Love on the Tracks

by Tamsen Parker

  “Water. Thanks.”

  I bring back the drinks just as my phone rings, setting the glasses down on the table along with a beer for myself before I pick up.

  “Stan the man. I’ve got the Andrewses here, so I’ll put you on speaker and we can get started.”

  Rowan clutches her glass as she sits on the edge of the sofa. Her dad, on the other hand, has made himself at home and takes an appreciative sip of the scotch as he lays an arm along the back of the same couch.

  I sit kitty-corner to them in a chair and lay my phone on the coffee table.

  “Rowan, Mr. Andrews, so glad you could join us. I’ve got a dinner to get to and I understand Rowan’s got a team meeting soon so I’ll make this quick.”

  I wish Stanley were here so I had something to look at, but all I’ve got is a very nervous Rowan who looks as though she could crush the glass of water in her hands. What happened to the bubbly girl from the interview this morning?

  “I don’t know if you’ve got your fingers on the pulse of social media, but that’s something we pay a lot of attention to in our industry, and I have to tell you Rowan and Zane’s appearance on Talk America has been a huge boost. It’s blowing up every social media platform I can think of and probably some the kids invented yesterday. People love it.”

  “That’s great,” Mr. Andrews says. “But I’m not sure why we’re here.”

  “Well, I know it was supposed to be a one-off spot, but I think we could make this work for both of us.”

  I don’t like the way Stanley and Mr. Andrews are talking about us as though we’re not even here, and Rowan doesn’t seem to like it any better. She’s staring into her empty glass. Empty. Even if I can’t take control of this conversation, I can at least make sure the girl’s not thirsty.

  So I reach over and take the glass from her hands, our fingers brushing as I do, and a blush rises on her cheeks. She looks softer, more vulnerable out of her tracksuit, like a regular girl instead of a person who’s about to take the world stage in a few days. When I bring back the refilled glass, she smiles at me, her lashes fluttering as she looks away and quietly says thank you.

  “License to Game has an album coming out soon, and we could accelerate the release of the first single to take advantage of the buzz. I know it would be nice for Rowan to have more in the way of sponsors, right? Those custom suits and sleds can’t come cheap.”

  When did Stanley become an expert on luge? I guess part of his job is to know things that will nudge deals to our advantage, which apparently means pressing the Andrews’ buttons.

  “So what if their appearance on Talk America was just the start? We get Zane and Rowan to go out on a couple of dates, Zane shows up to watch Rowan race, we get press to ‘catch’ them walking around the city. America loves its athletes and its pop stars, and it really loves a good romance. We’re hitting all the high points here. After the games, maybe Rowan can show up at a License to Game concert, or maybe they break up amicably and go their separate ways. No muss, no fuss.”

  Stanley can be a bit of a shark, but I appreciate that most of the time. The man knows what he’s doing—he’s one of the best in the business. Thanks to him and our agent, our contracts are some of the most favorable you can pull off, and he’s made me and the guys filthy stinking rich. Of course, it’s in his interest to do so, given that he takes a cut, but that means he pulls hard for us and, like a shark, he never stops swimming.

  This is the latest in a long line of schemes to keep us in the press.

  “So what do you say, kids?”

  Now Stanley asks for our approval. Well, he had to get it sometime.

  “Rowan?”

  She looks me in the face this time, her green eyes wide with nerves. “I don’t want to ruin your vacation.”

  She’s so quiet, I don’t think Stan heard her. I’m kinda glad he’s not here right now, because he’d see the half-smile that tugs up the corner of my mouth, genuine, and he’d smell blood in the water. He can turn those killer instincts on his clients as surely as he can the people he’s negotiating with on our behalves. I don’t want him knowing I have more than a passing, purely sports-related interest in Rowan Andrews. “My vacation?”

  “You said you were coming to Denver for a break. I . . .” If she had a dusting of pink on her cheeks before, now it looks as though someone with a heavy hand took a paintbrush and smeared her cheeks with red. She fidgets with her glass some more before placing it on the table. “I read it on Celebrinews.”

