Love on the Tracks Page 3

  “Row,” he would’ve said, as he rocked against me, “I need you. Need you now.”

  Our foreheads pressed together, his breath coming hard and needy against my lips, I would’ve said, “You can have me.”

  And then—

  Then my phone, which is still in a death grip in my hand, pressed to the center of my chest, rings. Fuck, no. Which is exactly what I’ll be doing. Not getting fucked. By my own hand or anyone else’s . . . anything. I check the screen, pretty sure it’s not going to be something I can ignore, and it’s not.

  Yanking my hand out of my pants, I take a deep breath before answering, hoping he won’t be able to hear the unfulfilled wishes and the cranked-up-high desire in my voice, because ew. “Hey, Pops, what’s up?”

  Zane

  “Dude, if I’d known making out with hot chicks was part of the deal, I totally would’ve gone with you to Denver.”

  I swear to god Nicky must get paid every time he makes me roll my eyes. There’s no other reasonable explanation.

  “I wasn’t making out with her.” Not that I haven’t thought about what it might be like since then, but on TV, I did not. It seems like an important distinction. An important and massive distinction. I like to think I’m a decent guy, I don’t lead girls on, don’t make them think there’s a possibility of more when I’ve got no room in my life. “I kissed her on the cheek. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  I take a long swig of beer, not at all because I’m trying not to think too hard about how good Rowan smelled and what else might’ve happened if we hadn’t been in a television studio. The label of the beer bottle comes off in my hand, damp and sticky at once. As I roll it up into a ball and toss it toward the nearest trash, I remember one of my high school classmates—while I still went to actual high school—saying peeling the labels off beer bottles was a sign of sexual frustration. Dammit.

  Nicky so doesn’t want to hear that. He’d probably regale me with stories about whoever he picked up last night, and I am not interested. Luckily, he cuts off anything else I might’ve said. “That’s not what, I don’t know, all of America seems to think. You’re plastered all over social media, and people are going crazy. They love it.”

  “Really?” I click over to my social media accounts, and it’s true. We’re trending. Me and Rowan, and that picture of me kissing her cheek is all the fuck over the place. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours since the interview aired, the opening ceremonies haven’t even happened yet, and people are already saying it’s a contender for most romantic moment of this year’s SIGs.

  “I hope you scored her number, because if you guys can keep this up, do you know what it could do for album sales?”

  Something in my chest gives a death wheeze. Fucking A. I was hoping I was seeing the exit ramp in the distance. Not that License to Game has been doing badly, not at all, but our latest record didn’t have the same sales as the one before, and truth be told, we’re getting old. Too old for tweens to crush on without it being kinda gross, and our sound doesn’t have a broad enough appeal to keep us in the Top 40 forever. People are moving on. I get it. I’m ready to.

  I’ve maybe been scribbling some things in a notebook I keep just for me; bits and pieces of my life after LtG. I have this fantasy about a solo career. Not as big as I am right now, but I don’t want to be. I want to play smaller venues for devoted fans who would be happy to sit and listen to me strumming my guitar while perched on a bar stool. I want to see my siblings and my parents more often. I want to be able to go out in public without getting swarmed by fans and paparazzi. I want to grow a beard. I might like to get a tattoo without it being covered as though I’ve turned into one of the badly behaving kids in the business. I’d like to be able to date someone for real—not have a one night stand or put together some kind of charade because our people thought it would be a good idea—just because I liked her.

  Also I’d like for the band to make a graceful exit, not crash and burn, and not have some scandalous breakup. If the past several months are any indication, we’re heading that way. I can defuse shit now, but I won’t be able to forever. And I don’t want to. I’m tired. So, yes, I understand this thing with Rowan could be good for LtG and it’s fucking selfish to hope it’s not too good, but I can’t get it up to pretend I’m psyched about it at the moment.

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t sound so excited.”

  “Nicky—”

  “Yeah, I know. You’re not so good at keeping secrets, at least not from me. I know you’ve got one foot out the door.”

