Love on the Tracks

by Tamsen Parker

  I’m supposed to be resting, which is boring. Aside from a headache and a sore neck, I don’t feel bad. Mostly stupid. I knew it was a tough turn, I knew people had gotten into trouble, and still, I had to be aggressive. That run felt positively marvelous and I knew if I could gun it a little harder . . .

  Turns out, what happens when you do that on that evil turn is you knock your head up against the wall, fight unconsciousness as hard as you can and then pass out right before you cross the finish line, and look like a sack of potatoes on the sled on worldwide television. Argh.

  Despite all that, I came in fifth. Far better than the twelfth place of four years ago, but not quite good enough to displace the two Russians and one Italian who medaled. I might’ve, if I hadn’t taken that chance, and . . . Not worth thinking about, not worth beating myself up over. Not worth making my headache worse. Maybe next time. Will there be a next time?

  Luge isn’t one of those sports where you’ve only got one, maybe two shots. Doesn’t have to be, at least, but there are no guarantees.

  And this boredom is killing me. I’m not supposed to read, so books and the internet are out, and at the moment, I can’t stand to listen to music. Usually if I want cheering up, I’d listen to License to Game, but the only thing I’ll probably hear in those songs from now on is Zane’s voice, and it will remind me of heartbreak.

  It might be stupid, but I thought . . .

  Doesn’t matter what I thought. I roll over on the couch, trying to find a comfortable way to lie, and pull the blanket up to my chin. Maybe I can sleep, and when I wake up I’ll be that much closer to going home. I’m hoping I’ll be well enough to make the closing ceremony, but neither my dad or my doctors are making any promises.

  From the other room, I hear the low drone of the TV. My dad must be watching one of his news shows while he goes about his morning routine. It’s what he does. The shower turns on and I try to tune the rest out, letting the chatter on the TV get subsumed by the white noise of the spray. Something nags at me, though.

  It’s not the roar of the crowd, but it’s the pitch or the tone or something? Maybe it’s the concussion talking, but there’s something about the sound that’s familiar. Since I’m unlikely to be able to sleep without figuring it out, and sleeping is the only thing I want to do right now, I get off the couch—careful to stand slowly in case I get dizzy—and head into the bedroom to shut the damn thing off. Dad can deal with silence for a few minutes, or maybe I’ll turn on the radio.

  When I get into the room, a familiar sight greets me on the TV. It’s the SIG set of Talk America, and sitting with the anchors is Zane. The sight of him makes me want to turn the TV off, but some masochistic part of me wants to see what he’s doing there. Is this something that was planned before we got together? Was I supposed to be there with him? Then a truly sickening thought hits me—maybe there’s some other fangirl SIG athlete they’re going to bring on, and he’ll start a fake romance with her.

  But that’s entirely unfair. Zane is a much better person than that, and when I look closer, he doesn’t look happy to be there. The corners of his eyes look tight, and he’s forcing a smile. He never looked that way when he was with me. Whatever this is, it’s hard on him, and even though he crushed me, I don’t want him to suffer.

  I pull my robe tighter around me and try to focus.

  “So, I hear we’re in for a special treat today?”

  Someone from the crew carries a guitar onstage, and I recognize it before they even hand it over—it’s Zane’s. Not the one he plays at concerts, but the one he brings everywhere. The one scratched and worn from being loved by a guy since he was a kid. And he’s playing it on Talk America?

  My stomach starts to feel like a pile of dough being kneaded as Zane thanks the crew member with a smile, his dimples showing even though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “You could say that.”

  “What else would we call a never-been-heard License to Game song?”

  There’s an odd silence, as if everyone there’s used to having a live audience to supply applause, but there isn’t one in the makeshift studio. In response to the anchor’s over-the-top enthusiasm, Zane looks sheepish. “It’s not actually a License to Game song.”

  “Color me intrigued.” The anchor leans forward and sets her chin on a hand. It would be comical if my stomach didn’t feel like pizza dough being tossed in the air. No freaking way.

