Page 7 of Love on the Tracks
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—call 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—ashot—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 onTalk Americathis 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.
