Page 4 of Love on the Tracks
“Love you, too, Fishface.”
I throw him a fake scowl before I get herded onto the stage. Not that I actually mind that he calls me Fishface. When I was a kid, my parents used to take me to the aquarium all the time, and my favorite exhibit was the penguins. I could’ve watched them all day. But since that wasn’t an option, I’d make my parents pretend we were a penguin family. Mom was Waddles, Dad was Feathers, and I was Fishface. Still am.
The lights out here are blinding so I do my best to keep my eyes on Kate’s back as she finds her seat, and I take the one right next to her. Easy-peasy.Smile, look happy, answer questions succinctly and modestly.That’s all I have to do. I’ve been trained in how to handle this, and while it’s not my favorite, I do okay.
Kate, Travis, and Aiden field the first several questions, and I get through the standard questions without flubbing anything. Maybe I’m doing better than just not flubbing; the anchors seemed pretty charmed and I turn it up. Play to my strengths and make jokes they laugh too loudly at. Maybe because they don’t know fuck all about luge and are glad I’m giving them something to do.
Fine with me. It’s better than when I have to listen to announcers who have never set eyes on an actual luge track in their lives make pronouncements about the speed or skill of one of my teammates or competitors. At best, it’s eyeroll-inducing, and at worst, it fills me with a white-hot blinding rage I have to swallow behind teeth clenched in what I hope is a smile. This is better.
Yes, this is going well, and since we’re lugers and not, say, fancy-ass figure skaters or some other kind of athlete people care about more, they won’t spend too much more time on us. One minute more and then I can retreat to my normal world, maybe take another dry run of the route from my room at the SIG village to the track. It won’t be exactly the same because the buses and vans we’ll use have their own lanes during the games, but it’s good practice anyhow.
I’ve been here a few times before for other competitions, but I don’t like to leave anything to chance. The more practice, the better, and when it’s the SIGs, all bets are off. Even if you’ve been on a track a hundred times, it’s not the same during one of the biggest athletic competitions in the world. Maybe that’s why people call it the SIG snow globe: a world unto itself, like nothing you’ve ever seen. A temporary universe that exists for two weeks and then is gone. Yes, a lot of the facilities and the medals remain, but it will never be the same again.
The bright and shiny TV personalities are about finished with their usual wrap-up questions when the overly groomed guy who should’ve thought better of getting a spray tan before heading to Denver in February gets this big smile on his face—which never means anything good.Smile, look open and happy to be there.
“Before we let you go, we’ve actually got a surprise for you, Rowan.”
Shitballs. This I’m not prepared for, but I try to keep my breath steady. I regularly go hurtling down a tube of ice at eighty-five miles per hour, so this shouldn’t be a big deal. The thing is, though, I’ve trained to go flying down the track at ridiculous speeds on a combination of a cafeteria tray and ice skates. I have not trained to be surprised by TV personalities who tend to treat us as though we’re animals in a zoo.
Look at the athletes! So obscure and exotic! It’s so strange how they spend their time and what they think is important! How lacking they are in all other skills!
Which I hate to concede might be true, but still. It is . . . not my favorite. This is part of the game I have to play to be here and I will, so I plaster the smile on my face and tip my head. “For me?”
“Oh, yes.”
The TV personalities eye each other conspiratorially and I want to smash their heads together.I get it. This is fun for you, but this isn’t fun for me. Can I get back on my sled now, please?
Then they’re standing, and beckoning someone else on stage from the opposite wing from where we came in. At first, I can’t make the person out because of the lights. A guy, I think, because of the shadow’s hair and shoulders, but otherwise I’m blinded until he steps into the light and then . . .
Holy shitballs.
Zane
Rowan—would she mind that I think of her as Rowan and not Ms. Andrews? I hope not—is gawking at me like she’s the survivor of a zombie apocalypse and I’m the first living, breathing person she’s seen in months. I have to say, even with that goofy, star-struck look on her face, she’s pretty. Striking in a way that calls to me. Loudly. Even more in person than she had from the pages of the magazine.
Still. I haven’t even opened my mouth and she’s got that worshipful look on her face, the one so many fans get. Stars in their eyes, they’re blinded. All they see is Zane Rivera, boy band singer. They see the clothes and the videos and the concerts, they don’t see an actual man. By the way Rowan’s looking at me, she’s no different. Which, why would she be? But it’s disappointing nonetheless.
I shoot her a smile, though, the one I used on the cover ofRolling Stonewhile Nicky tried to look badass, Teague had his enforcer face on, Benji wore his usual good-natured grin, and Christian turned to the side and tried to hide behind his sticks because guy’s actually kinda shy.
That’s when her drop-mouth turns into a disbelieving grin. “Is that—Did you—Oh my god.”
Then she puts her hands over her mouth, drops them again to wring them in front of her chest, and then puts them full-on over her whole face.
I’m honestly not sure what to make of this girl. She seems so cool and in control, and now she’s freaking out. When she separates two of her fingers to peek between and then makes this high-pitched squeal, I have to laugh. She claps, this tiny thrilled movement, and . . . fine. I can see why her team’s media manager was so onboard for this. Rowan’s frigging adorable, and this clip will be playing nonstop for the rest of the day, and on and off through the end of the Games.
She’s clutching the sleeve of the female host, Tamara, and babbling. “You did, you did, oh my god, you did. And I’m totally making an idiot out of myself. What am I even supposed to do?”
While it might be fun to see exactly how long it takes Rowan to get her shit together, there’s a risk it won’t ever happen, and now I find myself getting protective of her. She’s not used to cameras or interviews, and this video is going to be around for the rest of her life. In the other press I’ve seen, she’s managed really well, but apparently meeting me has been a bridge too far. Luckily, this can be fixed. I can put on a good show for the network and the people at home—and get Rowan to stop flailing.
“Maybe shake my hand? We haven’t met before, but I’m a big fan of yours, Rowan.”
I give her one of those tween magazine grins, the ones I use to get the girls to scream. Yes, I’m perhaps exaggerating my expression, but I wasn’t lying when I said I was a fan of hers. We actually have a chance in hell of medaling in women’s luge because of her. How can someone be so cool and competent doing a sport that literally risks her life and completely lose her shit when she meets a pop singer? Probably the same way my bandmates can put on a show for tens of thousands of people but wouldn’t know how to pay a phone bill.
Tamara urges Rowan forward and then the host has to literally place Rowan’s hand in mine because she appears to have lost all control of her limbs. Until she shakes my hand. Her grip is painfully strong, and it’s a struggle not to wince, but she’d probably take that as an insult when in fact I’m impressed. “I’m—”
“Oh, I know who you are.”
Everyone laughs, even Rowan at herself, placing that bashful hand over half her face again. I bet under all that on-camera makeup she’s blushing like crazy, and wouldn’t I like to see that? It’d make her even cuter.
