Love on the Tracks

by Tamsen Parker

  “Rowan. Listen. You have helped me. Probably more than you can ever understand. I appreciate you being concerned about the label but you don’t need to be. They weren’t exactly happy to have their hand forced, but now the cat’s out of the bag, they’re not going to try to stuff it back in. Especially since social media’s been blowing up with the clips. People want to know when the studio version’s coming out. They’re psyched. Above all, labels want to make money. They’re writing up new contracts as we speak, which our agent will throw back in their faces until we get exactly what we want.”

  “Seriously?”

  I brush a few strands of hair back from her face, tuck them behind her ear. “Yeah, seriously. So, not only did this not ruin my career, it got me what I’ve been after for years. I get to put out solo albums alongside the ones I’ll still do with LtG. So don’t worry your fangirl heart about that, either.”

  She narrows her eyes as I tease, and then walks her fingers across the blanket until she lays her hand over mine. “That’s a relief.”

  Her tone is light, but I’m guessing she’s only about half joking. Her touch is comforting to me, the reciprocation. She wouldn’t do that if she were mad. I don’t think.

  “Zane, I wanted to . . . apologize isn’t the right word, because I’d do the same thing over again, but I didn’t mean to make you feel as though you weren’t important to me. That I was using you as prop to get better sponsorship deals, I—”

  Rowan’s green eyes flick away from mine and her gaze focuses beyond my shoulder.

  “Dad, could you give us a few more minutes?”

  Right. Jed’s here in this relatively small space.

  He clears his throat while he holds a phone to his shoulder. “You have a phone call.”

  She’s seemed a little fragile up until now, but suddenly my Valkyrie is back. “Okay. I think they can wait until we finish here.”

  Part of me wishes I could sink down into the couch and disappear. I don’t want to be a source of strife between Rowan and her dad, but clearly that’s what I’ve become. “I can go. If it’s important, I don’t want to get in the way.”

  “Thank you, Zane.” Jed’s pointed tone is enough to make Rowan scowl and while I don’t want to come between them at all, this has become kind of entertaining. In an Andrews vs. Andrews in a battle of wills, I’m not sure who’s going to come out on top. Rowan got that stubbornness from somewhere and I have a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t from her mother.

  “Dad.”

  “Rowan, you want to take this phone call. If it were a sponsor, or Kate, or the press, I’d take a message. It’s not. I’m sure Zane will understand.”

  Sneaky bastard. Can’t help but admire him for it though. Not when Rowan’s well-being is concerned.

  I turn my hand over under hers, and give her fingers a squeeze. “If it’s important, you should take it. I can go look for a green chili elk burger or something while you’re on the phone.”

  I make to get up, but she uses those crazy muscles of hers to put a death grip on my hand.

  “You are not going anywhere. I need to talk to you. And you—” She jabs a finger in her father’s general direction. “Need to stop being so bossy. But if it will get us a moment’s peace afterward, fine.”

  We shift on the couch, and I’m all set to get up so Rowan won’t have to, but she waves me off.

  “If I spend another minute on this couch I might die of boredom. I’ll be right back, okay?”

  She looks steady enough on her feet, but I watch her every step into the suite’s bedroom. One of my sisters got a concussion playing softball, and she was dizzy for days afterward. Rowan makes it with no problem, though, tossing one last roll of her eyes over her shoulder before closing the door.

  While she’s gone, I scroll through my phone. I’ve got a bunch of texts from the guys, a mix of encouraging and mocking, and pleas to let them know how this all shakes out. I’ve been threatened with death if they find out anything about me and Rowan from Pop Nation or Celebrinews or Talk America instead of me. They gossip like a bunch of old ladies. I’m honestly surprised they haven’t shown up at my hotel suite door. Who knows, maybe they’re all piled up outside it right now. Would serve them right to have to wait in the hallway, nosy fuckers.