  “I’ve been thinking about starting a solo project for a while—”

  “And we get the first listen? Who would’ve thought there’d be something even more exciting than the men’s snowboard cross finals going on today? But you might be topping it.”

  “No, I don’t want to steal anyone’s thunder. Those athletes, man. They work so hard, and make crazy amounts of sacrifices, and they only get to show off for two weeks every four years. I don’t want to ruin their moment in the sun. I just need to . . . I wanted to . . . There’s someone I owe an apology to, and I wasn’t sure they’d hear it any other way.”

  He dips his head then, puts his fingers to the strings, and before playing the chord I know is going to come, he looks up one more time. “This is supposed to be a duet, so I apologize for it being just me.”

  Zane doesn’t give the bewildered anchor a chance to respond before he starts to play. A tune I’d recognize anywhere, a song I’ve heard a hundred times. He’s fine-tuned it—a flourish here, a slightly different chord progression there—but fundamentally, it’s the same. This is the song he sang to me, that I helped him write. This is the song I hummed until I fell asleep and he tried to teach me the chords to while I sat between his legs and he wrapped his arms around me.

  Tears well in my eyes as his mouth forms the familiar words.

  Sleep sweet my angel, sleep sweet my star.

  I will love you wherever you are.

  You’re mine to hold, you’re mine to keep.

  I’ll keep you close while you sleep the sweetest sleep.

  Holding up the world, you could stand fierce with no one.

  You learned the hard way that’s how it has to be done.

  I don’t want to take that from you, steal your pride,

  If you need to prove yourself, I’ll simply stand by your side.

  This is no lullaby, just the promises I’ll keep,

  And now my love, you can lay your head down to sleep.

  When you wake, I will stay beside you till they write my epitaph,

  I want to offer you my hand, maybe hold the other half.

  The things you hold on your shoulders, the things that you do,

  You need to know I’m in pure awe of you.

  Sleep sweet my darling, sleep sweet tonight,

  I will hold you through the morning’s early light.

  Sleep sweet my angel, sleep sweet my star.

  I will love you wherever you are.

  You’re mine to hold, you’re mine to keep.

  I’ll keep you close while you sleep the sweetest sleep.

  As the song’s ending, a hand lands on my shoulder. My dad’s standing there, hair still wet, but he’s dressed, and staring at the TV.

  “What on earth—”

  “That’s what I was wondering.”

  Zane finishes up his song and the hosts go crazy. He holds his guitar like a shield, and I can imagine why. How much trouble is he going to be in for doing this? Did he tell the guys before he came on this morning? How completely fucked is LtG going to be?

  He doesn’t look sorry, though. Not at all. Mostly he looks like he’d do it again in a heartbeat, all the while knowing what it could cost him. Determined. My knight. The hosts talk the show into a commercial break, but I’m still standing there. “I thought you said he—”

  “I lied.”

  My father’s voice is flat, and the confession makes me duck out from his touch. “How could you?”

  “That boy is a distraction. He cost you a medal, and he could have cost you your life.”

&n
bsp; He thinks Zane is the reason I came in fifth and all I’ve got is a concussion to show for it? “He did no such thing. All he’s done is be supportive of me, given me anything I wanted or needed and handed me the reins. Never once did he try to pressure me into spending more time with him. Never once did he make me feel guilty when I said I had to go. He’s been perfect. What are you upset about, anyway? This was your idea!”

  The fire of the righteous is in me now, and though I’ve never raised my voice to my father in my life, I’m yelling now.

  “This—” My father’s arms windmill, encompassing I don’t even know what. “This was not my idea. My idea was you’d spend a few minutes, maybe an hour with this guy for a few days, he’d sell some records, you’d get a better sponsorship deal, and at the end of the day we’d all go home and it would be over. I didn’t expect . . .”

  “You didn’t expect me to like him? Or you didn’t expect him to like me? You can’t tell me you’re shocked I stayed over with him. You said it yourself, this is what I do at competitions, and you never give a shit.”

