She slides a look my way, the corner of her mouth curving up. “I believe I said I love it, and curling is no joke. Obscure sports played on ice need to stick together, and curling’s up there. I’ve played a bit, and it’s way harder than it looks.”
“I don’t know much about it. Just, you know, rocks and brooms. Seems like something kids would come up with in some frozen hellscape when they got bored of building snow forts. Maybe in Minnesota or Finland or Siberia or something.”
Rowan folds her arms and puts on this haughty face, nose in the air and lips pursed. “It was sixteenth century Scotland, thank you very much. You’re probably not so far off with the rest.”
We watch more of the match, Rowan explaining some of the finer points of play to me, and blushing after she suggests we could play sometime. I swear to god if I get the chance, I’m going to take this girl on a curling date. During a break in play, she takes a sip from her bottle of water.
“So, last night . . .”
Memories flash through my mind, Rowan pulling off my shirt, how she tasted on my lips, how she felt around my—
“Zane?”
Jesus. If I’m not careful, I’m going to overheat in the arena—and the place is a goddamn ice box. “Yeah, uh, last night.”
She smiles, looking devious and I pray to god she’s not going to give me a recap right here. Because I’ve got a semi just thinking about it. “Not that part of last night. Besides, that was technically this morning.”
Right. Of course not. And yeah, this morning. “So, uh, which part?”
“When you . . .” She drops her voice to a whisper and looks around us, though no one in here is paying us any attention. “Sang. When are other people going to get to hear that?”
I could hedge, throw out some industry jargon about how long it takes to put a record out and blah, blah, blah. But I don’t want to. She’s already promised to keep quiet about this, and I have no reason not to believe her. There’ve been no pictures or mention of me wearing glasses anywhere, and Rowan is . . . She understands the value of hard work, and she wouldn’t screw anyone over when they’ve put in the time.
“Not for a long time, probably. Label’s not keen on me going solo.”
“Well, I’m not either, but couldn’t you do it as a side project? Lots of people do that.”
Yes, they do, and a lot of times that’s the beginning of the end for the band as the solo project takes off. The label didn’t want to deal with that scenario, so side projects were one thing our agent sacrificed during contract negotiations for something we wanted more. At the time, I couldn’t imagine making music without my buddies, because I’d never done it. Can barely imagine it now, to be honest. Rowan doesn’t need all those details, though. I’m sure she’d be bored to hell by them, and it looks like the action’s about to start on the ice again. Don’t want her to miss any of her beloved curling.
“I’ve asked a few times over the past couple of years, but I always get the same answer. It’d be in violation of my contract and they have no interest in amending it. So.”
I bite down on my back teeth and hope she doesn’t notice the sign of frustration. I’m not some poor little rich kid, and I don’t want her to think of me that way, so I’ll suck it up and deal.
“That’s too bad. I’m sorry, I hope it happens sooner than you think. I, for one, can’t wait to hear it again. Maybe I’ll get a mention in the album notes?”
She bounces next to me and elbows my side gently. There’s nothing I can do in response except smile and try not to dwell on my frustrations, or the peril I could place myself and all of LtG in if I decide someday I’ve had enough and opt to give my label the finger. “Definitely. Now shush, I think that guy burned the stone and I want to see if he calls it.”
“Zane Rivera, you curling fiend, you.”
Rowan
After the curling is over, we stand awkwardly in the arena. I don’t actually have anything to do right now or for the rest of the night. Nothing until practice tomorrow morning. But is it, I don’t know, presumptuous to invite myself back to his place? Again?
It’s not as if I can have him to mine, because A, Kate, and B, they don’t let outsiders into the village. Athletes and coaches are the only non-SIG folks allowed in. There are visitor passes of course, but I didn’t think to score him one. Why would I?
At any rate, we’re standing here shuffling our feet, not making eye contact. Finally I get up the nerve, because what’s he going to say, no? That’s fine. The banging is not, after all, part of our bargain. Besides, he’s already said yes once, and the first ask is always the hardest. After that, it should be smooth sailing.
