Love on the Tracks Page 13
“I bet that’s how you see it, but you don’t know her like I do. She went because it was expected of her. Even though she needs to be concentrating on the biggest day of her life, she went and had a burger with you. You must be used to that, though, getting your way with any girl you want?”
Whoa. Is that how she felt about it? I can see how Rowan might feel some pressure to show up even if she wasn’t really down for it, because if there’s anything she does, it’s meet expectations. Of her dad, of her coach, hopefully of the country that’s rooting for her to bring home a medal, although that’s only so much under her control. I don’t want her feeling that way about me.
It does tick me off that Jed was all gung ho for this in the beginning—talk about pressure—and now he’s decided I’m bad for her? Fuck that noise.
“Like I said, Rowan hasn’t done anything she didn’t want to do. If it’s best for her to have some time to focus, I’ll leave her alone.”
“Do. That includes her race. Don’t show up with your swarm of press and make her even more nervous. You stay away from her.” Guy’s so riled up he’s got a vein bulging from his temple.
Message received. My jaw’s tight so my words come out close to a growl, which I don’t mean as aggressive, just frustrated and confused, but I doubt it matters to Jed. “Will do.”
Chapter Fourteen
Zane
Rowan’s dad doesn’t want me there, but I can’t shake the feeling she does. If it comes down to it, I care far more about what Rowan wants than what her father wants. The thing is, if she doesn’t want me there, it’s easy enough to slink off into the crowd—she never needs to know. But if she does, then dammit, I’m not going to disappoint her.
I’ve got my ridiculous Team USA cowbell and I plan to ring it for all I’m worth. I mean, no one in the history of the world has ever asked for less cowbell, right? I’ve elbowed my way into a spot on the track; turn eleven, because it’s her favorite. I’m such an idiot, because it’s not as though I’ll be able to see her face as she zooms past, and there are other places on the track where I’d be able to see her for longer, but I can’t help it. Knowing she’ll be happiest right here? I want to be part of that.
Going onstage to face a crowd of thousands or tens of thousands doesn’t make me nervous anymore. Jittery, sure, but not so much anxious. It’s all those chemicals coursing through you; your body can’t help but respond to the sensory overload in one way or another. This, though . . . my heart’s positively racing thinking about Rowan at the top of the track, holding onto her precious sled and getting ready to hurl herself down this mountain. Crazy girl.
As the other sliders go down, I picture the process I’ve memorized now: pulling her facemask down and affixing it to her helmet, grabbing hold of the handles on the sides of the track, rocking back and forth until she lets go and then paddling like mad with those spiky gloves until she’s picked up as much speed as she can and she lies nearly flat to let gravity take over.
It seems insane to me sometimes, that people dedicate so much time, energy, money, and all the rest to so small a chance at glory, and even if you get it you end up a footnote, an entry on Wikipedia. There’s not a whole lot of material gain for most of them, and then . . . then they have to figure out the rest of their lives. I’m not sure whether to think it’s noble or senseless.
It doesn’t matter what I think; what matters is that this is what Rowan loves, and she’s next. I can only imagine what her heart must be doing as she gets ready for her final run. Possibly the last competitive run she’ll ever take. Then there’s the roar of the crowd getting started at the top of the track and getting closer with every passing second. When it’s nearly deafening, I see her. A blur of red, white, and blue, she speeds by and I shake my bell so hard I almost clock myself in the head with it and cheer so loud I’ll be hoarse tomorrow. Fine. We’re not back in the studio or on tour anytime soon.
Then she’s gone. I’m tempted to run down the track to follow her, but she’s left me behind in the ice dust. So I close my eyes and listen to the crowd, try to figure out where she must be. There’s not so much left of the run. That’s when I hear it.
The ecstatic din turns into a collective gasp and my eyes snap open. Something happened. Something must’ve happened, and there are no screens where I’m standing to see what it was. Her run must be over, and I start to hear words. So many of them not in English that I can’t understand, but then I catch something: crash.