  My father’s mouth is a tight line as he shakes his head, and doesn’t meet my gaze. “I’m not, and I don’t. I know competition is the one of the few times when you cut loose, and I expected you to find some guy. What I didn’t expect is for him to have wormed his way into your heart. You can’t let him ruin everything, Rowan. We’ve worked so hard, given up so much. I don’t care how big a rock star he is, he’s still not worth it.”

  He’s right. If Zane were just a rock star, he wouldn’t be worth it. He’s so much more than that, though. He’s smart and sweet, funny and considerate, and it doesn’t hurt that we’re so well-matched in bed.

  “I don’t want to choose and I don’t think I have to. I don’t want to wake up when this ride is over and realize it was the only thing I had. I’m not going to give up, and I want to go to Trondheim in four years, but I don’t see why I can’t do that and keep seeing Zane. You think he’s toying with me, and I can’t say I didn’t worry the same thing, but you have no idea what he just did. Singing that song on national television could be the end of his career, and he did it for me. So the least I can do is talk to him.”

  Confusion colors my father’s face. “What do you mean, he could have ended his career?”

  I don’t want to take the time to explain because my fingers are itching for my phone, but maybe explaining will make things easier. My dad has always been there for me, always tried to do what’s best, and just because he fucked up—even this badly—doesn’t mean I don’t want him in my life. There’d be a giant gaping hole in my heart if I didn’t have him anymore. If I want Zane too, they’re going to have to learn how to play nice. The sacrifice Zane made will endear Zane to my father’s heart, and my dad will have to figure out how to get back in Zane’s good graces.

  “He’s been asking his label about a solo career for years, and they’ve turned him down every time. They didn’t want to take attention and money away from LtG. If he did it anyway, he’d be in violation of his contract and he’d royally piss off his label. That’s what he did. That song was for me and he put his livelihood on the line to do it. Still think he’s not worthy?”

  I haven’t noticed it before, but my dad is getting old. Greying at the temples, with the lines around his eyes and mouth getting deeper. He looks tired, worn thin. It occurs to me perhaps this isn’t just about sliding.

  “Dad.” He looks at me, but I don’t think he’s seeing me. It’s important to me that he hears this though, gets my message loud and clear. I’m not going to raise my voice again to do it. So I take his arm in my hands and squeeze, hard. “I’m not abandoning luge, and I’m not abandoning you. Even if Zane and I do end up dating in, like, real life, I’m still going to live in Lake Placid. Even if I end up moving someday, I’d kinda hoped maybe you’d come with me?”

  I hug him then, because my eyes have started leaking, and I want to get this out before I start outright sobbing. Maybe if I have something to hold onto, I’ll be able to. “You’re my best friend, and I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m not quitting anything, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be you. I promise.”

  Against me, his chest heaves, and then his arms are wrapping around me, high on my ribcage and holding me tight. “I love you, Fishface. You know that, right?”

  “I do.”

  “I know I haven’t always done the greatest job with you—”

  “Pfft. You’re the best dad in the world. Maybe not medaling this year, but your overall record’s making hall of fame for sure.”

  “I guess what I’m trying to say is, if I trust your judgment on the ice and ninety-eight percent of the time off of it, I should give you the benefit of the doubt on the other two percent.”

  He squeezes me tight one last time before we separate, and wipe our eyes in that trademark Andrews I’m-not-crying-you’re-crying way.

  “I’m not overreacting about you having a concussion and needing to rest. I still don’t want you running around Denver trying to find this guy. If he cares about you as much as he seems to, he wouldn’t want that either.”

  That’s true. Zane would hustle me into bed, and not for sexy fun times, either. And honestly, I don’t want to get worse. It was a pretty mild concussion, all things considered, but I don’t want to chance real damage. I was serious when I told my dad I wasn’t quitting luge. I want another shot, and to get it, I’m going to need to train as hard as I ever have. This body and this brain is my ticket to Trondheim, and I’m not going to risk everything. So yeah, Zane can come to me.

  “Then I guess I have an invitation to issue.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Zane

  The text wasn’t long, but I didn’t need it to be. I was just thrilled to see it.