  It’s a little while before Rowan comes back, and when she does, her hands are limp by her sides and she looks shell-shocked. The only thing that stops me from rushing over to her and demanding if she’s okay is that I know her dad must’ve done that already, and Jed’s standards are even more rigorous than mine when it comes to Rowan.

  I do however, lever off the couch and walk over to where Rowan’s still frozen outside the bedroom door.

  “So, was it a phone call worth taking?”

  She blinks at me, eyes round with a faraway look, and doesn’t speak. Okay, maybe something is wrong, maybe Jed didn’t notice, maybe she just started feeling it, maybe—

  No more maybes, only action. I place my hands on her arms and give her a chafe even though I’d rather shake her. Tell me you’re okay.

  “Rowan? Are you all right? Can you say something, please? I’m worried about you. You’re recovering from a head injury and you’re standing here and I don’t know what’s going on. Do you want me to get your dad?”

  “No. I mean, yeah, I’m okay, and no you don’t have to get my dad. It’s . . . I won.”

  I understand the words coming out of her mouth, but they don’t make any sense. She finished fifth. Maybe her concussion is worse than they thought. Confusion is a symptom, or so WebMD says, and if it’s on the internet, it must be true. Before I can call for Jed, she shakes her head.

  “Not like, first place. But I medaled. I got third. I won.”

  Her face is fever-bright and I’m pretty convinced she’s fucking lost it and we need to get her to a hospital right away for a CT scan or an MRI or whatever else fancy tests they can do to make sure she’s all right. Then her hands are squeezing my arms and the pain of her strong fingers digging into my flesh cuts off anything I was going to say.

  “Zane, did you hear me? Isn’t that great? Aren’t you happy for me? I won!”

  There are a thousand things I would rather do than wipe that deliriously happy look off her face, but I owe her the truth even if it makes my stomach leaden. She’ll be okay. She’s a tough girl, so frigging badass I can’t even stand it, but still, I gentle my voice. “Row, you didn’t. You came in fifth. Which is fucking amazing, but it’s not—”

  “That’s the thing, though. You know how it was Antipova, Kovar, and Moretti?”

  Truthfully, no. I hadn’t cared about anything after the final run except making sure Rowan was okay. I hadn’t bothered to check the winners, because I’d felt so epically shitty about what had happened. Didn’t want to see some other women who weren’t Rowan with medals that should’ve been hers around their necks. Given the standings going in, though, that sounds about right. Two Russians and an Italian.

  “Okay . . .”

  “Well, it’s not. They always do a sled check after the big races to make sure no one cheated. You know, runner temperature, added load, sled weight.”

  “Sure.” I have to smile, because it’s really fucking hot when Rowan gets lost in talking about luge.

  “Well this year, they didn’t just check sleds. They checked suits.”

  What precisely could there be to check on the suits? They may cover the athletes’ entire bodies, but they’re crazy thin material designed to be aerodynamic, and they offer jack shit in the way of protection from injury if you get separated from your sled. But Rowan barrels on, not letting me get a word in edgewise, which is just as well, because this is her kingdom, not mine. I’ll stick to music, thanks.

  “You know how if you’re under the weight threshold you can weight your sled?”

  “Yeah.” That I did know, thanks to studying up after Rowan agreed to go through with this crazy plan.

  “Well, if you’re over, that’s not al
lowed. And the Russians, even though they were both over the limit, added weight. Not to their sleds, though—to their suits.”

  The pieces Rowan seems to have grabbed and stitched together in no time flat are still flying around my brain like kites in a hurricane. What the what?

  “How did they, and why . . . What?”

  Rowan ruffles my hair and it feels so good I want to close my eyes and lie down with her so we can talk. But no. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty. You know that, right, Rivera?”

  “I do.” It’s been more helpful in my career than I’d like to admit that people seem to find me attractive, and to deny it seems disingenuous. Plus, can’t say it hurts to know the sexiest girl alive thinks I’m pretty. I’ll take it.