  Oh my god, she’s a total fangirl. I mean, I knew from her reaction on Talk America that she likes our music, but I didn’t know she followed us on the gossip blogs. That’s a whole other level. While I usually find it a bit overwhelming, and I want to tell the girls who’ve built shrines to LtG to pay more attention to school, or politics, or something else that’s more important than a boy band—which is, frankly, just about anything—I won’t condescend to Rowan that way. She busts her ass training and I know from my own reading she wants to become a paramedic when she’s no longer competing. So her hobby, which happens to be my career, is charming. Maybe even a bit flattering.

  “Well, I don’t feel like spending time with you would be a real hardship,” I say. “And it wouldn’t be a lot. I know you’re not here to date—you’re here to win a medal. I don’t want to interfere with your obligations. Not at all. You’d call the shots on how much we’d see each other.”

  Stanley can’t be happy about that, but he keeps his mouth shut. Rowan blinks at me.

  I continue, “Unless you know, you find me repulsive. Then I’d understand why you wouldn’t want to hang out.”

  Then my Valkyrie giggles. Covers her face, which is a funny habit for such an outgoing girl, but I’m starting to suspect that being outgoing is something Rowan has to practice as hard as she trains. She’s capable and dominant in some areas of her life, like on her sled, but far less certain basically anywhere else. I’m finding the combination increasingly attractive, which is not good. This is not for real, Rivera, this is for the press.

  “I don’t find you repulsive.”

  “I mean, I know I’m not Teague. We could probably get him out here if you wanted instead, but—”

  “No.” My heart thumps extra hard when she cuts me off with her refusal. It’s pretty widely understood Teague’s the real hottie of the five of us, though I like to think I run a close second. Benji’s friendly-looking and generally gets the tween vote, Christian’s got the whole mysterious, broody thing going on, and Nicky’s the goofball. “If I were to do this with anyone, I’d want it to be you.”

  She hasn’t quite agreed, but I think we’ve almost got her, so I turn up the charm just a bit. Not so much it’ll seem fake and turn her off, but enough to convince her to sign on, give us both a tick in the win column. Stanley and the guys will be thrilled, and yes, hopefully this stunt will help Rowan out too.

  There’s space left on the couch, so I sit next to her, our knees touching, my elbows resting on my thighs and my hands clasped between my spread legs. I knock her gently with my shoulder and turn my head so I’m looking at her. She’s got her hair tied up, but I know how it would look if it were cascading down her back or falling over her shoulder. Lowering my voice so no one but her can hear me, I say, “So we’ll give it a shot? You can change your mind anytime, and I promise to be the consummate gentleman. Chivalry is not dead. You can be my queen and I’ll be your knight in . . . well, not armor because that shit’s heavy as fuck and I can’t imagine it’s warm, but Team USA gear?”

  She laughs again and shakes her head.

  “You can sleep on it if you want.”

  “No, I don’t need to sleep on it. It actually sounds . . . fun?” She looks at me, uncertainty written all over her face, as if she needs my permission to enjoy this and not make it some sort of cold transaction. Well, in addition to getting some press and taking a break from LtG, that’s my mission for the next two weeks: show this girl, who’s dedicated her
entire life to sliding down a track a thousandth of a second faster than the last run, a damn good time. What would be the harm in letting myself enjoy it a bit too? So I give us both permission to have fun, be a little silly.

  “Better than a fork in the eye.”

  I offer her a hand and Rowan shakes it this time, no manager or chaperone between us. Gotta love that strong grip of hers that she’s not afraid to use. She nods, a decisive dip of her head while she looks me in the eye.

  Without letting go of her hand or breaking eye contact, I raise my voice so Stanley will be able to hear. “We’ve got a deal. Let the dating begin.”

  Chapter Five

  Rowan

  “It’s ridiculous is what it is.” I have to raise my voice above the spray of the shower, but luckily for shouting purposes, the doors in this place are paper thin.

  The water shuts off, and then Kate’s singsong voice wafts through as if the door were air. “I think you mean ridiculously awesome. You’re dating Zane Rivera.”