While I open my mouth, he opens his as well, and it’s a jumble of words.
“You go first.”
He’s got that lopsided smile again, and half his face scrunches up. “You’re probably busy, but if you’re not—”
“I’m not.” Yes, I’d wanted to get to bed early, and I probably should, but suddenly my mind is overwhelmed with thoughts of other things I could do in bed, and the heat of my body is pooling in the areas I’m now hoping Zane will spend some time attending to in the near future.
“Then do you want to—”
“Yes.” Yes, for once in my life, I’m going to be a little reckless—off the track.
Zane laughs, those goddamn dimples showing in his cheeks again. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I was assuming you were going to ask if I wanted to go back to your place and fuck like rabbits until we get exhausted, and then when we wake up in the morning do it again until I have to go to practice.”
I don’t think his eyes or mouth could get any rounder. Part of me wants to do a victory dance because it’s not all the time you get a person to make that face, never mind someone who’s used to performing in front of tens of thousands on a regular basis and exposing his body on magazine covers and in front of stadiums full of screaming fans without blinking an eye. A single run-on sentence from me? Makes him look thunderstruck and has him blushing.
After a few seconds without a response, I start to worry I’ve gone too far, but then he shakes his head and starts to laugh—so hard that I want to reach out and pound on his back because he might choke. Eventually he gets ahold of himself, and that sexy-as-fuck and enthusiastic grin is back.
“Rowan Andrews, you read my mind.”
Chapter Ten
Rowan
Never have I been late to a team meeting, or practice, or anything before, which is probably why my coach only raises a concerned eyebrow when I walk into the room and take a seat at the back. I give her the thumbs up to let her know I’m okay. I’ll apologize after we’re done. At least I’m only ten minutes late. It could have been so much worse. I guess when we had mind-blowing sex, my brains scattered. It’s a hazard, apparently.
After the meeting, I approach Gerrilyn.
“Coach, I’m so sorry I was late this morning. I meant no disrespect to you, or to the team, and I promise it won’t happen again.”
She looks at me, almost into me, and I keep my gaze level. That is a perfectly sufficient apology, especially from the otherwise most punctual person on the team. If she asks for more, I’ll give it to her, but I won’t be happy about it.
“I know, Rowan.”
Her tone is a secret code: You bet your ass it won’t. Which is fine. I don’t like the shaky feeling I get in my stomach when I’m disappointing people, either.
I meet up with my dad for lunch again, settling into a taquería and ordering quickly because I want to squeeze in a visit with Zane before our team dinner.
“Why were you late to the team meeting this morning?”
What? “Why do you know I was late?”
“Gerrilyn called me, she was worried about you.”
“There was no need to be worried—I overslept. I apologized to her, and promised it won’t happen again.” He eyes me over his drink and my hackles start to rise. “It won�
��t happen again.”
“Better not.”
It’s not often I get irritated with my father, but I am right now. So much that I want to draw him a diagram of some sort. Times When Rowan Has Been Punctual: All of them minus one; Times When Rowan Has Not Been Punctual: One. Who the hell has that kind of track record?
“What is this actually about, because I don’t think it’s about the ten minutes of the meeting I missed.”
“Where were you?”
Shitballs. “I told you, I overslept.”
“I didn’t ask what you were doing, I asked where you were.” He speaks slowly and now I want to kick him under the table. What the hell does it matter where I was? But I don’t lie.
“I was with Zane. At his hotel.”
The look on my father’s face is so dark I’m surprised storm clouds aren’t forming over his head and dropping rain all over the table. He shakes his head. “Maybe you shouldn’t see that boy anymore.”
Oh so many arguments to make. He’s twenty-six, he’s not a boy; this isn’t up to you because I’m twenty years old; this was your idea in the first place. I’m going for option C. “If I recall correctly, you encouraged me to start seeing him. Now you’re changing your mind?”
The waitress brings our tacos, and I take an enormous bite of my bison taco. It’s delicious. Yet my father is sitting there, not touching his food but glaring at me over his neatly lined up tacos.
