Page 1 of Love on the Tracks
Chapter One
Rowan
Pull.
Pull.
Pull.
Every time the erg snaps up to its starting point, I set myself again, pretending I’m at the starting gate at the top of the track, getting ready for a run. It’s not quite the same movement, what with different shifting parts and no follow-through, but it’s close enough to put me in the mind-set, to get me pumped up, to solidify my focus. My second time at the Snow and Ice Games, and I’m going to need to give everything I’ve got to make the podium here in Denver.
Pull.
Pull.
Pull.
Like on the handles at the starting gate where I’ll give the pull of my career, before paddling as though my life depends on it, and then sending myself hurtling down a frozen tube at speeds approaching ninety miles per hour. Laying supine on a tiny metal and fiberglass sled, contorting my body to be as aerodynamic as possible, making tiny shifts of my weight to hopefully lower my time by thousandths of a second. And, oh right, trying not to die in the process.
When I put it that way, luge sounds insane. Maybe it is, but at the end of the day, it’s my life. I’ve spent years training for this, given up on the prospect of having a normal life in the slim hopes that I might slide down this mountain a fraction of a second faster than the next woman.
Pull.
Pull.
Pull.
At least for this part of my training, I can have music. On the run, it’s all the grinding clamor of the rough ice and, if it’s a race, maybe some cowbell. But mostly it’s the vibration and the clatter of two sharp steels slicing over the coarse surface of the track.
A luge track isn’t like a hockey rink; there’s no Zamboni burrito smoothing our way. Ask any slider who’s lost contact with their sled—a.k.a. all of us at some undignified point or another—and they’ll tell you that ice burn is more like running a frozen cheese grater over your face.
Here in the relative quiet of the gym, though, I can have music, and I do. I so do.
“Why the hell do you make us listen to this shit?”
Kate’s my teammate, my roommate in the SIG village. The only people are allowed in are athletes and coaching staff, making it a haven—except from people who want to complain about my musical selections. Kate is my training partner and one of my best and only friends, and she’s roughly my size, so we can trade clothes. But as much as we share, we do not share taste in music.
Pull.
Pull.
Pull.
“How dare you call License to Game crap? They’ve been crushing the Top 40 lately, and their newest single is catchy as fuck. Admit it. I’ve seen you singing along.”
“Only because you make me listen to it all the time, and it worms its way into my brain and won’t leave. I know you think Zane Rivera’s the second coming—”
“Ah! That is where I draw the line. Yes, I realize LtG is a boy band, and they’re not musical trailblazers. Their music could even be described as derivative of . . . well, all the other boy bands that came before them. But Zane Rivera is . . .” I shift my hands on the bar of the erg, making a shitty-ass pull, but being able to do a dreamy finger-kiss is worth it. “Perfection.”
Kate groans as I shift my hands back, and Travis snaps a towel toward her as he walks by with Aiden, his partner for the doubles event. “Yeah, Kate. Don’t crap on Rowan’s boyfriend.”
I’m lucky my face is already beet red from exertion, otherwise the embarrassment-inspired flush creeping over my cheeks would be stomach-turningly obvious. All the same, I can’t help myself from muttering under my breath, “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Come on, you’d hit that if you had the chance.”
I roll my eyes at Aiden’s egging on, although yes, given the chance and he was game? I would bang Zane Rivera like a gong. He’s divine, with his black hair, dark eyes, heavy brows, and lips that were made for sinning. Or really, singing, because despite LtG’s music being bubblegum, verging on ridiculous tween-bait, the guy really does have a fine voice. Deep, smooth, and seductive, his voice is the only thing that makes me swoony. Otherwise, I’m a very practical girl. Have to be. No room in my life for sentiment, or romance. Just luge. Which I’m very adept at. The other stuff? Not so much.
Kate decides the boys haven’t tormented me enough and piles on. “Yeah, but the closest Rowan’s ever gotten to Zane Rivera is an autographed photo.”
