny. Suddenly, Mara was very aware of the triphammer of her heart. Of the blood whooshing in her ears.
Kirby’s smile wasn’t kind. It was nasty.
And Mara wanted to see it again.
“Mara May, what’s it like being rivals with your teammate?” another reporter asked. Mara recognized the reporter from the Olympics in Pyeongchang. “Is it hard to switch between being so close to your teammates, traveling together during the World Cup season, to the competitive nature of the Olympics?”
Mara wasn’t close with the other skiers on the US Cross-Country Ski Team. She kept to herself, a true introvert, even as they all spent every season together and some off-seasons training in the same locations. So no. It wasn’t hard.
“I don’t see them as rivals,” she said. “I don’t see Kirby Bonham as a rival. I’m usually so far ahead of her, I don’t see her at all.”
Allison lives in Toronto with her very patient husband and the world’s cutest team of rescue pets. She tries to split her time between writing, exploring Toronto’s parks, and traveling anywhere that has good wine. Tragically, this leaves no time to clean the house.
Allison writes queer fantasy as Alli Temple.
Rochelle Wolf is a Toronto-based queer writer, interested in warm love stories and books that feel like a hug. They have perfected the art of making their special interest (books) their entire career. Formerly a librarian, they now run their own book editing business. When they’re not reading or writing, they enjoy watching reality TV shows and traveling. To learn more, please visit their website.
Jaime SammsLost. Broken. Found…loved. Romance for all.
Jaime is a plaid-hearted Canadian who spends the long cold winters writing stories about love between
men and the too-short summers digging in the garden. There are dust bunnies in the corners of her
house—which she blames on a husky named Kai.
There are dishes on the counter—which is clearly because teenagers! There is hot coffee in the pot and the occasional meal to keep her from starving—because her husband is remarkable and patient.
A multi-published author whose work has been translated into French, Italian and German, Jaime delights in the intricate dance of words that leads her through tales of the lost and broken-hearted men she writes about, to the love stories that find and mend them.
And when the muse is being stubborn, she also makes pretty things with yarn and fabric scraps because in her world, no heart is too broken to love, and nothing is too worn or tired it can’t be upcycled into something beautiful. All it takes is determination and the ability to see life a little bit left of centre.
Alex La Bruyere is an acquired taste, according to her wife. From a young age, she was told she’d be a writer someday… although the people who said that probably weren’t expecting it to be this kind of material. She has a Bachelor’s in English, so she’s not only proudly embarrassing her family but her professors by using her degree to pen smut. She believes in hedonism and will absolutely recommend you take the day off to read that book you've been meaning to read. She’s originally from St. Louis, Missouri, but now lives in Orlando, Florida with her furry children, within driving distance of most of her partners. She wants you to live your best smutty life, whether that's through fiction or if it translates to the real world.
Erin McLellan is the author of the Farm College, So Over the Holidays, and Storm Chasers series. She enjoys writing happily ever afters that are earthy, emotional, quirky, humorous, and very sexy. Originally from Oklahoma, she currently lives in Alaska and spends her time dreaming up queer contemporary romances. She is a lover of chocolate, college sports, antiquing, Dr Pepper, and binge-worthy TV shows.
Allison Temple
Rochelle Wolf
Jaime Samms
Ski-Crossed Lovers by Allison Temple
A Good Puck by Rochelle Wolf
On the Button by Jaime Samms
A Gold Medal in Love by Alex La Bruyere
Cross-Country Love by Erin McLellan
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