Page 24 of Love on the Tracks
Once we’re inside, we find our seats, and Rowan unzips her vest, showing off a tight off-white turtleneck sweater.
If I don’t start talking to her, I’m just going to stare and she’s totally going to know I’m scheming about when I can get under her sweater again.Think, Rivera. Conversation. Have it.“So, were you serious when you said you liked curling? It’s hard to catch tone over texting.”
She slides a look my way, the corner of her mouth curving up. “I believe I said I love it, and curling is no joke. Obscure sports played on ice need to stick together, and curling’s up there. I’ve played a bit, and it’s way harder than it looks.”
“I don’t know much about it. Just, you know, rocks and brooms. Seems like something kids would come up with in some frozen hellscape when they got bored of building snow forts. Maybe in Minnesota or Finland or Siberia or something.”
Rowan folds her arms and puts on this haughty face, nose in the air and lips pursed. “It was sixteenth century Scotland, thank you very much. You’re probably not so far off with the rest.”
We watch more of the match, Rowan explaining some of the finer points of play to me, and blushing after she suggests we could play sometime. I swear to god if I get the chance, I’m going to take this girl on a curling date. During a break in play, she takes a sip from her bottle of water.
“So, last night . . .”
Memories flash through my mind, Rowan pulling off my shirt, how she tasted on my lips, how she felt around my—
“Zane?”
Jesus. If I’m not careful, I’m going to overheat in the arena—and the place is a goddamn ice box. “Yeah, uh, last night.”
She smiles, looking devious and I pray to god she’s not going to give me a recap right here. Because I’ve got a semi just thinking about it. “Notthatpart of last night. Besides, that was technically this morning.”
Right. Of course not. And yeah, this morning. “So, uh, which part?”
“When you . . .” She drops her voice to a whisper and looks around us, though no one in here is paying us any attention. “Sang. When are other people going to get to hear that?”
I could hedge, throw out some industry jargon about how long it takes to put a record out and blah, blah, blah. But I don’t want to. She’s already promised to keep quiet about this, and I have no reason not to believe her. There’ve been no pictures or mention of me wearing glasses anywhere, and Rowan is . . . She understands the value of hard work, and she wouldn’t screw anyone over when they’ve put in the time.
“Not for a long time, probably. Label’s not keen on me going solo.”
“Well, I’m not either, but couldn’t you do it as a side project? Lots of people do that.”
Yes, they do, and a lot of times that’s the beginning of the end for the band as the solo project takes off. The label didn’t want to deal with that scenario, so side projects were one thing our agent sacrificed during contract negotiations for something we wanted more. At the time, I couldn’t imagine making music without my buddies, because I’d never done it. Can barely imagine it now, to be honest. Rowan doesn’t need all those details, though. I’m sure she’d be bored to hell by them, and it looks like the action’s about to start on the ice again. Don’t want her to miss any of her beloved curling.
“I’ve asked a few times over the past couple of years, but I always get the same answer. It’d be in violation of my contract and they have no interest in amending it. So.”
I bite down on my back teeth and hope she doesn’t notice the sign of frustration. I’m not some poor little rich kid, and I don’t want her to think of me that way, so I’ll suck it up and deal.
“That’s too bad. I’m sorry, I hope it happens sooner than you think. I, for one, can’t wait to hear it again. Maybe I’ll get a mention in the album notes?”
She bounces next to me and elbows my side gently. There’s nothing I can do in response except smile and try not to dwell on my frustrations, or the peril I could place myself and all of LtG in if I decide someday I’ve had enough and opt to give my label the finger. “Definitely. Now shush, I think that guy burned the stone and I want to see if he calls it.”
“Zane Rivera, you curling fiend, you.”
Rowan
After the curling is over, we stand awkwardly in the arena. I don’t actually have anything to do right now or for the rest of the night. Nothing until practice tomorrow morning. But is it, I don’t know, presumptuous to invite myself back to his place? Again?
It’s not as if I can have him to mine, because A, Kate, and B, they don’t let outsiders into the village. Athletes and coaches are the only non-SIG folks allowed in. There are visitor passes of course, but I didn’t think to score him one. Why would I?
At any rate, we’re standing here shuffling our feet, not making eye contact. Finally I get up the nerve, because what’s he going to say, no? That’s fine. The banging is not, after all, part of our bargain. Besides, he’s already said yes once, and the first ask is always the hardest. After that, it should be smooth sailing.
While I open my mouth, he opens his as well, and it’s a jumble of words.
“You go first.”
He’s got that lopsided smile again, and half his face scrunches up. “You’re probably busy, but if you’re not—”
“I’m not.” Yes, I’d wanted to get to bed early, and I probably should, but suddenly my mind is overwhelmed with thoughts of other things I could do in bed, and the heat of my body is pooling in the areas I’m now hoping Zane will spend some time attending to in the near future.
