Page 2 of Love on the Tracks
“That you got me for my birthday!”
Which, unbeknownst to Kate, I keep tucked under my mattress wherever I travel. Yes, it’s juvenile and stupid, but when I’m having trouble sleeping, sometimes I pretend to talk to Zane—he’s an exceptional listener, what with being two-dimensional and all—and it’s calming. What is not calming is getting ragged on by my teammates, but all considered, it’s not the worst way to blow off steam.
Besides, I have the remote for the stereo under my erg, and on my next glide, I snag it and turn up the music as loud as I can bear and sing at the top of my lungs while I pull, pull, pull.
Zane
Who knew banging your head against a concrete wall could be less painful than listening to four twentysomething dudes argue?
Teague’s booming voice doesn’t do anything to make listening less painful. “Nick, would you shut up already?”
This might be worse than when the band first formed—barely teenagers making what we thought was game-changing music that our parents probably recognized as an excuse to make noise, and lots of it. We fought all the time then, too, but mostly it was over who got the last bag of Cheetos. And fucking Teague, because he was bigger than all of us even then, would always snag it. Giant asshat.
“You’ve got an ear for hits like a tone-deaf tortoise!”
“Tortoises don’t even have ears, shit-for-brains.”
“My point exactly.”
Thunk, thunk,my head meets the cinderblocks again. If only I could be a tortoise so I wouldn’t have to hear my bandmates going at it once again. These days we don’t write most of our own music, and you’d think that would take some of the pressure off. Really, it just makes the problems different, not gone.
It’s times like these I get the urge to walk away from it all: the band, the money, the fans, our label. Everything. The thing is, though, these guys have been my life for the past ten years. As much as they drive me up a fucking wall, like Nicky and his constant need to be the center of attention—“Christian, would you put your goddamn sticks down and listen for a minute?”—they’re also family. I owe everything I have to them, and walking away is not a possibility.
Even taking some space for something I want for myself isn’t allowed. I think I’d be able to tolerate this crap if I had another basket to put some eggs in, but my label’s been steadfast in its refusal to consider a side solo career. They’re worried about it being, weirdly,toosuccessful. Maybe in a few years when LtG isn’t the name it is now, but at the moment? That idea’s a nonstarter.
Not to mention that aside from the guys and my family, I don’t have time or emotional energy to spend on anyone. Yeah, a post-concert hookup or a one-off evening with some starlet my agent sets up, but aside from that, I don’t have the space for relationships.
So this is what I have. All I have.
Ignoring the din around me, I pick up the latest issue ofGold Plated,one of the celebrity gossip and fashion magazines. I don’t know why Benji subscribes to this crap, but it never fails—the new issue’s always on the ugly-ass wagon wheel coffee table that’s been a fixture of our practice space since License to Game first became a thing.
While I wait for the fiery shitstorm of doom to burn itself out around me, I flip through the pages, seeing celebrities of varying types, many of whom one or more of us has slept with. Like her. And her. Or him. And oh god, the Martinelli twins. Why had Teague thoughtthatwas a good idea? He’s usually the one of us with the best judgment . . .
After a couple dozen pages of mind-numbing gossip, fashion tips for those of us who don’t have stylists, and ads for stuff that somehow makes people feel like shit and want to crack open their wallets at the same time, I get to something worthwhile: a spread on the upcoming Snow and Ice Games.
Before the band had outgrown our childish aspirations and become a bona fide sensation, I’d liked playing sports. Had some delusions of grandeur about being able to play ball in college, delusions I’ve been able to hold onto since there’s always the excuse of, “Well, I coulda, but I signed with a record label and made a shit ton of money singing other people’s songs and dancing other people’s dances.”
While my bandmates tend to go after Hollywood fixtures, athletes are more my bag, and none more than the people who compete at the SIGs. Maybe a strange thing to be a turn-on, but not only is there a sick amount of hard work and dedication, but for three-plus years you’re a goddamn nobody slaving away at some obscure sport, and then all of a sudden you’re thrust into the spotlight and expected to know how to handle yourself in front of the media, all while gearing up for the biggest competition of your life. Between the delayed gratification and the being able to handle the extra shit suddenly heaped on their shoulders . . . yeah, that’s pretty hot. Not to mention their bodies. Jesus.
While my bandmates are still tearing each other apart, I slow down from my gossip-flipping to actually read the profiles of the athletes.
I’ll tell you one person who hasn’t got the handling the press part down, that downhill slalom phenom. Crash Delaney. “Crash” is right. If that kid’s not careful, he’s going to crash and burn. Too much of a wild card for my tastes. I’m sure a lot of people are rooting for him, because hey, American dream come true, but my money’s on his teammate, the old man. Miles Palmer. I’ve got way more in common with that workhorse than I do with showboat Crash Delaney. I feel like I could have a beer with Miles while we told Crash and my bandmates to get off our respective lawns.
The rest of the profiles are a good distraction from the crap going on around me. I was looking forward to the SIGs before, and now I can’t wait. I had planned to watch them at home, camped out on the couch, but wanderlust is hitting me hard. The urge to get the fuck out of Dodge because I am so over my bandmates’ sniping and petty arguments is strong.
Maybe I could take some time, go out to Denver for a few days, see some stuff in person? Sure it’s last minute, but there are a few perks of being famous. If nothing else, I could score a spot on one of music channels to do an interview, make my manager and my label happy.
I’d drag the rest of the crew along, too, but Christian doesn’t like the cold, Teague couldn’t care less about sports, and frankly I’d rather be alone for a few days.
The next page I flip to is a story on Rowan Andrews. Five-foot-seven and 145 pounds, the girl wouldn’t look out of place in Valhalla. Viking blond and cut as hell, she looks like she could judge warriors, because sheisa warrior. Learning about Valkyries in school, I always suspected they wouldn’t just decide who lives or dies and then welcome their choices to the afterlife—at least some of them would sneak off to fight, and that would be Rowan. Yeah, there’s a smile on her face, but it’s of the “You want it? Come and take it” variety.
She’s young—only twenty—but she’s clearly got her shit together, at least as far as luge goes. I know what people who achieve big success early can be like from personal experience: kick-ass at one certain thing and kinda clueless when it comes to life in general. Don’t know enough about Rowan to say if that applies or if I’m just projecting what I know about pop stars. It’s her second SIGs, and if the hype is to be believed, she’s medaling one way or another this year.
Even with all the shouting and arguing going on in the background, my stomach tightens. She’s cute. I’m not sure everyone would think so because her features are strong, like the rest of her—sharp nose, square jaw. No way she’s winning Miss America, but I’d take Rowan Andrews over one of those pageant princesses any day.
My fingertip absently traces the curve of her waist in her skin-tight uniform. What would she be like in person? In private? In bed?Get a grip, Rivera. The closest you’re going to get to this girl is cheering her on from the side of the track. Her father’s notoriously overprotective, and on cue, there’s mention of him in her profile.
My mom died when I was ten and to distract me, my dad took me to a Luger Lookout, which is a youth search program for potential sliders. It was the one thing that took my mind off losing her, and I’ve been sliding ever since.