  Hey, can you come over? I’m at my dad’s hotel.

  She gives me the room number and the address, and I put it into the GPS on my phone before I reply.

  Yeah. Give me half an hour?

  Depending on traffic, I should be able to make it over there with time to spare.

  I’ll be here.

  I don’t want to ask her what this is about because I don’t want to have my hope extinguished. I want to keep the fantasy of maybe-she-wants-me alive, and not crush it with a Yeah, I want to coordinate our appearances for the next week. The trip over feels like it takes for-fucking-ever, and when we’re about half a mile away, I tell my driver to pull over and I’ll walk the rest of the way. I’m edgy and impatient, and I don’t want to snap at Tony. He’s a good guy. Better for me to hoof it, and I’ve still got my mittens so my fingers won’t freeze by the time I’ve gotten there.

  Jed opens the door when I knock, his expression wary, but not looking as though he’s going to tear me limb from limb like he did when I saw him yesterday. Did he see Talk America? Did Rowan?

  He lets me in and gestures to a small living area, where there’s a Rowan-shaped lump on the couch, hoodie pulled over her head and a blanket draped over her. I can barely see her face. I’m about to walk over when Jed sinks his fingers into my shoulder in a veritable death grip. “If you hurt her, pretty boy, I’ll end you.”

  I’d respond, but Rowan waves before I can, and Jed’s painful clutch turns into a manly clap. I’ll pretend that never happened.

  When I get closer, Rowan pushes her hood down, and gives me a sheepish smile. “I’d get up, but—”

  “No, don’t even worry about it. You’re supposed to be resting.”

  It’s possible that after they’d reported on TV that she suffered a mild concussion, I’d done some research on what exactly that meant. Almost called my sister who’s in med school, but decided the dump truck worth of shit she would have given me probably wasn’t worth it. WebMD would probably do as well, and with much less snark.

  “Yeah.”

  There’s room on the couch for me to sit, but I go for a chair because I don’t know what I’m in for. It’s torture to sit any farther away from her t
han I have to, but if this is just a professional arrangement, I don’t want to make it seem as though I’m eager for more. Because I’m totally okay being a big, fat, fucking liar.

  Rowan’s sitting there, hands knitted together on top of the blanket, looking lost.

  “Are you all right? Do you want me to leave? We can do this—” Whatever this is. “Later.”

  “No, I’m fine. I don’t quite know what to say.” She takes a deep breath and then looks up at me, those green eyes absolutely killer. “I saw you on Talk America.”

  My breath catches in my throat. That’s what I’d wanted, right? That’s the whole reason I did it—so Rowan would see me. A grand gesture, but at the same time so pitifully small. I hope she liked it. Did she like it?

  I want to shake her and demand “And?” but I can’t. I wait. And wait.

  “You were amazing. I hope you didn’t get in trouble with the guys.”

  I shake my head, the corner of my mouth tugging up as I remember our phone call. “Nah. They told me to do whatever I needed to do. I needed to do that.”

  “What about your label? Even if Teague and Benji and Christian and Nicky are cool with it, I can’t imagine—”

  It slays me that what she’s concerned about is my career. She could have been killed or seriously injured, and all I did was sing a song. Granted it was on TV, and she’s not wrong to be concerned about my label, but Jesus, I don’t want her to worry.

  Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I can’t stand not touching her anymore. So I slide from the chair to the couch, and lay a hand over the blanket on her leg. Her calf, to be more precise, just one of the areas of her body that she can wield with such precision.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it, okay? I knew what I was doing. I knew the possible consequences and I did it anyway.”

  “I’m supposed to be helping you, and now—”

  Her voice is strained and her chin wavers, and she honest-to-god looks like she might cry. I can’t have that. So, heart in my throat, hoping she won’t refuse me, I slide closer until we’re sitting thigh to thigh and I’m half falling off the couch. What matters is I’m close enough to reach out a hand to cup her jaw and stroke her cheek. So I do. It takes everything I have not to lean in and kiss her to silence her fretting, but that seems way too far.