I don’t wait to hear any more but start pushing my way to the end of the track. It wasn’t so long ago someone died on a sliding track. My blood freezes to a standstill. Not Rowan. She can’t be stopped. Can’t be. Definitely not—
The food I grabbed on the way here threatens to make a reappearance on the people in front of me and I want to shout them out of my way. Of course they’re talking in hushed tones and milling about and I want to beat them out of my way with my cowbell.
You don’t understand. I love that girl, and she could be dead for all I know.
That’s the truth of it. I haven’t admitted it until now, but yeah, I love her. Her smile and her bravery, her concentration and dedication, the way she feels in my arms, and the way she hums along to my songs even after she’s fallen asleep. All my insides are trying to make it to the outside of my body, but I need to make it to the end of the track.
Screens.
There’s Rowan, flying down the track, toes pointed in those weird-ass shoes, and then . . . something happens in the turn. I can’t quite tell what it is at first because it’s over so quickly and she goes on as if nothing’s happened, but then, right before she crosses the finish line, her body looks as if it loses that fine control. Instead of being all tight and aerodynamic, she looks like a ragdoll. She doesn’t sit up and pick up the bows like she usually does at the end of her runs, looking so damn pleased with herself. She’s just lying there and eventually comes to a stop.
I can’t watch that again. I need to figure out what’s happening. What happened.
By the time I get to the end of the track, she’s surrounded and I can’t see and it’s making me nuts. Everyone’s craning their necks and I want to punch them in their big stupid heads. At least I’m not stuck back at the hotel room because I probably would’ve busted my TV by now and had to run to the lobby and all I’d be able to see is the clip playing over and over and over.
Finally there’s a rustling in the crowd, and clapping. People don’t clap when someone gets carried off on a stretcher. They don’t clap when someone dies.
I catch the smallest glimpse of a blond braid, and a flash of uniform, surrounded by official looking people, and behind them is Rowan’s dad. I muscle my way through, ignoring the shouts and insults and shoves, because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter.
“Jed!”
His head turns, but not enough to see me. He must’ve heard me. Had to have. So I turn on that big voice, the one that can project in concert halls and theaters, the one I don’t use so much anymore because I’m always mic’d. I can still do it.
“Jed!”
This time he turns fully and sees me. I want to reach out and touch him, a dudely clap on the shoulder or something. Offer him comfort because he must be scared to death. I am, and I’ve only known Rowan for a week and change. For Jed, she’s literally his whole life.
All I get is a dark look. “Get out of here, Zane. She doesn’t want you here, and this crash is your fucking fault. She couldn’t have been concentrating well enough around that curve and the only distraction she’s allowed into her life in the past four years is you.”
If I thought I felt sick before, I must have been fooling myself. Because that—his blame, his insistence that I could’ve in any way contributed to what’s happened—hits me like a punch to the solar plexus. I can’t breathe.
Jed and Rowan have the same green eyes, but whereas Rowan’s always looked at me with excitement or kindness or ecstasy, Jed’s gaze contains nothing
but hatred and wrath. If we didn’t have an audience, he might murder me.
“You’ve done enough here.”
Then he turns and jogs after the knot of people escorting Rowan away from the track. Away from me.
Rowan
I’d heard there are state-of-the-art medical facilities on-site at the SIG village, but honestly I’d hoped never to find out. Turns out the rumors are true. Fully staffed with some of the best practitioners of emergency and sports medicine, topped off with the most advanced equipment a person could ask for—you’ve got basically an entire ER custom built for the SIGs. I wish I didn’t know that.
Doctors, my dad, and Gerrilyn have been looking me over and grilling me for over an hour. Really, though, aside from feeling like an idiot, I’m fine. Okay that and probably a concussion.
Yeah, I’ve got a headache, and I felt woozy when I was walking off the track. And sure, I lost consciousness briefly at the end after fighting hard to hang onto it, but it was my own stupid fault. Trying too hard in that last turn to speed it up. I didn’t just want to win, I wanted to win big, and it was the greed that got me. My helmet bounced off the ice. Which means, fine, my brain might have gotten a little shaken up in my skull. But it’s not a big deal.