  She grins at me then, and speaks slowly. “The point is, the Russian team cheated. They’re getting stripped of their medals, which means everyone moves up in the standings. Moretti gets the gold, Vogel gets the silver, and I—”

  Understanding finally dawns. “Holy shit. You get the bronze? You medaled? Holy fucking shit.”

  I pick her up and swing her around. Which, after I’ve done a few turns, I realize is a downright idiotic thing to do to someone with a concussion, but Rowan doesn’t seem to mind. She’s too busy hugging me back and laughing. It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard. Louder and more brazen than the sound of her singing, but there’s joy in both of them, and it fills my heart.

  “You won, Row, you fucking won!”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  Finally finding some semblance of sanity, I set her down and take her face in my hands. “That’s amazing. I’m so proud of you. I mean, I was proud of you before, and I’d be proud of you no matter what, but you’re—”

  I want to tell her exactly how I feel. That she’s the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, I love how strong she is, and how hard she works. Of course, I can’t help but love how freaking gorgeous she is, too, with her long hair and her bright green eyes, and her body—Jesus, it blows my mind every fucking time. Though it hurt me when I thought she was choosing her sport over me, I love her devotion. If she cares about me even a fraction as much as she cares about sliding, I’d be a lucky guy. Hell, I am lucky for having been allowed to have her for this long.

  I can’t get any of that out, because she kisses me. Grabs the lapels of the stupid blazer I’d worn over here even though it’s not warm enough because I know she thinks I look hot in it, and pulls me to her, going up on her tiptoes to make our lips meet.

  I’ve heard kisses described in so many words, done some of it myself, but never have I understood how a kiss could be searing until now. That’s what this is, though; white-hot blinding pleasure from our mouths meeting, and a brush of her tongue across the seam of my lips. Fire-eating has never sounded tempting to me, but at the moment, I’d do it. If it would be even a pale imitation of this, I’d beg for it.

  We kiss until we’re breathless, until I’m drunk and a little burnt-out. There’s about a hundred thousand reasons we can’t take this any further, but god do I want to. Since that’s not an option, we stare at each other, giddy and stupid with luck and bliss.

  “What I was going to say before I took the call—”

  “Best call ever.”

  She grins at me, and plants another small kiss on my mouth, one that’s cute and so sweet in its easy familiarity I want to bottle it. Keep it around and take a swig whenever things are hard, because once upon a time there was this incredible girl . . .

  “Anyway, before I took the call, I was going to say you’re way more to me than a fake boyfriend to get some press. You’re crazy talented, but you’re also kind and funny, and I love how you look in your glasses. So basically, I like you. A lot. I know maybe I’m just some SIG athlete you thought it would be fun to do something nice for and get some good PR in the process, but—”

  “You’re not. You’re absolutely not. I mean, yeah, that’s how this started out, but even from the first time I met you it started to be more than that. You’re amazing, Rowan Andrews. On the track and off it, and I’m lucky you’ll give me the time of day. I mean, pop stars are a dime a dozen, but how many people can say they’ve dated a medal-winning SIG luger?”

  She laughs, and I love the sound. I want to sing with her again. Wrap her in my arms and try to teach her some more chords and even if she never gets it, enjoy the feel of her against me. I’ve got more to say too.

  “I never meant to make you feel like you had to choose. I was feeling insecure and being selfish. Your loyalty and devotion is incredible and I wouldn’t change a thing. I know you’ve still got obligations to fulfill here, and you’ll have to go back to training when you go back home, but I was hoping we might be able to give this a try, not in the SIG snow globe, but in real life. I don’t want this to end.”

  For the few seconds it takes her to start speaking, my heart feels as though it’s floating outside my body. Is she going to catch it in its hopeful free-fall and pull it close to her chest, where her own heart is beating the same frantic rhythm? Or is she going to step back and let it splat onto the floor?

  “I don’t either. And maybe it’s soon, but time gets warped here, so I don’t feel like it’s too early to say . . . I love you, Zane Rivera.”