  The door swings open, and there’s Kate, clad in only a towel, hair dripping wet. She’s my teammate, but she’s also probably the best friend I’ve got. Which isn’t saying much. Even she doesn’t live in Lake Placid year-round. She comes for training, but for the most part she lives in Arizona. Who the hell ever heard of a slider who lives in Arizona? Regardless, she kicks some royal ass, so here she is.

  “I’m fake-dating Zane Rivera, which is entirely different.”

  “Pssh.” Kate heads over to her dresser, stripping off her towel and wrapping her hair up in it while she combs through her clothes. Another date with the Russian tonight. Apparently his roommate is banging a French figure skater, so they’ll have the room to themselves. “It sounds like all the perks without any of the downside.”

  Flopping against the pillows at the head of my bed, I cross my arms. “How do you figure?”

  “Well, you get the sweet press, you get to hang out with one of the hottest guys on the planet, and I’m sure he’ll take you to some awesome places. Being a rock star has its upside, you know. And when all this is over, you both dust off your hands and get back to what’s important. Work.”

  Right. No muss, no fuss. That’s what Stanley said. She’s missing part of the picture though. “What about the sex?”

  She holds up a beaded purple tank top and I shake my head. “Aren’t you going for a walk along the South Platte first? You should wear a sweater.”

  “Fine, Mom.” She rolls her eyes, but puts the tank back in the drawer and continues digging. “And what do you mean, ‘What about the sex?’”

  “You know competitions are the only time I get any action. I was looking forward to getting laid. What if he doesn’t want to sleep with me? It’s not like I can hook up with someone else if we’re supposed to be together. That would look so, so bad. Not America’s Sweetheart material for sure.”

  “True.” Kate holds a navy blue, low-cut sweater up, pinning it to her shoulders with her hands.

  “Yes, that one. It’ll look good with your hair. Just make sure you wear a scarf while you’re out or you’ll freeze.”

  She tosses it on the bed, along with a pair of jeans, and then scores some underwear and a bra from another drawer, pulling them on while she lectures me. “Then you’ve only got one choice.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve got to fuck Zane Rivera.”

  “Would you stop saying his whole name? He’s just . . . Zane.” Just Zane who’d smiled at me, his artfully scruffed cheeks caving into those dimples, dark eyes twinkling mischievously.

  He could’ve pressured me, tried to sell me on this wacked-out plan based on its financial merits, but he didn’t. He’d coaxed me, literally nudged me, talked low in my ear again—which had maybe started desire slip-sliding down my spine until it was resting low in my belly. “And I don’t think fucking is part of the bargain.”

  Kate pulls her jeans on, the skintight denim clinging to her defined calves, and then flops onto her bed on her back so she can actually zip the damn things before she bounces up again, shimmying to get them sitting right. “You should’ve read the fine print of this contract more carefully, Andrews. Do you at least get to have fake sex with him?”

  “What does—No, never mind.” I throw a pillow at her and she ducks out of the way and into the bathroom. Hopefully she doesn’t notice my cheeks are likely flushed from thinking about exactly how close I had come to having fake sex with Zane earlier today. Was that a few hours ago? Seriously, this place is like a time warp.

  The whoosh of the hair dryer sounds from the bathroom and I lean back onto my pillows once more, this time flatter. Just when I’ve made myself comfortable, my phone pings. It’s a text, and I’m betting it’s my dad, making sure I’m headed to bed soon.

  When I open the app, it’s not my dad.

  Hey, Rowan. I know tonight was weird, but I hope you’re still okay with this plan. I wasn’t kidding when I said it was totally your call. If you’re still down for it, I thought we might go out tomorrow, get this party started. When are you free?

  So, it’s not exactly what I’d call romantic, but it is considerate, and I appreciate that. I’m about to answer him when another text pops up.

  This is Zane, by the way. Zane Rivera. In case you had another offer for a fake relationship in the past few hours. Wouldn’t surprise me at all.

