An hour? The music/reality TV channel’s temporary studio is back by the village. Which means I gotta go if I want to make it. Which I do, but . . . I look around, trying to determine if there’s any way in hell I’m going to get to see Rowan before her next run. I’m thinking not, but what if I leave and I could’ve seen her? That would suck. However, I also don’t want to be the clingy boyfriend. Especially because I’m not actually her boyfriend.
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
Rowan
I’ve got my headphones on, listening to LtG, of course. I can’t talk to anyone right now; even my dad and Gerrilyn are sitting beside me in silence because they know that when I’m between runs, I just can’t. What I can do is listen to this song I’ve heard a million times before. Though the words and the notes are the same and it has the same settling effect as it always does, there’s an added layer to it.
Zane. Even though I wouldn’t be able to bear looking at him right now, I like having his voice in my ears. It’s comforting in a way it hasn’t been before. It leads me to thinking about some of the other things Zane can do for me, and oh . . . that is probably not a good idea.
I’m about to flick to another song in the hopes a change will stop my thoughts from heading down that path—that incredibly, delightfully filthy path, lined with bone-deep kisses and all sorts of other hedonistic things—when there’s a shake of my shoulder.
Who the fuck is—
Kate, of course. When I slide my headphones off, she shakes me again and I’m rattled. Not just literally, either.
“Kate, what the hell? You know I don’t like—”
“Yeah, yeah, you and your Fortress of Solitude before runs, but I thought you’d want to see this.” She thrusts her phone into my hands, and when I look at the screen, it’s Zane.
Before I can help it, I’m smiling. He’s so goddamn cute, how can I not? Though I can’t hear his words, I can see his posture and his face. He’s got that sly smile, the one that makes his dimples into deep divots in his light scruff. No wonder he’s got all the girls screaming for him.
Apparently Kate doesn’t want me to just look at him. She yanks her own headphone jack out and plugs mine in, using one swift movement. She is far too well-practiced at interrupting me. We’ll have to have a talk about that. I don’t have time to scold her though, because Zane’s voice is in my ear.
“Yeah, it’s true we’ve been spending some time together while I’ve been in Denver.”
Kate pokes me square in the chest and my cheeks heat up until they must match the red on my Team USA uniform. Should I be flattered or mortified? My brain decides to go for both.
“From the footage I’ve seen, it looks like more than some friendly chats.” The host eggs him on with a bit of a dudebro elbow nudge and I have to refrain from covering my face. No one can hear this except me. Well, me and the rest of the millions of people who are watching this on Pop Nation at any rate. Shit. At least that doesn’t include my dad. He’s still sitting next to me, shooting eye daggers at Kate.
“Simon, come on man. You know I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Ah, so you’ve kissed!”
Zane shakes his head and oh my god, is he blushing? He is. He totally is. With that bashful look on his face he goes, “I am the worst at this. I’ll say this, okay? Rowan’s a spectacular athlete. She works crazy hard, and I don’t know if you saw her run earlier today, but she was phenomenal.”
“I did see it, actually, and I hear she’s our best shot at medaling in the luge. Doesn’t hurt that she looks banging in her uniform.”
Zane’s flush disappears, and though he tries to keep his expression friendly, his tone is tight, his words sharp as the steels on my sled. “Come on, dude. You wouldn’t say that about any of the male athletes. How about we appreciate her athletic prowess since that’s what she’s here for?”
Simon has the good manners to look abashed. “Fair enough.”
My first reaction is to be grateful. There is so much sexist crap female athletes have to deal with, what with people commenting on whether we look feminine enough or talking about our romantic partners as often as they talk about us. It’s so godawful sweet for Zane to have called that guy on it.
As they move on to discussing other athletes, my second—and yes, very stupid—reaction is worry. Does Zane not find me attractive? Oh my god, shut it, Andrews. The guy was begging for you the other night. True. The thought still nags at the back of my brain as I watch the rest of the interview. I’m tickled when Zane finishes up by talking about how underrated curling is and how everyone should watch the mixed doubles finals tonight.
