Love on the Tracks Read online

  Every day, rain or shine, come hell, high water, or holidays, competing at the top of the world doesn’t come easy. Some days I feel like the post office, but on a sled. Reliable Rowan, that’s me.

  Competition rattles me, though, and no competition is bigger than this. It’s also the only time we get this level of media attention. The other three and three-quarters years, I may as well not exist, even though my level of effort is the same.

  Most people go through life doing a job they’re good at, or maybe not so good at, that they like well enough not to take the risk of leaving. Then there’s a small, incredibly lucky percentage who have a calling. You hear that phrase the most with religious people, but they’re not the only ones who experience it. I’m pretty sure going down a track of manufactured ice on a fiberglass and steel sled at upwards of eighty miles an hour is what I was built for. Thank goodness that’s actually a thing.

  Even though sliding is a source of immense pressure right now, it’s also a refuge—the place I’m most comfortable, the most competent. So I do what I always do when I get super stressed: visualize the race course. I make the small movements that will control my sled as I hurtle down the track. No one will notice unless they’re looking for it, and the rest of my team is star struck from being on the set. They’re not paying attention to me at all.

  Then there’s the call of our media handler, who I swear took lessons from Effie Trinket. We get last-minute dabs and blots and powders from the makeup artists, and checks on our sound equipment from other staff. After they determine we’re all set, we’re led out onto a makeshift stage that’s as temporary yet flashy as the rest of the SIG facilities.

  My dad squeezes my shoulder as I fall in line with the rest of the ducklings. “Just smile, Rowan. They love you.”

  “Thanks, Pops. I love you.” Careful not to smudge my makeup, I go up on tiptoe and lay a kiss on his cheek above the line of his beard.

  “Love you, too, Fishface.”

  I throw him a fake scowl before I get herded onto the stage. Not that I actually mind that he calls me Fishface. When I was a kid, my parents used to take me to the aquarium all the time, and my favorite exhibit was the penguins. I could’ve watched them all day. But since that wasn’t an option, I’d make my parents pretend we were a penguin family. Mom was Waddles, Dad was Feathers, and I was Fishface. Still am.

  The lights out here are blinding so I do my best to keep my eyes on Kate’s back as she finds her seat, and I take the one right next to her. Easy-peasy. Smile, look happy, answer questions succinctly and modestly. That’s all I have to do. I’ve been trained in how to handle this, and while it’s not my favorite, I do okay.

  Kate, Travis, and Aiden field the first several questions, and I get through the standard questions without flubbing anything. Maybe I’m doing better than just not flubbing; the anchors seemed pretty charmed and I turn it up. Play to my strengths and make jokes they laugh too loudly at. Maybe because they don’t know fuck all about luge and are glad I’m giving them something to do.

  Fine with me. It’s better than when I have to listen to announcers who have never set eyes on an actual luge track in their lives make pronouncements about the speed or skill of one of my teammates or competitors. At best, it’s eyeroll-inducing, and at worst, it fills me with a white-hot blinding rage I have to swallow behind teeth clenched in what I hope is a smile. This is better.

  Yes, this is going well, and since we’re lugers and not, say, fancy-ass figure skaters or some other kind of athlete people care about more, they won’t spend too much more time on us. One minute more and then I can retreat to my normal world, maybe take another dry run of the route from my room at the SIG village to the track. It won’t be exactly the same because the buses and vans we’ll use have their own lanes during the games, but it’s good practice anyhow.

  I’ve been here a few times before for other competitions, but I don’t like to leave anything to chance. The more practice, the better, and when it’s the SIGs, all bets are off. Even if you’ve been on a track a hundred times, it’s not the same during one of the biggest athletic competitions in the world. Maybe that’s why people call it the SIG snow globe: a world unto itself, like nothing you’ve ever seen. A temporary universe that exists for two weeks and then is gone. Yes, a lot of the facilities and the medals remain, but it will never be the same again.

