Page 5 of Love on the Tracks
“Well, it seems like we’re old friends then. Can I have a hug?”
Her green eyes get bigger than I would’ve thought possible, and I suspect I’ve overloaded her brain. Again, I don’t want her looking foolish, so I tug her in, our still-joined hands between us, and sling my arm around the backs of her shoulders.
“Breathe, Rowan, you’re doing great. You’d do even better if you relaxed a little.”
I’ve said it quietly into her ear so none of the mics will pick up my advice, and when we separate after a brief embrace, she smiles shyly up at me and mouths, “Thank you.”
That’s the real Rowan right there. And that Rowan—she is a girl I’d like to spend more time with. If I had the emotional capacity right now anyway, which I don’t. If I did, though . . . I’d like to get to know her out of the glow of these crazy lights, when the novelty of meeting a pop star for the first time isn’t so new and she can see I’m just a guy. Hopefully she would. Some girls never get over it, and it’s tiresome. Some people use us—we’re notches on their belt and the only thing they want to do is fuck and run, and then brag to their friends about how they banged one of the band.
Doesn’t matter. I came here to make a girl’s day, get some good press for LtG, and then chill away from the guys, away from my responsibilities for a breather. Having a girlfriend isn’t a possibility I can even consider. Right now I’ve got a job to do, so I shake hands with the rest of her teammates and make pleasant chatter with them and the anchors until it’s time to wrap this segment. We all wave and say our goodbyes, and they continue to roll tape while I take selfies with various permutations of Rowan’s teammates, though she’s standing off a bit to the side.
“Where’s my best girl?” It’s not entirely altruistic motives that instigate my gesture for her to join us, and even less so when I suggest a picture of the two of us. She fumbles her cell from her pocket, and gets rattled as she opens the camera app and makes it so we can see the pic we’re snapping.
She seems as though she doesn’t want to impose, as if somehow it’s too much to ask for a picture, even though I’m the one who crashed her interview. Also, unless it’s been a really fucking long day, I don’t mind spending some time taking pictures and signing stuff for fans. They’re the only reason I can live how I do, after all. No fans? No getting a last-second ticket to the planet’s most popular destination, no being able to afford a sick hotel suite in this city that’s gone crazy, and no having a manager who can score me tickets to coveted events by making a phone call.
Also, there’s a spark of genuine delight at making this badass woman nervous with my proximity, and making her blush and stammer by shaking her hand. Sometimes being famous has its perks and getting to sidle up close enough to Rowan Andrews to smell her hair is one of them.
Then I’m slinging an arm around her shoulder—you have to get close to take a decent selfie—and her freakishly strong hand is finding a grip on my waist, digging through my blazer and tee to sink into my very skin.
With an impulse I can’t quite explain, at the last second I turn my face so when I snap the picture, I’m kissing Rowan’s soft cheek.
Chapter Three
Rowan
A few hours later, I’m lying on my unimpressive single bed in what’s basically a dorm room. I’ve heard they’re going to do some upgrades after the games, install kitchens, and finish up things they didn’t get to—like the plumbing for the Macedonian team quarters; according to gossip only one person can shower at a time—and then sell off the units at premium prices. At the moment, it’s kind of bare bones.
I don’t need much to stare at the ceiling and brush my fingers over where Zane Rivera kissed me.Kissed. Me.
So, yes, it was a juvenile kiss on the cheek that doesn’t mean squat, but I have photographic evidence of it. To prove it to myself, I take up my phone from the bedside table again and flick to the photo gallery. There it is. Zane fricking Rivera, man of my dreams, beat of my heart, is kissing me on the cheek, and he looks happy about it.
His black hair’s artfully mussed as it always is during his shows and his media appearances, and he’s got on a Team USA T-shirt underneath a navy blazer with the sleeves rolled midway up his forearms. Could he be any hotter? Uh, no.
I listen carefully for a second to make sure Kate hasn’t come back yet, but she’s probably out with this Russian speedskater she was flirting with the other day and whose number she scored because Kate’s good at stuff like that. Me? I’m good at making an idiot out of myself on national television and in front of my crush who—I check my phone one more time to be sure, but the proof’s still there—kissed me.
Closing my eyes, I clutch my phone to my chest and squee. Because really, there’s not a more appropriate action to take. He probably thinks I’m a celebrity-obsessed moron, but he was so nice. He didn’t have to try to calm me down, but he did. And as sexy as he is when he’s belting out one of License to Game’s hits, his voice in my ear? All low and soft and coaxing? Gah.
I would pay good money to have that man’s voice wake me up in the morning, although then I’d probably never want to get out of bed. No, I’d probably want to . . .
A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s only one. I’ve already had lunch, and my team meeting isn’t until two-thirty. We’ve even been told to take a break. If Kate is doing what I think she’s doing, she’ll be a while. If there’s one thing athletes have, it’s stamina. So I have some time to take my fantasies further than reality. Say from a kiss on my cheek to somewhere further south. Like in my pants.
I wish I could’ve gleaned more details from the few precious moments I had near him, but my brain had clearly decided it was easier to short out than collect every priceless detail. Like how did he smell? Good. That’s all I’ve got. What I do remember is how his stylish light scruff felt as it brushed beside my ear, how his voice was lush and melodic even when it was damn near a whisper. How does a person do such a thing? Witchcraft is clearly the answer. Zane Rivera must’ve sold his soul to the devil at some point, and holy hell was it worth it.
Eyes closed and fingers tracing lightly at the waistband of my track pants, I replay the whole thing in my head—making sure I play it far cooler than I actually did of course—and imagine that instead of being hustled away by one of his people, Zane had stuck around outside the studio and raised a hand as I exited, waving me over.
I would’ve excused myself from my teammates and sauntered over, cool as could be. And Zane . . . I do remember he’s somewhat taller than I am. Maybe six feet, maybe a little more? He’d be slouched against the wall in those jeans that show off his butt, his patriotic T-shirt, and the slim-fitting blazer that frames his shoulders just so.
“Hey, Row.” Because yeah, he’d know if we were close, he’d call me Row and it would make me melt every time he said it. My heart like butter on the pancakes I get as a treat. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more back there. I was wondering if maybe I could—”
“Take me back to your hotel room?”
The first overture is always the hardest, but once I’ve managed that, it’s usually a piece of cake, and I like the effect it has on guys. Saying that would’ve thrown Zane for a loop, and he would’ve stuttered and blushed, those high cheekbones taking on a pink cast that would make me wonder exactly what I’d have to do to get that color to spread down to his neck. “I was going to say call you sometime, but if what you said’s on the table . . .”
Now is not the time for playing coy. “Let’s go.”
A quick cab ride later or maybe he’s got a driver here, yeah, a driver because he’s that famous, and we’re fumbling our way up to his hotel room. He can’t even wait until we get into his room and he’s pressing me up against the wall in the hallway and kissing me for all he’s worth, rocking his hips so I can feel he’s hard for me . . .
My hand’s slipped under the elastic waistband of my pants by now, and even further into my underwear—which I pretend for the sake of fantasy are some skimpy lacy red confection and not the cotton full-coverage things I’m actually wearing because I cannot afford to pick at my butt when doing press—where my clit is already swollen and sensitive, waiting to be touched.