“Yes, I did, but this isn’t what I thought was going to happen. You were supposed to spend a little time with him, get your pictures taken, and you were both supposed to get something out of it. You weren’t supposed to . . .”
“What? Sleep together?”
My dad and I had the talk a long time ago, and he’s always been relatively candid with me about sex, which I’ve appreciated. Even so, I know I’m baiting him, but I can’t dredge it up to be sorry about it. You want to fight? Fine. Let’s fight.
“I don’t give a goddamn if you want to fuck the pop star.”
Heads turn, and my dad lowers his voice and hisses across the table. “Like I said, I don’t care if you sleep with him. You think I’m stupid? I know during competitions is when you find guys to hook up with, and that’s fine. You’re a young, attractive, intelligent woman. Of course you have hormones, and desires, and I have absolutely no problem with you fulfilling those needs as long as you’re safe and it doesn’t interfere with your competitions.”
“I’d hardly say this interfered with—”
He raises a hand to silence me, and wow does that make the fury rise in my throat. This high-handedness is not like him. Not that he’s more of a buddy than a parent, but he’s always been pretty chill and trusted my judgment. Since that seems to have gone out the window under all the pressure, maybe I can goad him into shouting about me fucking a rock star again. That would serve him right. Have that pop up on Celebrinews.
“You didn’t miss a race, but I’m concerned this doesn’t seem as casual as your usual . . . trysts. I’m not worried about the sex, Rowan, I’m worried about love.”
How bass-ackward is my life that my dad is encouraging me to have casual sex but freaks out when I, god forbid, might actually like the guy? And “love”? That’s a strong word. Yes, I like Zane. A lot. Am more attracted to him than I’ve probably ever been to anyone else. I admire his talent, his loyalty to his band, and the sex is crazy good, but—an unsettling feeling flits around my ribcage and I say it out loud as much to myself as I do to my father.
“I don’t love him.”
“Maybe not yet, but—”
My phone cuts him off with a ping, and he shakes his head before picking up a fish taco that looks delicious. “Think about it, okay? I don’t want you throwing away your shot over some guy because he looks hot in skinny jeans or whatever.”
At least in this way—being completely embarrassed by my dad—I’m normal. I roll my eyes and take up my phone, and there is, in fact, a text from Zane.
What did you have in mind for show time this evening?
I try to keep my smirk internal because that certainly won’t help my case with my father, but text back. Under the table.
Public or private?
Satisfaction curls in my belly. I can only imagine Zane’s face when he reads my message. I hope he’s not anywhere public and has to, I don’t know, adjust himself? That’s so not my problem though. Actually, I kinda like the idea of throwing him off balance.
Jesus, Rowan, I almost choked on a cheese curd. I was thinking public, but hell, if you’ve got time, we can definitely make plans for both. Or maybe surprise me.
With a goddamn winky emoji. Plus, I just snorted and some water went up my nose. Ow, ow, ow. Which doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as the disappointed look my father is giving me.
Zane
Stanley scored us some tickets to the ski jump, which to me may as well be suicide on skis. These people are nothing short of magical. Like sorcerers shoved into spandex suits who strap sticks on their feet and then launch themselves off a mountain built to make them go as fast as possible. Who in the hell thought that was a good idea? But humans . . . For as long as we’ve done anything, we’ve wanted to figure out how to do it better, faster, bigger, more efficiently. It’s stuff like this that redeems the human race.
When Rowan shows up at the entrance to the event, she’s wearing a mish-mash of street clothes and Team USA gear, and she looks adorable.
“Hey.” One word, a simple greeting. You’d think someone who sings about love and lust for a living wouldn’t be struck dumb by a girl saying hello, but Rowan’s not just any girl. I swallow, the movement more pronounced than usual because I can’t help but thinking of her under me, and how she tastes.
Right now is not the time to be thinking about those things, though. We can have fun while we watch the event, but we’re on the job. And because my life is fucking awesome sometimes, part of my occupation at the moment is kissing a hot blonde.