  The bright and shiny TV personalities are about finished with their usual wrap-up questions when the overly groomed guy who should’ve thought better of getting a spray tan before heading to Denver in February gets this big smile on his face—which never means anything good. Smile, look open and happy to be there.

  “Before we let you go, we’ve actually got a surprise for you, Rowan.”

  Shitballs. This I’m not prepared for, but I try to keep my breath steady. I regularly go hurtling down a tube of ice at eighty-five miles per hour, so this shouldn’t be a big deal. The thing is, though, I’ve trained to go flying down the track at ridiculous speeds on a combination of a cafeteria tray and ice skates. I have not trained to be surprised by TV personalities who tend to treat us as though we’re animals in a zoo.

  Look at the athletes! So obscure and exotic! It’s so strange how they spend their time and what they think is important! How lacking they are in all other skills!

  Which I hate to concede might be true, but still. It is . . . not my favorite. This is part of the game I have to play to be here and I will, so I plaster the smile on my face and tip my head. “For me?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  The TV personalities eye each other conspiratorially and I want to smash their heads together. I get it. This is fun for you, but this isn’t fun for me. Can I get back on my sled now, please?

  Then they’re standing, and beckoning someone else on stage from the opposite wing from where we came in. At first, I can’t make the person out because of the lights. A guy, I think, because of the shadow’s hair and shoulders, but otherwise I’m blinded until he steps into the light and then . . .

  Holy shitballs.

  Zane

  Rowan—would she mind that I think of her as Rowan and not Ms. Andrews? I hope not—is gawking at me like she’s the survivor of a zombie apocalypse and I’m the first living, breathing person she’s seen in months. I have to say, even with that goofy, star-struck look on her face, she’s pretty. Striking in a way that calls to me. Loudly. Even more in person than she had from the pages of the magazine.

  Still. I haven’t even opened my mouth and she’s got that worshipful look on her face, the one so many fans get. Stars in their eyes, they’re blinded. All they see is Zane Rivera, boy band singer. They see the clothes and the videos and the concerts, they don’t see an actual man. By the way Rowan’s looking at me, she’s no different. Which, why would she be? But it’s disappointing nonetheless.

  I shoot her a smile, though, the one I used on the cover of Rolling Stone while Nicky tried to look badass, Teague had his enforcer face on, Benji wore his usual good-natured grin, and Christian turned to the side and tried to hide behind his sticks because guy’s actually kinda shy.

  That’s when her drop-mouth turns into a disbelieving grin. “Is that—Did you—Oh my god.”

  Then she puts her hands over her mouth, drops them again to wring them in front of her chest, and then puts them full-on over her whole face.

  I’m honestly not sure what to make of this girl. She seems so cool and in control, and now she’s freaking out. When she separates two of her fingers to peek between and then makes this high-pitched squeal, I have to laugh. She claps, this tiny thrilled movement, and . . . fine. I can see why her team’s media manager was so onboard for this. Rowan’s frigging adorable, and this clip will be playing nonstop for the rest of the day, and on and off through the end of the Games.

  She’s clutching the sleeve of the female host, Tamara, and babbling. “You did, you did, oh my god, you did. And I’m totally making an idiot out of myself. What am I even supposed to do?
”

  While it might be fun to see exactly how long it takes Rowan to get her shit together, there’s a risk it won’t ever happen, and now I find myself getting protective of her. She’s not used to cameras or interviews, and this video is going to be around for the rest of her life. In the other press I’ve seen, she’s managed really well, but apparently meeting me has been a bridge too far. Luckily, this can be fixed. I can put on a good show for the network and the people at home—and get Rowan to stop flailing.

  “Maybe shake my hand? We haven’t met before, but I’m a big fan of yours, Rowan.”

  I give her one of those tween magazine grins, the ones I use to get the girls to scream. Yes, I’m perhaps exaggerating my expression, but I wasn’t lying when I said I was a fan of hers. We actually have a chance in hell of medaling in women’s luge because of her. How can someone be so cool and competent doing a sport that literally risks her life and completely lose her shit when she meets a pop singer? Probably the same way my bandmates can put on a show for tens of thousands of people but wouldn’t know how to pay a phone bill.

