Page 72 of Off the Mark
Laughter startled from me. “Rowan, you didn’t…”
He nudged the ring toward me until I took it. Popped it between my lips, and all butpurredwith happiness. “Why are they so fucking delicious?”
He chuckled. “I don’t know, gorgeous. You’re, like, the only person I know who treats Ring Pops like a culinary delight.”
“Theyarea delight. And I will defend them forever.” I nudged his leg. He trapped my ankle again, pressing his thumb along my calf.
“Seriously though,” he said, “watching you win like that was…” He paused, a light blush making the freckles around his eyes stand out darker. “It was really something. I’ll never forget it. You deserved that first, but you seem pleased with second.”
I pressed my aching shoulders against the sunbaked metal behind me. “I am pleased. Second place can definitely suck big-time. Not today though. Not after six months without placing. Shame Dempsey wasn’t here to see this one, but she very rudely hasother clientsto deal with.”
“But do those other clients have Ring Pops?”
I licked the side of mine. Watched Rowan’s throat work. “Doubt it.” Another long lick. Rowan’s fingers tensed around my ankle. “Today felt…today felt like I’d finally come home. Finally come home after months of wandering around in an ugly wilderness.”
“How so?” he asked softly.
I tapped my temple. “You know all that mind-body connection stuff you’re taught when you’re already a serious athlete by the time you’re in middle school?”
“Oh boy, do I,” he drawled. “I’ll never forget all that ‘your body is a temple’ bullshit my old coaches used to swear by. You’re a machine—”
“Your body is an instrument,” I added.
“If you think bad, you’ll play bad.”
“Have negative thoughts on race day and you’ll lose the race, every single time.”
His jaw set, expression darkening. “It made me view my body as something utilitarian. A tool for someone else to use. Not mine. Not really. Later, it just felt like a moneymaker. So when I was released after my injury, I knew all thatyour body is a templestuff was fake. If it wasn’t, they wouldn’t have been so eager to dump me like yesterday’s trash.”
My heart squeezed in my chest. Rowan believed his career-ending injury came from years of overuse. Years of little league, then high school, and then minor league coaches not respecting the limits of his body but rather urging him to push past them.
Pitching is the most unnatural movement you can force your body to do, he used to say—casually, before he got hurt, before his words became a premonition of the worst to come.
I extended my hand, and he took it, dragging me closer until our legs were semi-pretzeled together. Then I tipped forward and kissed him on the cheek. Just once, lightly.
“Were there…were there people watching us?”
“Mm-hmm,” I lied, lips rolling together. “We must look like a cute photo op.”
“Yeah. We must,” he said slowly. His gaze fell to my mouth then crinkled at the sides. His thumb came up and he stroked below my bottom lip. “You’ve got some Ring Pop here.”
“Hazard of all this pink sugar,” I mused. Pushed back a few inches, so a respectable, less tempting, distance between our upper bodies existed again. “But you’re not… Rowan, your body isn’t a bag of garbage to get tossed out when it’s no longer needed. And I’m sorry—and, honestly, furious—they did that to you.”
“I am too.” He reached forward again, this time brushing my bangs from my forehead. It was funny, how effortless this tenderness was starting to become.
How effortless it had been to want to kiss him on the cheek and thendo it.
His fingers roamed until he smoothed them across my temple. “So what’s going on up here?”
I swallowed. “It feels…feels broken.”
“What does?”
I exhaled sharply. “Until today’s win, it felt like I’ve spent all this time recently not in the right headspace. Foggy. Frazzled.” I winced. “Hungover, which, contrary to what people say online, I’veneverdone before.”
“When did it start?” he asked.
I looked away, squinting back up at the sun. “Uh…after I signed with Bettencourt. I hate even saying it out loud. There are younger riders who would gladly run me over on this very track for this opportunity. I’ve been throwing it away and if”—I waved my hand back and forth—“thisdoesn’t work, and if I lose the championship next week, my dad’s gonna be the one who pays the price.”