I give her one of those big, camera-ready smiles and slip a hand around her waist, pulling her tight to my body. Even through all the layers of trying to stay warm, her body feels fantastic against me, and I bend down to kiss her.
She goes up on her toes and wraps her arms around my neck and meets me in the middle, our lips pressing together in a way that makes me not cold anymore. Nope, it’s as though she’s spiked the blood in my veins with alcohol, and when she parts her lips and teases me with tongue and teeth, she sets me aflame for her. Her mittens are on the back of my head, and I have to stop myself from flinging her over my shoulder and dragging her back to my hotel right now.
That, however, is not part of the deal. Not the public deal anyhow. In private, though—Jesus, let me get some time alone with her sometime in the next twenty-four hours, because otherwise I might die—that is a different story.
I kiss her back, mindful of the cameras, and after a not-scandalous amount of time, I pull away from her. Breathless? Me? No way. Not with a girl I’m having a manufactured-for-the-media fling with. Rowan’s looking a bit flushed too, and ducks her head.
“Sorry about that.”
“Sorry?”
“That was maybe too enthusiastic?” Valkyries shouldn’t look sheepish.
“Not at all. When Stanley sees these pictures, he’s going to backflip into a giant pile of money, Scrooge McDuck style.”
I like making Rowan laugh, her pink cheeks getting rounder. “Well, as long as we’re making Stanley happy.”
As much as I’d like us to ditch out on the event and head back to my suite, I was actually looking forward to seeing this, and we should give the press more opportunities to spot us. I offer Rowan my arm, even though it means not being able to shove my now-freezing hands in my pockets. “Shall we?”
She shakes her head. Is she going to say she’s got to go? Team meeting or practice or something? I mean, I guess we’ve fulfilled our obligation for a photo op, but—
“You’re a dumbass.”
T
he laugh rockets right out of me, and I sound like an idiot. She’s maybe right. “What for?”
“Is there only one thing?”
“Kinda hoping so. We haven’t known each other long, and I try to hide my serious dumbassery until I’ve gotten to know a girl better. You know, really sunk my claws into her.”
She shakes her head. “Well, your claws aren’t going to do much sinking if they get frozen and snap off.”
Rowan rummages in her bag, and pulls out a pair of mittens that look a lot like hers. Scratch that—exactly like hers. “Here. These are for you, since I knew you wouldn’t have gotten yourself a pair yet.”
I can’t quite say whether it’s embarrassing or touching she A, knows me so well, and B, has brought me this exceedingly practical gift. I’ll go with touching, especially since there’s no way I’m turning them down.
Taking them from her outstretched hands, I lean down and kiss her again. Not with lust, though that’s always simmering when I’m near her, but with genuine gratitude. “Thanks, Row.”
She ducks her head, and looks away, muttering a quick “Welcome.”
Meanwhile, I suspect I get a little red myself. Calling her Row seems presumptuous somehow. I’ve done it before, but that was right after we’d escaped from a crowd—she was a little overwhelmed. Just because she didn’t object doesn’t mean I should keep doing it if she doesn’t want me to.
“Is that okay? If I call you Row? I won’t, if you don’t like it.”
It’s not often Rowan looks small, because she’s not much shorter than me and she’s built—like in a could - bench - press - me - and - that - is - hot - as - hell kind of way—but she looks that way now. No, not quite small, but bashful? Her shoulders are up by her ears, and even with her mittens on, I can tell she’s making fists.
“Uh, yeah. It’s fine.”
“Hey, I don’t want you just saying that. If you don’t like it—” Christian loses his shit when people call him Chris, and if Rowan feels the same way I don’t want to be a turdblossom.
“You can call me Row. I actually like it. A lot.” She’s fumbling, and it relieves my worries. She’s hot as fuck when she’s all bossy and in control, but I want to hug her when she gets all disconcerted like she is now. “Can we go watch the event?”
Love on the Tracks Page 9