  It’s not as if I’ve tried to keep it entirely under wraps, but maybe I haven’t been as circumspect about it as I should be. The fact that Nicky can tell isn’t as alarming as if Benji had picked up on it—for all the guy’s a goofball, he’s got a radar for these things—but I don’t want him to worry. He doesn’t need to worry. I might not be thrilled about it, but I’m not going anywhere for as long as they need me.

  “I do not.” I dig said foot into the fluffy carpet of my hotel suite’s living room. The guilt’s calling my name from the pit of my stomach, though, and I’ve never been able to lie to Nick. “Fine. Maybe a toe. But I’m not going anywhere anytime soon, okay?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Hey, I’m on this train until we roll to a stop, until there’s no more track, or until we hit a wall. Promise. Am I worn out? Would I like to do something different? Yeah, I would. But I’m not going to abandon you guys. I wouldn’t.”

  I’m also not taking on any more responsibilities until I extricate myself, whether that be a partner or an enormous mortgage on a house I never live in, or an overpowered sports car I never drive. Because who the fuck knows what life after LtG will look like. I’ve heard too many stories about people who lived beyond their means and are now doing sketchy-ass infomercials to keep their heads above water. I do not want to be that guy. I’d rather be the dude who buys his parents a new house, takes care of his sister’s rent while she goes to med school, and helps put his nieces and nephews through college when it comes time.

  “I know,” Nicky says. “You’re a good guy. So think about taking one for the team, will you? See if you can’t grab a drink or something with that knock-out blonde. What was she, a bobsledder?”

  “Jesus, Nicky, her name’s Rowan and she’s a luger. Totally different.”

  “Ice, sleds, helmets, it’s all Greek to me.”

  “Obviously.” If he were sitting next to me instead of eight hundred miles away, probably with his feet up on the wagon wheel coffee table, I’d smack him upside the head. I know he doesn’t mean to be disrespectful, but sometimes his brain doesn’t exactly double-check what’s going to come out of his mouth.

  “Seriously, though. Think about it. It would be good for us, it would be good for her, and who knows? You might even manage to have some fun while you’re at it. I know you have a thing those athletic girls.”

  Again with the eye-rolling. I can think of a million and one reasons why this isn’t a good idea, and resentment is rolling like gravel in my lungs. If I’m going to get ahold of Rowan Andrews’s number—and that’s a big if—I’d prefer to be doing it because I like her. Because I thought in the few minutes we’d had that she was charming, and pretty, and yeah, under that regulation track suit she’s got a banging body. I know from that picture in the magazine. I don’t want to be doing it for the same reason I do everything else—for the band.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Cool. That’s all I ask.” Bullshit. He’s going to bring it up again, or have Teague call and badger me until I give in. Or worse, put Stanley on the case and then I’ll really never hear the end of it.

  Right on cue, my cell beeps with an incoming call.

  Taking the phone away from my ear, I sneak a glance at the screen and smack a palm into my forehead before I get back to Nicky. “Hey man, I gotta go. Stanley’s calling.”

  Nicky lets out this maniacal laugh we all mock him for—cal
l him a demented leprechaun—and then he starts chanting. “Ro-wan, Ro-wan, Ro-wan.”

  At least he remembered her name? I shake my head and scrub a hand through my hair. The thing about Nicky, though, is if he were here, he’d stand out in the cold and cheer her on for real because that’s the type of guy he is. Kind of a doofus, but loyal as fuck. I don’t bother with a good-bye, because he’d probably make gag-inducing kissing noises. If I ever want to look Rowan in the face again, can’t have that going through my head. So I click on over to the other side and drop back into the squishy couch.

  “What’s up, Stanley?”

  “You, my boy, are a motherfucking genius. Talk to me about Rowan Andrews.”

  Chapter Four

  Rowan

  The practice runs this afternoon went well. It’s been a while since I’ve been on this particular track—since the national championships last year—but part of my job is memorizing tracks. I paid particular attention last time we were here, knowing or at least hoping I’d be here again.