I spend more time being poked, prodded, run through tests and all kinds of things, but in the end what feels like a TV medical drama’s cast worth of doctors and nurses declare me okay. Rest and being monitored for signs my concussion is worsening will be the only thing on my agenda for the next few days, but my race is over so what the hell do I care?
Despite royally fucking up, I came in fifth. Not bad, but not great. Not a medal, which is what I wanted. Also no Zane. I thought I heard him after the race, but that could’ve been an auditory hallucination cooked up by some brain damage, so I didn’t want to mention it because that would for sure get me sidelined, hard. But I’d thought . . .
His voice is distinctive. At least to me. I’ve heard it in a rainbow of tones, from the reds and oranges of his public voice, the bright yellows of how he sounds as part of LtG, and the rich vibrant greens of how he carries a tune when it’s just him, to the sweet deep blue of how he murmurs in my ear, all the way down to the lush carnal purple of when he’s inside me. I would recognize his voice anywhere. Apparently I’ve made a mistake.
Because if I’d been right, that he’d been at my race, seen what happened, he never would’ve left without seeing me. Or if he couldn’t get through, my phone would be blowing up. He’d text me, email me, PM me, DM me, maybe even call me—who does that anymore? I bet Zane would.
I want to go back to my room in the village, but everyone else seems to think it’s best I go with my dad to his hotel so he can keep an eye on me. I don’t have enough energy to argue, and fine, it’s probably a good idea. We’re sitting silently in the back of a cab, and it’s possible I’m sulking. Just a little.
“What’s the matter, Fishface?”
“Nothing.”
He nudges me and I wrap my arms around my waist.
“Are you feeling sick? If you’re feeling sick, we should go back in case you’re—”
I don’t think heartsick counts. Certainly nothing all those doctors and nurses could do anything about. “I’m fine, Dad. Really. Disappointed, obviously, but otherwise, I’m . . . fine.”
He stares at me. This is what he does if I don’t want to talk. Almost as if he’s trying to say, “Fine, don’t talk to me, but see how you like a life-sized gecko gaping at you. Probably better to spill, don’t you think?” Annoyingly, it works.
“I know I told Zane I wanted to hit the pause button on stuff between us, but I thought . . .” I trail off because I don’t want to say it out loud. I thought even though I knew I’d hurt his feelings that he’d be there no matter what. I could’ve done a better job explaining, and I’m sure he would’ve understood, but instead I left him thinking it had to do with him and not with me needing to wrap myself up in a burrito of silence because that’s my usual M.O. between runs. “I thought he’d be there, you know?”
My dad’s face gets hard. He’s not super fond of Zane even though this was his idea. “I didn’t want to mention this before your runs, but I knew he wouldn’t be there.”
What? My father pulls a pretty serious face, and though I’d like to demand to know what the fuck exactly he’s talking about, I don’t. Let him talk now. When he realizes I’m not going to say anything, he sucks some air through his teeth and then blows it out through his lips. “Yeah. That’s what he said when I flagged him down after he dropped you off. To take care of you and he hoped you did well, but . . .”
Ow. Just ow. This hurts far more than my head, and I banged that up against a solid wall of ice going at least eighty miles per hour. Fucking ouch. I nod slowly and swallow it down, this ugly feeling that this guy who I’d genuinely liked, who I’d thought could possibly be more than my standard competition fuck, doesn’t have any use for me anymore. I’d still be upset at how I finished out my event, but to be able to curl up with Zane in his enormous hotel bed and have him exorcise my demons of failure with those magical fingers and mouth of his would’ve been a decent consolation prize. That and maybe getting to sing with him again.
I squeeze my arms around my mid-section even tighter and lean my forehead up against the ice-cold car window and wait for the cab to stop.