In parting, Simon asks Zane if he’ll be at the second run this afternoon, and Zane gives him that charm-laden smile again. “I don’t know, man. You and your camera crew should come by the track and find out. Also get some footage of some of the best athletes in the world doing what they do best. Sliding.”
So, okay, Zane has managed to make luge sound sexy as fuck, and god knows that isn’t easy. There’s still that nagging voice, asking why he didn’t say yes, he’s coming to see me? Oh, stuff it.
I unplug and hand Kate’s phone back to her. She’s got this wicked grin on her face I’d like to slap off, but she has another run in a few hours like I do and I don’t want to injure either one of us, so I just grit my teeth.
“Can I go back to my fortress now, please?”
Kate rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue, merely snatches her phone back and mutters under her breath as she turns on her heel and walks away. “Of course, because you only have two hours left to obsessively listen to your boyfriend’s band.”
Chapter Thirteen
Rowan
My second run was even better than my first, but I’m still not hitting that last turn hard enough. More than one person has taken a spill around that curve, though, so maybe playing it on the safe side isn’t a terrible idea. Definitely better to stay on my sled than to eat ice. I can feel those Germans nipping at my heels, though, and the Russians not far behind.
I wish I were immune to that kind of pressure, but if I weren’t competitive I wouldn’t be here. On the other hand, being on top this early is new for me. I’m more of a come-from-behind girl, so being first—first—after the first two runs is stomach-churning. The only place to go is down.
More than ever, I want to curl into my mid-race cocoon. Put on my headphones, not talk to anyone, and not even open my eyes until it’s time for runs three and four. Which is crazy talk because the next set of races isn’t for a couple of days. But then maybe my gut wouldn’t be curdled like cottage cheese. Ugh, food. That is another thing I don’t want to think about right now, but I should eat something. Gerrilyn and my dad will be after me if I don’t.
Stepping out of the shower, I wrap my towel around myself and head to my bed where my clothes are laid out. Zane’s taking me to some burger joint and I’m supposed to meet him in twenty minutes.
I ought to be looking forward to it. And I am . . . sort of. But I wasn’t kidding about wanting to hermit until my event is over, and there’s nothing hermit-y about Zane. At least not right now, when we’re supposed to be subjecting ourselves to media scrutiny. I can picture someday curling up with him on a couch and marathoning some action movies. That would be nice. Sitting there with him and eating popcorn until we maybe stopped paying attention to the movie . . .
Not an option right now, and maybe not ever. Not only do I have to go out and get pointed and stared at, I have to sit across the table from Zane, wondering what he thinks about me. Which is stupid. I’m facing down the biggest runs of my life—that’s what’s important, not a boy who may or may not like me. This is not what I would call focus, and focus is what I need to stay on track.
I finish getting dressed and fixing my hair and slicking on some lip gloss and mascara—what passes for makeup with me because unless I’m on TV, I don’t have time for that. No one gives a shit if you’ve got eyeliner on when you’re sliding at over
eighty miles per hour.
Zane’s car is waiting for me a little ways from the exit to the village, and he climbs out when I get close. He doesn’t wait for me to approach him either, oh no. He strides right up to me and enfolds me in the world’s most giant bear hug.
He’s nice and warm from being in the car, and he smells good like he just got out of the shower too. Plus, even though we’ve got several layers between us, I swear I can feel him breathing. He squeezes me so tight I might pass out and before I’m about to croak at him to stop, he puts me down and holds a mittened hand in the air.
Along with a parka that must’ve cost as much as my sled, he’s wearing his mittens. The ones I gave him. I mean, of course he is, it’s freaking freezing out here and he’d be a moron not to have put something on his hands, but still. I like that he hasn’t gotten himself another pair. But what the hell is he—
“Are you going to leave me hanging? Slap me some mitten, Miss First-in-the-standings!”