  It’s a good track—steep and smooth, lots of turns throughout to keep you honest. Hard racing. Sixty seconds of pure concentration. All that time I’ve spent in the gym, on the track, in the wind tunnel, and it’ll all come down to this. Well, four times down the track, but every freaking one counts.

  A chill runs through me and it’s not from the crisp winter air that feels as though you could shatter it with a swift elbow. No, I like the cold, I’m comfortable with the cold, I’m a downright creature of the cold. No, it’s about exactly what’s on the line here.

  Last time I was at the SIGs, in Sapporo, I was brand new. No one expected all that much from me, and I delivered only a little more than that. No medal, twelfth place, and while it was a hell of a ride, I wasn’t sure I’d make it again. So many talented people who work so hard, give up so much for a shot—a shot—to get on that track. It’s rational to wonder if you’ll have the magic combination of working hard enough, the right resources, and pure luck. It’s the last one that’s a real piece of shit. If I think about it too much, it makes me want to sit on the couch and eat my weight in ice cream.

  Here I am again, a few days from another chance to make good, to prove I deserve to be here. It’s possible I’ll get another go. Maybe in Trondheim. Maybe not. I’ve been lucky enough to make it twice, and maybe I’ll be even better in another four years, but just as likely, I won’t. I could get injured. Some young upstart could get recruited and blow me out of the water. I could be at my peak and not even know it. But I can’t think about that now.

  Not even for a second. What I need to be thinking about is here, now. This is what should be occupying all my attention. So I run through the track in my head on my way to the restaurant where I’m meeting my dad.

  He hugs me when I get there, a look on his face like he’s got a secret. That quirk of the side of his mouth gives him away every time.

  I wait until the hostess has seated us and a waiter has poured us water to dig in. “Spill. You’ve clearly got something to say.”

  “You had some good runs today.” He traces the top of his glass with a finger, around and around, and doesn’t look me in the eye.

  “I was pretty pleased with them, yes. I feel like I’m not putting enough pressure with my left shoulder in that third turn, though.”

  “That might be it. You should watch the tape with Gerrilyn.”

  I don’t respond, because he knows as well as I do that’s on the agenda for the team meeting tonight. Gerrilyn’s my coach, and I’m lucky enough to work with her year-round in Lake Placid.

  That’s one nice thing about having your life end. You can pick up and start over someplace else. That’s what my dad did when my mom died. After I found sliding and showed some promise, he latched onto it. A project to delve into, a thing to accomplish after half his life had been ripped away.

  He quit his job, sold our house in Maryland, and we moved. Luckily, as a technical writer, he can work from pretty much anywhere. Lake Placid is as good as any place for him, and it’s the best for me. He’s never made me feel as if he regrets it, and we’ve had a pretty picturesque life there.

  I’m grateful for everything he’s done for me, for all the support and the faith that I could in fact hack it at this obscure sport; the investment in the equipment and the coaches and the travel to competitions. There’s no way I’d be here if it weren’t for him, and I try to keep that in mind when he’s driving me up a fucking wall. Like now.

  I let him make small talk about what he did today when we weren’t together, and finally, when he’s cutting into his bloody rare steak, he comes out with it.

  “I saw your spot on Talk America this morning.”

  Great.

  “You mean other than when you were there for the taping? I thought it went well.” I stab a carrot with my fork and shove it in my mouth. I’d had to hustle out and hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to him afterward, but apparently we’re going to talk about it now.

  “It did indeed. If you weren’t America’s surprise darling before that interview, you are now. The whole country’s going apeshit for you with that Zane fellow.”

  Only my dad could use the words “apeshit” and “fellow” in the same sentence and sound only slightly ridiculous. I shrug, because it’s one thing for Kate to tease me good-naturedly about the thing I have for America’s heartthrob, but it wouldn’t feel as kind from my father. “He’s a big star. I guess I’m lucky he wanted to meet me and not some short track speedskater or curler or something.”