  Tamara urges Rowan forward and then the host has to literally place Rowan’s hand in mine because she appears to have lost all control of her limbs. Until she shakes my hand. Her grip is painfully strong, and it’s a struggle not to wince, but she’d probably take that as an insult when in fact I’m impressed. “I’m—”

  “Oh, I know who you are.”

  Everyone laughs, even Rowan at herself, placing that bashful hand over half her face again. I bet under all that on-camera makeup she’s blushing like crazy, and wouldn’t I like to see that? It’d make her even cuter.

  “Well, it seems like we’re old friends then. Can I have a hug?”

  Her green eyes get bigger than I would’ve thought possible, and I suspect I’ve overloaded her brain. Again, I don’t want her looking foolish, so I tug her in, our still-joined hands between us, and sling my arm around the backs of her shoulders.

  “Breathe, Rowan, you’re doing great. You’d do even better if you relaxed a little.”

  I’ve said it quietly into her ear so none of the mics will pick up my advice, and when we separate after a brief embrace, she smiles shyly up at me and mouths, “Thank you.”

  That’s the real Rowan right there. And that Rowan—she is a girl I’d like to spend more time with. If I had the emotional capacity right now anyway, which I don’t. If I did, though . . . I’d like to get to know her out of the glow of these crazy lights, when the novelty of meeting a pop star for the first time isn’t so new and she can see I’m just a guy. Hopefully she would. Some girls never get over it, and it’s tiresome. Some people use us—we’re notches on their belt and the only thing they want to do is fuck and run, and then brag to their friends about how they banged one of the band.

  Doesn’t matter. I came here to make a girl’s day, get some good press for LtG, and then chill away from the guys, away from my responsibilities for a breather. Having a girlfriend isn’t a possibility I can even consider. Right now I’ve got a job to do, so I shake hands with the rest of her teammates and make pleasant chatter with them and the anchors until it’s time to wrap this segment. We all wave and say our goodbyes, and they continue to roll tape while I take selfies with various permutations of Rowan’s teammates, though she’s standing off a bit to the side.

  “Where’s my best girl?” It’s not entirely altruistic motives that instigate my gesture for her to join us, and even less so when I suggest a picture of the two of us. She fumbles her cell from her pocket, and gets rattled as she opens the camera app and makes it so we can see the pic we’re snapping.

  She seems as though she doesn’t want to impose, as if somehow it’s too much to ask for a picture, even though I’m the one who crashed her interview. Also, unless it’s been a really fucking long day, I don’t mind spending some time taking pictures and signing stuff for fans. They’re the only reason I can live how I do, after all. No fans? No getting a last-second ticket to the planet’s most popular destination, no being able to afford a sick hotel suite in this city that’s gone crazy, and no having a manager who can score me tickets to coveted events by making a phone call.

  Also, there’s a spark of genuine delight at making this badass woman nervous with my proximity, and making her blush and stammer by shaking her hand. Sometimes being famous has its perks and getting to sidle up close enough to Rowan Andrews to smell her hair is one of them.

  Then I’m slinging an arm around her shoulder—you have to get close to take a decent selfie—and her freakishly strong hand is finding a grip on my waist, digging through my blazer and tee to sink into my very skin.

  With an impulse I can’t quite explain, at the last second I turn my face so when I snap the picture, I’m kissing Rowan’s soft cheek.

  Chapter Three

  Rowan

  A few hours later, I’m lying on my unimpressive single bed in what’s basically a dorm room. I’ve heard they’re going to do some upgrades after the games, install kitchens, and finish up things they didn’t get to—like the plumbing for the Macedonian team quarters; according to gossip only one person can shower at a time—and then sell off the units at premium prices. At the moment, it’s kind of bare bones.

  I don’t need much to stare at the ceiling and brush my fingers over where Zane Rivera kissed me. Kissed. Me.