He’s such a dork. And no, I won’t leave him hanging, so I high five him, grinning as I do.
“You were fucking awesome out there today.”
He puts his arm around me and shows me to the car. Meanwhile I’ve become aware of the usual swarm of press that follows him around like puppy dogs. I’ve also become aware he didn’t kiss me.
Zane’s still chattering away when we get buckled up and mostly I laugh at him. I knew he liked the SIGs and luge in particular, but he must’ve been doing some research on the side because he’s got a better handle on what happened with a lot of my competitors than the announcers did.
“—and did you see that Austrian wipe out on the last turn? That was ugly. I hope you’re being careful.”
That’s cute. He’s worried about me. Is it because he likes me or because I won’t be worth as much if I don’t finish the event? Even if it’s because he likes me, is it like a friends-with-benefits kind of like or is it more than that? Why did this have to happen now? Why could I not have hooked up with some Jamaican bobsledder or something? Someone who I would know exactly what was going on with.
Never will I talk about a crush in the press again. For all the good that would do me—not that I don’t have actors who I think are nice to look at, but none of them have ever stuck the way Zane had. Has. I like him more now that he’s a real person instead of an eight-by-ten glossy with a Sharpied signature under my bed.
Finally, he stops his talking and lays a hand on my thigh. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Yeah, totally fine. Why?”
“You don’t seem excited, that’s all.”
“Nerves.”
He smiles, dimples deepening and he leans forward until I think he might kiss me, but no. He wraps his hand around my biceps as well as he can and leans closer still. “Let’s see if we can’t suffocate some of those nerves under a bison burger, okay?”
I can’t even help my eye-roll. I mean, come on. What kind of pop star takes a date to a place where you can get a bison burger? Shouldn’t there be lobster and caviar and champagne and smelly cheese? No, he’s brought me to a burger joint and fuck it all, it makes me like him better. As if that was a thing that needed to happen. Maybe instead of blushing, my face will now literally burst into flames every time I think about him.
He hops out as we roll up, offering me a hand while saying, “I heard they have, uh, grown-up milkshakes here. I might let you have a celebratory sip of mine, little lady.”
Zane
Rowan barely eats.
She says it’s because she’s nervous, but she doesn’t look nervous. She looks as though she wants to get the fuck out of here. A few people have snapped our picture with their cell phones, but aside from that no one’s bothered us, so I don’t think it’s her thing with the press.
When I’ve tried to coax her into a laugh, I got a grimace, and when I try to get her to talk, I get one-word answers. What’s the deal? Maybe she’s telling the truth and she’s nervous, but when I ask if she wants to go back to my hotel for some, uh, stress relief, she shakes her head and looks toward the door.
I lose my own appetite about halfway through my burger—which is frigging delicious and goes crazy well with the very grown-up s’mores milkshake I have. Yeah, vodka and marshmallows—who woulda thought? But it can only tempt me so far when Rowan looks as if she’s folded in on herself like some kind of origami snowflake.
Why is she unhappy? She’s on top of the world. She was expected to do well, but she’s outperforming everyone’s expectations. They thought she might medal, and she’s got a decent hold on first place. I thought she’d want to celebrate, and in a splash of narcissism, I was hoping she’d want to celebrate with me. In bed. Or in the shower. Or on the couch. Or any damn where she wanted to—I’d take her there, I’d make it happen.
Maybe that’s what this is about? Now that she’s riding high, this is as far as she wants things to go with me? I’ve given her a boost and I know the sponsors have been calling, so are we through now she’s looking at gold?
The bison and the graham crackers and the queso fries mix together in this unsettling way in my stomach. This girl who I thought was for real, who I very much admire and thought about making room for in my life even though I don’t have anything to spare . . . is she like the women who just want to bang a star? Maybe she’s been using me and getting her fangirl fix. She never seemed that way, but she did say before that she was a good liar. Maybe she wasn’t lying then.