  I make my living from singing love songs. The word must roll off my tongue a thousand times a day. Those times have been easy. Love has been this abstract thing I could talk about and shape however I liked. Pile onto it with notes and beats and a certain expression on my face to make all the fans swoon. This is different. This isn’t practiced, it’s not a performance, and it’s not marketable. What it is, though, is genuine.

  The words weigh on my heart as I say them, not in a stifling way, but in an embrace. The same way Rowan’s holding me. Which makes it easy to say them back, and mean them with everything I have. “I love you, too, Row.”

  Epilogue

  Rowan

  The closing ceremony was some of the most fun I’ve had in my whole life. I’d remembered it from last time, of course, but this time around felt different. And I don’t think it was just the difference of having a medal around my neck.

  The one that is around my neck right now. Is in fact the only thing I have on and have had on for hours.

  The bed in Zane’s hotel suite is deliriously comfortable. Someone’s going to have to pry me out of here with a crowbar when this is all over. We still have a couple of days to enjoy, though, and I intend to, oh yes, I do. I know just the guy to help me out with that.

  Zane leans over and kisses me deeply. It’s maybe a trite way to describe it, but I can’t think of another way to say it’s not just our lips touching, or tongues tangling, or even some nips of our teeth. The connection is deeper than that, and since I’m me and not him, I don’t have fancy words to say that. It’s more than our surfaces getting tangled up and acquainted, it’s perhaps our longing hearts.

  What I am good with is my body, so I try to tell him in my own way how much he means to me, how glad I am we’re together, and yeah, how much he turns me on. Because his hips resting between my legs, teasing me with brushes of his thick, hard arousal against my clit while we kiss . . . it’s a heady rush, and unlike my other lovers who have always come in a distant second, having sex with Zane is probably tied for my favorite thing to do on my back.

  His hips beneath my hands are smooth, the sinewy muscles working under his soft skin in a rhythm that’s pure bodily pleasure. It’s possible I’d imagined scenarios like this when he was a pretty face on a picture under my mattress, a swoony voice on the radio, but my imagination wasn’t good enough.

  Zane pulls back only long enough to dip his head and apply his magic mouth to my neck where he kisses, licks, and sucks. I want to beg him to do it harder, but despite the games being over, the press is not. Between my medal and being Zane Rivera’s new lady love, I’ve got a bunch of appearances scheduled over the next few weeks, with more to come, and I don’t want to have a hickey in any of the pict
ures. On just about any other place on my body, they could be excused as training bruises, but not there.

  So I enjoy the languid way he worships me; not desperate like the first few times we were together, and not the uber-cautious way he’s been treating me for the past week. This is somewhere in the middle, and I cant my hips to let him know I want him, want him now. Sometimes I tell him, and he seems to like that, but this quiet way is nice too. Speaks of intimacy and understanding, and I hope there’s more of that to come.

  We’ve been talking about what’s going to happen when we leave Denver, and Zane’s lightly floated the idea of renting a place in Lake Placid where he can come during some of his downtime—thought it might be a good place to compose. And I can’t go with him on tour or anything, because that would mess with my training too much, but I can escape for the occasional long weekend to see a show or visit him in LA. Plus, his mom and sisters have been making demands to meet me, so I guess we’ll be going to Texas. There’s lots of time to think about the future though, and for now, I want to enjoy him in the present.

  Zane levers up on his elbows, finishing his tour of my neck with a sweep of his tongue along my collarbone that makes me shiver in the most delightful way. I rock up against him again, pulling his hips toward me because I want more pressure, more contact, more pleasure. More of him. More.

  Instead of giving in to my silent plea, he smiles at me, faux-shy. “You know, I’ve never had sex with a SIG medal winner before.”

  He’s ridiculous. I screw up my face into an overly thoughtful expression. “Well, I’ve totally banged a pop star before, so you better make this a good showing.”

  We’re both trying super hard not to laugh, but it’s not easy. We pull it off though, and later when we’re lying in bed, I’m going to totally high five him for this. If he can keep his shit together. He somehow manages to wrangle his hysteria, and seems to channel it into teasing me even more.