  So, yes, it was a juvenile kiss on the cheek that doesn’t mean squat, but I have photographic evidence of it. To prove it to myself, I take up my phone from the bedside table again and flick to the photo gallery. There it is. Zane fricking Rivera, man of my dreams, beat of my heart, is kissing me on the cheek, and he looks happy about it.

  His black hair’s artfully mussed as it always is during his shows and his media appearances, and he’s got on a Team USA T-shirt underneath a navy blazer with the sleeves rolled midway up his forearms. Could he be any hotter? Uh, no.

  I listen carefully for a second to make sure Kate hasn’t come back yet, but she’s probably out with this Russian speedskater she was flirting with the other day and whose number she scored because Kate’s good at stuff like that. Me? I’m good at making an idiot out of myself on national television and in front of my crush who—I check my phone one more time to be sure, but the proof’s still there—kissed me.

  Closing my eyes, I clutch my phone to my chest and squee. Because really, there’s not a more appropriate action to take. He probably thinks I’m a celebrity-obsessed moron, but he was so nice. He didn’t have to try to calm me down, but he did. And as sexy as he is when he’s belting out one of License to Game’s hits, his voice in my ear? All low and soft and coaxing? Gah.

  I would pay good money to have that man’s voice wake me up in the morning, although then I’d probably never want to get out of bed. No, I’d probably want to . . .

  A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s only one. I’ve already had lunch, and my team meeting isn’t until two-thirty. We’ve even been told to take a break. If Kate is doing what I think she’s doing, she’ll be a while. If there’s one thing athletes have, it’s stamina. So I have some time to take my fantasies further than reality. Say from a kiss on my cheek to somewhere further south. Like in my pants.

  I wish I could’ve gleaned more details from the few precious moments I had near him, but my brain had clearly decided it was easier to short out than collect every priceless detail. Like how did he smell? Good. That’s all I’ve got. What I do remember is how his stylish light scruff felt as it brushed beside my ear, how his voice was lush and melodic even when it was damn near a whisper. How does a person do such a thing? Witchcraft is clearly the answer. Zane Rivera must’ve sold his soul to the devil at some point, and holy hell was it worth it.

  Eyes closed and fingers tracing lightly at the waistband of my track pants, I replay the whole thing in my head—making sure I play it far cooler than I actually did of course—and imagine that instead of being hustled away by one of his people, Zane had stuck around outside t
he studio and raised a hand as I exited, waving me over.

  I would’ve excused myself from my teammates and sauntered over, cool as could be. And Zane . . . I do remember he’s somewhat taller than I am. Maybe six feet, maybe a little more? He’d be slouched against the wall in those jeans that show off his butt, his patriotic T-shirt, and the slim-fitting blazer that frames his shoulders just so.

  “Hey, Row.” Because yeah, he’d know if we were close, he’d call me Row and it would make me melt every time he said it. My heart like butter on the pancakes I get as a treat. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more back there. I was wondering if maybe I could—”

  “Take me back to your hotel room?”

  The first overture is always the hardest, but once I’ve managed that, it’s usually a piece of cake, and I like the effect it has on guys. Saying that would’ve thrown Zane for a loop, and he would’ve stuttered and blushed, those high cheekbones taking on a pink cast that would make me wonder exactly what I’d have to do to get that color to spread down to his neck. “I was going to say call you sometime, but if what you said’s on the table . . .”

  Now is not the time for playing coy. “Let’s go.”

  A quick cab ride later or maybe he’s got a driver here, yeah, a driver because he’s that famous, and we’re fumbling our way up to his hotel room. He can’t even wait until we get into his room and he’s pressing me up against the wall in the hallway and kissing me for all he’s worth, rocking his hips so I can feel he’s hard for me . . .

  My hand’s slipped under the elastic waistband of my pants by now, and even further into my underwear—which I pretend for the sake of fantasy are some skimpy lacy red confection and not the cotton full-coverage things I’m actually wearing because I cannot afford to pick at my butt when doing press—where my clit is already swollen and sensitive, waiting to be touched.