  Okay, he’s funny. In sort of a dorky way. Which makes me like him better. Which is less than ideal. I’d almost rather he be a jerk. Then the playacting would be easier, more like doing pressers instead of actually dating. Press I know how to handle. Mostly. Dating . . . There’s a reason I basically get my sex at competitions. It’s because dating isn’t really a thing I do.

  Strangely, no more offers to be my fake boyfriend. My day tomorrow is crazy, but I could do lunch? I’m free from 11:30 to 1:30.

  This is so surreal. I’m making a lunch date with Zane Rivera. I pinch the inside of my wrist to make sure the past twelve hours haven’t been some bizarre dream. But no. The pinch hurts like a bitch, and even dream-Kate wouldn’t be caught dead singing one of License to Game’s latest hits for any reason other than to mock me. She is, and I can hear it all the way in here, off-key and all. Thank god Zane didn’t call and just texted like a normal person.

  Works for me. Can I pick you up?

  Okay, that’s enough to make a girl giddy.

  You won’t be able to get into the village but I can meet you right outside. I’ve only been eating in the dining hall here and a couple of times out with my dad, so I don’t know anywhere.

  Really, I don’t know pop star–worthy places, and I don’t even want to pretend to know what Zane might like. I mean, according to interviews and fan forums, his favorite food is arroz con pollo, but who knows if that’s actually true.

  Don’t worry, I’ll find us someplace decent. And close enough to the village and the venues that we’ll be likely to get seen by some press.

  Right, the all-important press. Because that’s why we’re doing this. Bigger record sales for him, and better sponsor deals for me. Hopefully it’ll at least be fun, and I’ll gather up a few tidbits to take back with me to my apartment at night, and while Kate’s with her Russian, perhaps I can get in some of the, um, self-satisfaction I was denied earlier. Maybe that’s what Kate meant by fake sex. I’ll have to ask her between when she finishes her hair and when she goes off to have some very real sex with a guy she can actually bring home at night. All the perks my ass.

  Great, see you then.

  Zane

  I’m taking Rowan to a place a couple of blocks away from the SIG village. It’s a couple of blocks where there will at least be tourists milling around, hoping to catch a glimpse of SIG athletes coming and going. While it’d be better if it were press, more coverage on social media from cell phones isn’t a bad thing, either, and might put news outlets on the alert that hey, we’re out and about and they should cover it.

  Rowan’s wea
ring jeans that do absolutely nothing to hide how awesome her legs are, and she’s also got on snow boots and a serious parka. I have to hide a smile, because the girl clearly values function over form—most of the girls I’ve gone out with would’ve primped to within an inch of their lives if they knew there was a chance of being covered by the press, and would’ve worn clothes that looked good regardless of whether their duds would actually keep them, I don’t know, warm. Not Rowan.

  She smiles but doesn’t take her hands out of her pockets, and though my hands itch to touch her, I won’t if she doesn’t make the first move. I know we’re supposed to be pretending to date, but if we want it to be convincing, she needs to look comfortable with me, not as though she’s being dragged along for the ride.

  So we walk side by side to the upscale brewery I decided on. I thought briefly about sushi, but on the off-chance it was bad and she got food poisoning? No fucking way. So, posh pub food it is.

  There’s a line outside, but we get seated right away. Rowan fidgets with the menu until she has to give it up after ordering, and then she toys with her silverware, her glass, anything she can get her hands on, and does her best not to look at me.

  It’s because she’s nervous, but it won’t photograph that way.

  “Hey.”

  She focuses on me and her mouth gets tight even as her eyes widen. I bet if I put my ear to her chest, her heart would be thumping. Jeez, girl can handle flying down a mountain on a sled the size of a dining hall tray at eighty miles an hour, but not a fake date?

  “Maybe we should, I don’t know, talk?” I smile and raise an eyebrow, and it makes her laugh—at least I think that’s what that strangled noise is.

  “Uh, yeah. Probably. It’s weird, though, don’t you think?”

  Sure, but this isn’t the weirdest thing I’ve ever done in service to my band. “What’s weird?”

  “Well, I . . .” Another choked noise I’m rapidly coming to find unaccountably attractive. “I already know a lot about you . . .”