Page 43 of Love on the Tracks
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 orCelebrinewsorTalk Americainstead 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 allowed. And the Russians, even though they were both over the limit, added weight. Not to their sleds, though—to theirsuits.”
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.