  He pauses with another forkful of red meat halfway to his mouth. “That’s true. You seemed pretty flustered by him.”

  “It’s not every day you meet an honest-to-god pop star.” At the rate I’m going, I’m going to run out of carrots soon. Good thing there’s plenty of whitefish and quinoa left, although they’re less satisfying to jab with my fork.

  “How about twice in one day?”

  That comment sends the tines of my fork skidding across the plate, making an unfortunate screech on the china that turns some nearby heads. When I look up, my dad is looking very pleased with himself indeed. Maybe too pleased. “What are you talking about?”

  “I may have received a call while you were at the track from a Stanley Johnson. That name ring a bell?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “He’s the manager for License to Game.”

  I’m trying super hard not to get the quinoa in my mouth lodged in my throat, but I’m having a hard time swallowing. Breathing, too, for that matter. Finally I manage to choke it down. “What did he want?”

  “It was a have Zane’s people talk to Rowan’s people kind of thing . . .” Yes, my dad is my people, thankfully. Not only do I trust him implicitly, but most people don’t get to pretend to be a penguin family with their people. “Stanley had a proposal for you, and I thought it would be best for all of us to talk. We could’ve done a phone call, but since Zane is obviously in town . . .”

  Holy shitballs.

  “What did you do?” I’m hoping my icy tone will make my dad wince, but he grins. Oh my god, dads. They’re all the same, like they consider embarrassing their kids one of their primary parental duties. Maybe I’ll stab myself with this fork instead of the carrots. Then where would he be?

  “We’re meeting your beau at his hotel in half an hour. Stanley will call in and we’ll all have a chat.”

  “He’s not—”

  My dad waves away my protest. “Sure, sure. Eat up, because it’s going to take us about fifteen minutes to get over there and you need to get back to the village in time for the team meeting.”

  Butterflies are not an accurate description of what’s flying around in my stomach. I need something bigger, more aggressive to describe them. If pterodactyls weren’t extinct, I’d go with that. Whatever they are, they ruin my appetite.

  “I’m finished.”

  Zane

  There’s a knock on the door to my suite, and I take the opportu
nity to wipe my hands on my jeans. I’m not nervous, but it’s a habit. Before I open, I check the peephole to make sure it’s who I think it is. In the hall stands a man who looks a lot like a certain blond luger but with a beard. Behind him is Rowan. In jeans, a coat, and scarf. Under all those clothes, you’d be hard-pressed to tell she’s a world class athlete, but I know better.

  I open the door, trying for a friendly smile. This is going to be a weird-ass conversation, and I’m going to do my best to make everyone as comfortable as possible, even though it’s strange for me too. I’ve heard of this stuff happening, but it’s never happened to me quite like this and I never thought it would. Stanley knows what he’s talking about, though, and Nicky was right. I have a responsibility, and there are worse ways than spending time with a beautiful girl to fulfill them. As long as she understands that’s what it is, because it can’t be anything more.

  Mr. Andrews shakes my hand, grip not quite as firm as his daughter’s, which gives me a kick for some reason. Rowan takes cover behind him and offers me a little wave. Which feels silly, but she’s probably not used to this.

  I want to take her hand, or rub her back. Tell her there’s nothing to worry about. But we don’t know each other well, and if she doesn’t want me to touch her, I won’t.

  After the brief introductions, I point them to the living room. “Stanley’s going to call in a minute, you can have a seat anywhere you like. Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got any beverage you could possibly ask for.”

  “I’ll take a scotch, neat,” Mr. Andrews volunteers, and I don’t miss Rowan rolling her eyes, fondly.

  Walking over to the bar where I’ve got a damn good scotch even though it’s not my liquor of choice, I toss a question over my shoulder. “For you, Rowan? Anything?”

  Jesus, she’s not even old enough to drink legally. Although I feel like if you’ve got the expectations of an entire country on your shoulders, you ought to be able to have a beer.