Page 3 of Love on the Tracks
Well, maybe not the healthiest way to handle a loss, but can’t blame them for trying. The rest of the interview is par for the course: she’s grateful to be on the team, she’s been working hard and is optimistic about her chances but the competition will be stiff, blah blah blah. The last question, as always, is prodding her to reveal something people may not know about her.
My guilty pleasure is listening to boy bands. It drives some of my teammates crazy in the weight room, but I love them. My favorite is License to Game—I’ve had a crush on their lead singer for basically as long as I’ve had crushes. Aside from medaling in Denver, probably the thing I’d like most is to meet Zane Rivera.
What the what?
I read it over and over again, charmed but also wary. This can’t be a trick Benji or one of the other guys is playing on me, though—they know I’m a SIG junkie, but not the true extent of it. Besides, the magazine doesn’t look as if it’s been tampered with.
Rowan Andrews has a crush on me? The idea of her listening to me sing while she’s working out is unexpectedly hot. Plus I like the idea that she does it despite her teammates’ grumbling. I know our music’s not some groundbreaking, intellectually stunning work of art or anything, but if it can get a SIG athlete through a tough workout? That’s good enough for me.
I trace the outline of her torso and hip again, an idea forming in my mind. As my fingertip finds the fall of her blond hair over her shoulder, I make my call.
Fingers to my lips, I whistle loud and shrill, getting my bandmates’ attention.
“Teague, you’re right, it’s not a great song—”
Our hulking bassist shoves a finger into Nicky’s face. “Aha!”
“I’m not done yet. You’re right that it’s not a great song, but Nicky’s right that it’ll be a hit.”
As expected, Nick vaults out of his seat on the beat-to-shit leather couch and goes right up to the four-inch-taller Teague, bumping his chest, or near as he can. “Booyah, bitch.”
If the maturity level in this room could someday rise above eighth grade, I’d be forever thankful. Also shocked as hell, but still, grateful.
“The two of you, knock it off. We’re going to put the song on our next album, it’ll be the second single to drop and we’ll make a shit ton of money off it, all right? We should also pick up that other thing Stanley was playing for us the other day. It won’t be as big in radio play, but we’ll get back some of the fans we lost on our last album. Unless anyone disagrees with me, that’s what we’re gonna do.”
There are some grumbles around the room, but Teague puts Nicky into what I interpret as an apologetic headlock and gives him some noogies, Christian twirls his sticks, and Benji gives me a thumbs-up. Business as usual.
“All right. I’ll call Stanley and let him know. But work’s gonna have to wait a couple of weeks, because I’ve got somewhere I want to be.”
Chapter Two
Rowan
Another day, another morning show. Green rooms like the one I’m sanding in are becoming all too familiar.
Smile, stay calm, say you’re thrilled and grateful and you’ll do your best to bring home the gold. That’s all you need to do.
So far, the press has been great. I’m lucky they like me and, unlike some of my teammates, I’ve done this before. But sometimes I wish I could go back to the peace and quiet of my training days.
I’m fully aware most people wouldn’t consider my routine—wake up at the asscrack of dawn to go for a five-mile training run, do school work for a few hours before heading to the weight room, meet with a nutritionist over lunch before heading out to the track to get some practice runs in, then have dinner and do more schoolwork—peace and quiet, but for me, that’s how I live. That’s what I’m good at.
It makes me an oddity outside of my usual circles. Other elite athletes get it, but everyone else? They seem to find me strange. Unbalanced. I can beat all but a handful of people in the world on a luge track, but things that are everyday responsibilities for my peers don’t register for me, or just don’t make sense. I have people like my dad and my coach who take care of a lot of things for me so I can focus on training. In some ways it’s great, but I’m aware it’s left me a little immature.
That’s probably why I don’t date much, aside from not having the time. Sex? Sure, I’m a physical person and I have needs, which I enjoy satisfying. Hookups at competitions are well and good, but as a rule, athletes don’t have a ton of time for romance. And other guys my age don’t understand the time, energy, and resources I have to pour into being at the top of my game.
Every day, rain or shine, come hell, high water, or holidays, competing at the top of the world doesn’t come easy. Some days I feel like the post office, but on a sled. Reliable Rowan, that’s me.
Competition rattles me, though, and no competition is bigger than this. It’s also the only time we get this level of media attention. The other three and three-quarters years, I may as well not exist, even though my level of effort is the same.
Most people go through life doing a job they’re good at, or maybe not so good at, that they like well enough not to take the risk of leaving. Then there’s a small, incredibly lucky percentage who have a calling. You hear that phrase the most with religious people, but they’re not the only ones who experience it. I’m pretty sure going down a track of manufactured ice on a fiberglass and steel sled at upwards of eighty miles an hour is what I was built for. Thank goodness that’s actually a thing.
Even though sliding is a source of immense pressure right now, it’s also a refuge—the place I’m most comfortable, the most competent. So I do what I always do when I get super stressed: visualize the race course. I make the small movements that will control my sled as I hurtle down the track. No one will notice unless they’re looking for it, and the rest of my team is star struck from being on the set. They’re not paying attention to me at all.
Then there’s the call of our media handler, who I swear took lessons from Effie Trinket. We get last-minute dabs and blots and powders from the makeup artists, and checks on our sound equipment from other staff. After they determine we’re all set, we’re led out onto a makeshift stage that’s as temporary yet flashy as the rest of the SIG facilities.
My dad squeezes my shoulder as I fall in line with the rest of the ducklings. “Just smile, Rowan. They love you.”
“Thanks, Pops. I love you.” Careful not to smudge my makeup, I go up on tiptoe and lay a kiss on his cheek above the line of his beard.
