Page 36 of Love on the Tracks
I tell my driver to wait and roll down my window. “Jed. What can I do for you?”
Boy does he look sorry he told me not to call him Mr. Andrews. “You can leave Rowan the fuck alone is what you can do.”
What the—
“She’s got far too much riding on her next runs and she doesn’t need the distraction of you.”
I hold up my hands, because I’m not sure where this is coming from. “Hey, I’m not forcing her to do anything. She came out with me of her own free will and—”
“I bet that’s how you see it, but you don’t know her like I do. She went because it wasexpectedof her. Even though she needs to be concentrating on the biggest day of her life, she went and had a burger with you. You must be used to that, though, getting your way with any girl you want?”
Whoa. Is that how she felt about it? I can see how Rowan might feel some pressure to show up even if she wasn’t really down for it, because if there’s anything she does, it’s meet expectations. Of her dad, of her coach, hopefully of the country that’s rooting for her to bring home a medal, although that’s only so much under her control. I don’t want her feeling that way about me.
It does tick me off that Jed was all gung ho for this in the beginning—talk about pressure—and now he’s decided I’m bad for her? Fuck that noise.
“Like I said, Rowan hasn’t done anything she didn’t want to do. If it’s best for her to have some time to focus, I’ll leave her alone.”
“Do. That includes her race. Don’t show up with your swarm of press and make her even more nervous. You stay away from her.” Guy’s so riled up he’s got a vein bulging from his temple.
Message received. My jaw’s tight so my words come out close to a growl, which I don’t mean as aggressive, just frustrated and confused, but I doubt it matters to Jed. “Will do.”
Chapter Fourteen
Zane
Rowan’s dad doesn’t want me there, but I can’t shake the feeling she does. If it comes down to it, I care far more about what Rowan wants than what her father wants. The thing is, if she doesn’t want me there, it’s easy enough to slink off into the crowd—she never needs to know. But if she does, then dammit, I’m not going to disappoint her.
I’ve got my ridiculous Team USA cowbell and I plan to ring it for all I’m worth. I mean, no one in the history of the world has ever asked for less cowbell, right? I’ve elbowed my way into a spot on the track; turn eleven, because it’s her favorite. I’m such an idiot, because it’s not as though I’ll be able to see her face as she zooms past, and there are other places on the track where I’d be able to see her for longer, but I can’t help it. Knowing she’ll be happiest right here? I want to be part of that.
Going onstage to face a crowd of thousands or tens of thousands doesn’t make me nervous anymore. Jittery, sure, but not so much anxious. It’s all those chemicals coursing through you; your body can’t help but respond to the sensory overload in one way or another. This, though . . . my heart’s positively racing thinking about Rowan at the top of the track, holding onto her precious sled and getting ready to hurl herself down this mountain. Crazy girl.
As the other sliders go down, I picture the process I’ve memorized now: pulling her facemask down and affixing it to her helmet, grabbing hold of the handles on the sides of the track, rocking back and forth until she lets go and then paddling like mad with those spiky gloves until she’s picked up as much speed as she can and she lies nearly flat to let gravity take over.
It seems insane to me sometimes, that people dedicate so much time, energy, money, and all the rest to so small a chance at glory, and even if you get it you end up a footnote, an entry on Wikipedia. There’s not a whole lot of material gain for most of them, and then . . . then they have to figure out the rest of their lives. I’m not sure whether to think it’s noble or senseless.
It doesn’t matter what I think; what matters is that this is what Rowan loves, and she’s next. I can only imagine what her heart must be doing as she gets ready for her final run. Possibly the last competitive run she’ll ever take. Then there’s the roar of the crowd getting started at the top of the track and getting closer with every passing second. When it’s nearly deafening, I see her. A blur of red, white, and blue, she speeds by and I shake my bell so hard I almost clock myself in the head with it and cheer so loud I’ll be hoarse tomorrow. Fine. We’re not back in the studio or on tour anytime soon.
Then she’s gone. I’m tempted to run down the track to follow her, but she’s left me behind in the ice dust. So I close my eyes and listen to the crowd, try to figure out where she must be. There’s not so much left of the run. That’s when I hear it.
The ecstatic din turns into a collective gasp and my eyes snap open. Something happened. Something must’ve happened, and there are no screens where I’m standing to see what it was. Her run must be over, and I start to hear words. So many of them not in English that I can’t understand, but then I catch something:crash.
I don’t wait to hear any more but start pushing my way to the end of the track. It wasn’t so long ago someone died on a sliding track. My blood freezes to a standstill. Not Rowan. She can’t be stopped. Can’t be. Definitely not—
The food I grabbed on the way here threatens to make a reappearance on the people in front of me and I want to shout them out of my way. Of course they’re talking in hushed tones and milling about and I want to beat them out of my way with my cowbell.
You don’t understand. I love that girl, and she could be dead for all I know.
That’s the truth of it. I haven’t admitted it until now, but yeah, I love her. Her smile and her bravery, her concentration and dedication, the way she feels in my arms, and the way she hums along to my songs even after she’s fallen asleep. All my insides are trying to make it to the outside of my body, but I need to make it to the end of the track.
Screens.
There’s Rowan, flying down the track, toes pointed in those weird-ass shoes, and then . . . something happens in the turn. I can’t quite tell what it is at first because it’s over so quickly and she goes on as if nothing’s happened, but then, right before she crosses the finish line, her body looks as if it loses that fine control. Instead of being all tight and aerodynamic, she looks like a ragdoll. She doesn’t sit up and pick up the bows like she usually does at the end of her runs, looking so damn pleased with herself. She’s just lying there and eventually comes to a stop.
I can’t watch that again. I need to figure out what’s happening. What happened.
By the time I get to the end of the track, she’s surrounded and I can’t see and it’s making me nuts. Everyone’s craning their necks and I want to punch them in their big stupid heads. At least I’m not stuck back at the hotel room because I probably would’ve busted my TV by now and had to run to the lobby and all I’d be able to see is the clip playing over and over and over.
Finally there’s a rustling in the crowd, and clapping. People don’t clap when someone gets carried off on a stretcher. They don’t clap when someone dies.
