Page 37 of Love on the Tracks
I catch the smallest glimpse of a blond braid, and a flash of uniform, surrounded by official looking people, and behind them is Rowan’s dad. I muscle my way through, ignoring the shouts and insults and shoves, because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter.
“Jed!”
His head turns, but not enough to see me. He must’ve heard me. Had to have. So I turn on that big voice, the one that can project in concert halls and theaters, the one I don’t use so much anymore because I’m always mic’d. I can still do it.
“Jed!”
This time he turns fully and sees me. I want to reach out and touch him, a dudely clap on the shoulder orsomething.Offer him comfort because he must be scared to death. I am, and I’ve only known Rowan for a week and change. For Jed, she’s literally his whole life.
All I get is a dark look. “Get out of here, Zane. She doesn’t want you here, and this crash is your fucking fault. She couldn’t have been concentrating well enough around that curve and the only distraction she’s allowed into her life in the past four years is you.”
If I thought I felt sick before, I must have been fooling myself. Because that—his blame, his insistence that I could’ve in any way contributed to what’s happened—hits me like a punch to the solar plexus. I can’t breathe.
Jed and Rowan have the same green eyes, but whereas Rowan’s always looked at me with excitement or kindness or ecstasy, Jed’s gaze contains nothing but hatred and wrath. If we didn’t have an audience, he might murder me.
“You’ve done enough here.”
Then he turns and jogs after the knot of people escorting Rowan away from the track. Away from me.
Rowan
I’d heard there are state-of-the-art medical facilities on-site at the SIG village, but honestly I’d hoped never to find out. Turns out the rumors are true. Fully staffed with some of the best practitioners of emergency and sports medicine, topped off with the most advanced equipment a person could ask for—you’ve got basically an entire ER custom built for the SIGs. I wish I didn’t know that.
Doctors, my dad, and Gerrilyn have been looking me over and grilling me for over an hour. Really, though, aside from feeling like an idiot, I’m fine. Okay that and probably a concussion.
Yeah, I’ve got a headache, and I felt woozy when I was walking off the track. And sure, I lost consciousness briefly at the end after fighting hard to hang onto it, but it was my own stupid fault. Trying too hard in that last turn to speed it up. I didn’t just want to win, I wanted to win big, and it was the greed that got me. My helmet bounced off the ice. Which means, fine, my brain might have gotten a little shaken up in my skull. But it’s not a big deal.
I spend more time being poked, prodded, run through tests and all kinds of things, but in the end what feels like a TV medical drama’s cast worth of doctors and nurses declare me okay. Rest and being monitored for signs my concussion is worsening will be the only thing on my agenda for the next few days, but my race is over so what the hell do I care?
Despite royally fucking up, I came in fifth. Not bad, but not great. Not a medal, which is what I wanted. Also no Zane. I thought I heard him after the race, but that could’ve been an auditory hallucination cooked up by some brain damage, so I didn’t want to mention it because that would for sure get me sidelined, hard. But I’d thought . . .
His voice is distinctive. At least to me. I’ve heard it in a rainbow of tones, from the reds and oranges of his public voice, the bright yellows of how he sounds as part of LtG, and the rich vibrant greens of how he carries a tune when it’s just him, to the sweet deep blue of how he murmurs in my ear, all the way down to the lush carnal purple of when he’s inside me. I would recognize his voice anywhere. Apparently I’ve made a mistake.
Because if I’d been right, that he’d been at my race, seen what happened, he never would’ve left without seeing me. Or if he couldn’t get through, my phone would be blowing up. He’d text me, email me, PM me, DM me, maybe even call me—who does that anymore? I bet Zane would.
I want to go back to my room in the village, but everyone else seems to think it’s best I go with my dad to his hotel so he can keep an eye on me. I don’t have enough energy to argue, and fine, it’s probably a good idea. We’re sitting silently in the back of a cab, and it’s possible I’m sulking. Just a little.
“What’s the matter, Fishface?”
“Nothing.”
He nudges me and I wrap my arms around my waist.
“Are you feeling sick? If you’re feeling sick, we should go back in case you’re—”
I don’t think heartsick counts. Certainly nothing all those doctors and nurses could do anything about. “I’m fine, Dad. Really. Disappointed, obviously, but otherwise, I’m . . . fine.”
He stares at me. This is what he does if I don’t want to talk. Almost as if he’s trying to say, “Fine, don’t talk to me, but see how you like a life-sized gecko gaping at you. Probably better to spill, don’t you think?” Annoyingly, it works.
“I know I told Zane I wanted to hit the pause button on stuff between us, but I thought . . .” I trail off because I don’t want to say it out loud. I thought even though I knew I’d hurt his feelings that he’d be there no matter what. I could’ve done a better job explaining, and I’m sure he would’ve understood, but instead I left him thinking it had to do with him and not with me needing to wrap myself up in a burrito of silence because that’s my usual M.O. between runs. “I thought he’d be there, you know?”
My dad’s face gets hard. He’s not super fond of Zane even though this was his idea. “I didn’t want to mention this before your runs, but I knew he wouldn’t be there.”
What? My father pulls a pretty serious face, and though I’d like to demand to know what the fuck exactly he’s talking about, I don’t. Lethimtalk now. When he realizes I’m not going to say anything, he sucks some air through his teeth and then blows it out through his lips. “Yeah. That’s what he said when I flagged him down after he dropped you off. To take care of you and he hoped you did well, but . . .”
Ow. Just ow. This hurts far more than my head, and I banged that up against a solid wall of ice going at least eighty miles per hour. Fuckingouch.I nod slowly and swallow it down, this ugly feeling that this guy who I’d genuinely liked, who I’d thought could possibly be more than my standard competition fuck, doesn’t have any use for me anymore. I’d still be upset at how I finished out my event, but to be able to curl up with Zane in his enormous hotel bed and have him exorcise my demons of failure with those magical fingers and mouth of his would’ve been a decent consolation prize. That and maybe getting to sing with him again.
I squeeze my arms around my mid-section even tighter and lean my forehead up against the ice-cold car window and wait for the cab to stop.