Chapter Fifteen
Zane
By the time I make it back to my hotel, my phone’s blowing up. I’ve got texts, voicemails, and emails out the ass, a lot of which I ignore. I don’t want to talk to the press right now, I don’t want to talk to Stanley. I don’t even want to talk to my parents or my sisters.
I don’t want to talk to anyone, to be perfectly honest, but if I don’t talk to someone, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind. So I pick up my phone and hit one of the favorites in my contacts.
“Dude, are you all right? Where are you? We’ve been trying to get a hold of you for an hour.”
Benji’s voice is a balm on my raw heart, and I can hear the other guys in the background. “I’m back at my hotel, and no, I’m not okay.”
There’s some rustling and then a click. Benji sounds further away. “You’re on speaker now, we’re all here.”
“Is Rowan okay? We saw what happened. Well, sort of. Do you know?” Teague, and thank god for that. He’s probably the one who’s kept them all from driving to the airport and getting on a plane. As much as I’d appreciate the gesture, it would only stress me out more to have them here, and we wouldn’t be able to talk while they were in the air.
I collapse onto the couch, putting my own phone on speaker and tossing it on the coffee table. Elbows on my knees and fingers raking through my hair, I can’t seem to settle my body. “I don’t know if she’s okay, I don’t know exactly what happened. All I know is she could walk off the track. Her dad wouldn’t tell me anything. I’m guessing they’ll take her to what’s basically a private ER in the village, and hopefully she’s okay, but I don’t fucking know.”
“That’s shit, man. Why isn’t her old man telling you anything?” Leave it to Nicky to talk smack about the guy whose daughter was just injured.
“He doesn’t think I’m good for her, thinks I’m a distraction. Wants to call the whole thing off because he thinks it’s a stunt.”
“Is it?” Christian’s quiet, and I can picture him slightly apart from the others, his bleached hair falling over one eye.
“No. I mean, it was at first, and that’s all it’s supposed to be, but it’s not now. I think—and this is not the time to give me shit, okay, so I don’t want to hear it, but I . . . Guys, I think I love her.”
There’s silence on the other end and I can only imagine the looks they’re shooting each other, but I don’t fucking care.
“Well, we can’t wait to meet her. She seems pretty great.”
“Thanks, Benj. Appreciate it.”
Now here’s the hard part.
“So I had an idea of how I
might be able to get to Rowan, even if her dad won’t let me within a hundred yards of her. The thing is, though, it could totally fuck things up for us. So I won’t do it if you’re all against it, but I have to tell you: I want to. I’m willing to put myself on the line for this, but I’m not going to hang you guys out to dry with me unless you say it’s okay.”
I can’t even breathe while I listen to the murmurs and rustling. I wasn’t lying when I said I wouldn’t attempt this suicide mission if they weren’t okay with it. These guys have been my family, my livelihood, my life for the past ten years, and as much as I think I could have a future with Rowan, I’m not going to turn my back on the four best bandmates a guy could ask for. I think she’d understand. But I’m hoping they’ll do this for me. Jump off a goddamn cliff.
“Do whatever you need to do, man. We’re all here for you. Let us know if there’s anything you need from us.”
I don’t think Teague would say that if the rest of the guys hadn’t agreed, but I need confirmation, know they’ve all agreed to me potentially putting our career in a dumpster and setting the whole thing aflame. “Does everyone feel that way?”
The chorus of yesses, and a hell yes from Nicky make my chest tight with gratitude. “I won’t involve you guys any more than I have to so you can claim ignorance if it comes to that, but thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now stop being so fucking sappy, and go get your girl.”
Then there are hoots and hollers coming through from Los Angeles, as if they’re at a frigging rodeo or something. “Will do.”
Rowan
My dad’s hotel room is nicer than my room at the village but not as nice as Zane’s suite. He wouldn’t hear of me going back to my room, and I haven’t heard a word from Zane. Was this a game to him? And when it came down to it, I was more trouble than I was worth? I know we fought, but I didn’t honestly imagine he wouldn’t come to my race. And yesterday I could’ve sworn I heard him, but then he wasn’t there.