I pay the bill, and we head back out to the car. I’d hoped getting out of the public eye would settle her some, but she looks as distant as ever. Flinches when I reach for her hand, so I don’t hold on. Make it more of a crazy awkward grandma pat. God I’m a mess.
“Where can I take you?” I’m holding out a slice of hope she’ll say, “home with you,” but it’s dashed.
“Back to the village, please.”
Right. After a twenty-minute drive in near silence with Rowan staring out the window, her reflection untouchable in the tinted glass, we pull up in front of the gate. Or near as we can get anyway. Her dad is waiting for her, and he doesn’t look pleased. How long has he been standing there? Why didn’t she tell me he was waiting?
“Rowan.” She looks as though she was about to make a run for it, and it makes my stomach riot.
“Yeah?” Her hand’s on the door for god’s sake, and though I’d like to pull her into me, rub her back and hold her close, tell her to relax, I don’t.
“Did I do something wrong?” I can see Nicky doing a facepalm in my head—Way to be cool, Rivera. Not. I don’t feel cool. She’s killing me with this, and she’s been straightforward with me up until now.
“No. I need some time. To myself. I don’t want to be with anyone right now.”
Okay. But her dad is standing right there. If she’d said she wanted to be with family or her team, I’d understand, but she didn’t.
“Zane, I don’t think I can see you right now.”
“Yeah, I get that.” Do I ever. “Can I take you to lunch tomorrow? Something?”
She shakes her head. “I meant I don’t think I can see you until my event is over.”
How irritated would my driver be if I puked back here? Probably wouldn’t be the first time a singer’s done that, unfortunately. I should display some poise and not come off as some desperate whiner, but all my chill has flown straight out the window.
“This is clearly working, why do you want to change it?”
Her mouth tightens and her light brows gather. “You told me all this was up to me. Was that a lie?”
Oh, that’s harsh. Using my own words against me. Harsh, but fair. “No, it wasn’t a lie.”
Rowan’s expression is verging on apologetic. I’m an ass. I did promise her, and I should honor my word.
“I know you understand pressure—you must feel it every time you go into the studio, every time you go onstage, just, all the time. It’s a constant for you in a way it’s not for me. Mine comes in spurts,
and this . . . this is the mother of all spurts.” The word “spurts” sounds vaguely dirty coming out of her mouth and I’d much rather be having the filthy sex kinds of spurts than this. Even though I get it, and I’ll tell her so, she’s not done yet. “It’s not the same, Zane. You’ve got to let me do this the best way I know how. And the best way I know how is to take a step back. It’s temporary. After my runs are over, we’ll, I don’t know, recalibrate.”
There’s a queasy feeling deep in my gut and I don’t like it at all. Regardless of what she’s said, it doesn’t feel temporary. Perhaps it’s splitting hairs, but it feels like she wants to take a step back, not just that she needs to. It’s the smallest of differences, and maybe this is the sensitive artist thing people are always talking about that I kinda hoped didn’t apply to me, but it matters. To me.
There’s no way I’m going to make her choose between her life’s ambition and me, though, partly because I know what she’d choose and I can’t honestly fault her. She was right about the pressure. For me, there’s always another concert, there’s always another album, there’s always another appearance on a morning show. For her . . . this is pretty much it. So as much as I hate it, I’ll go along.
“Yeah, of course, Row. Whatever you want.”
She gives me another one of those stomach-churning grimaces, and then climbs out of the car, barely muttering a goodbye. I know I’m being dramatic, but the way she closes the door seems final.
Her dad meets her and they talk for a second before he’s patting her arms and holding a hand up toward the car.
I tell my driver to wait and roll down my window. “Jed. What can I do for you?”
Boy does he look sorry he told me not to call him Mr. Andrews. “You can leave Rowan the fuck alone is what you can do.”
What the—
“She’s got far too much riding on her next runs and she doesn’t need the distraction of you.”
I hold up my hands, because I’m not sure where this is coming from. “Hey, I’m not forcing her to do anything. She came out with me of her own free will and—”
Love on the Tracks Page 12