Rowan
“And where the fuck were you?”
“Somewhere that didn’t have a sock on the door.” My hedging earns me quite the side-eye from Kate, and then she’s looking me up and down as if she’ll find a piece of evidence clinging to my clothing about where I’ve been. She won’t. I don’t think.
“You were with him, weren’t you? Zane, I mean. Because if you’d been with your dad or Angie and Lola, you would’ve said. Or you were banging someone else in the village, but I don’t think so. You were with your fake boyfriend.”
I throw my shirt at her before stripping off my bra and pulling a different one on over my head, along with yet another Team USA T-shirt. One nice thing about being on the team? A shit ton of clothes I’ll hopefully get to swap for some of the more stylish ones at the end of the games. It’s SIG tradition to trade a bunch of your wardrobe with other athletes. The Nordic countries have way better stuff than we do, and I’m hoping to score a hat from Norway and a jacket from Sweden, or Sverige as it will say. Yellow’s not my color, but the blue will look nice.
For the moment, though, I’ve got my American wardrobe, and we’ll all be rocking our team colors while we work out.
Kate snatches the balled-up shirt out of the air and tosses it toward our laundry pile before pointing at me accusingly. “That’s it, isn’t it? You had a sleepover with Zane, didn’t you? Well, all I have to say is you’re welcome.”
“Just because it worked out doesn’t mean you can pull that shit for the rest of the time we’re here, okay? I need to be in bed early tonight.”
Kate raises an eyebrow.
“In my own bed, by myself, and without a Russian going at you like an - all - you - can - drink vodka bar.”
She huffs and pulls on her own leggings. “His first event is tomorrow, so no worries. We can be nuns tonight, and then either celebrate our runs or drown our sorrows night after tomorrow. Fair?”
“Fair.”
Our training run is, on the scale of things, easy. No sense in wearing us out with a marathon before the big races, but the physical activity of a brisk jog, putting one foot in front of the other, focuses me, gives me something to think about besides the race tomorrow. It also gives me time to review the track in my head, rehearsing the course and repeating the key turns and tricks we’ve picked up and shared with each other.
We hear that a Latvian slider had a crash on the last turn today, which isn’t surprising. Everyone’s been cautious on that turn because it’s a treacherous one. We’ll have to be more aggressive in the timed runnings, but yeah, it’s scary. It’s not clear whether he’s going to be able to compete, and we all wince, suck air through our teeth or otherwise express sympathetic dismay. There but by the grace of god and all that.
Most of my team heads back to the village to eat in the dining hall, but I go to meet my dad a few blocks away, after I’ve gotten cleaned up and changed out of my team gear. At the restaurant, he looks at me the same expectant way Kate had.
“How’s everything?”
“Good.” I try to dull his expectations of more of an answer by chugging my water, but then it’s all gone and he’s still looking at me.
“How are things with Zane?”
“Fine. I’m supposed to meet him this afternoon, but I don’t know what we’re doing yet.”
Where is that waitress so I can order more water? And then excuse myself to the ladies’ room, because I don’t want to deal with this right now. I should’ve gone back with my team, then the talk would’ve been different. Not that there wouldn’t be any teasing or other comments about Zane, because it’s not every day one of us meets someone quite that famous, but by now it would’ve gotten old and we’d be stuffing our faces full of food while dishing on our strategies for getting out of that last turn alive and at speed.
While I can’t do that, my phone cooperates by dinging. My dad is usually grumpy about phones at the meal table, but now he looks as though he might reach over the table and pick up the phone himself. “Are you going to get that?”
I shrug, enjoying the advantage while I have it. “It’s probably Kate.”
“I don’t think so. Didn’t you just say you’re supposed to see Zane this afternoon but you don’t know what you’re doing? I bet that’s him. Why aren’t you answering it?”
My dad has somehow turned from a solidly middle-aged professional man into a gossipy middle school girl in the cafeteria. It’s cute. “Why exactly are you so keen on Zane Rivera all of a sudden? Have you finally turned into a Gamer?”
He scoffs. “You know that crap you insist on listening to makes my ears bleed, it’s . . .”
In general, my dad’s a pretty goofy guy. He doesn’t take a heck of a lot too seriously, because the one time he did, he ended up getting his heart broken. He loved my mom with everything he had, and when she died it’s like a piece of him died too. He tries to keep our life upbeat and, outside of luge, easygoing, but when he gets serious like this I can practically see my mom sitting beside him. “I don’t know that you understand what this could mean for you. In the long run. I didn’t want to say anything, because you’ve got enough on your plate, but you wouldn’t believe the sponsors I’m getting calls from. People who probably didn’t know what the fuck luge was two weeks ago, and now they’re offering you money that . . . well, let’s just say we wouldn’t have to worry about how to pay for your next sled.”
Oh. I knew, of course, that this was the point of “dating” Zane—to draw attention to myself. I just had no idea it would work so well or so quickly.
“So, I’m trying to make sure you’re taking advantage of him.”
“Dad! I’m not taking advantage of him.” All sorts of dirty things fly through my mind, my morning in bed with Zane coming back full force with all the delicious things we did. I don’t want to take advantage of him.
My dad waves me off. “You know what I mean. Take advantage of this opportunity, is that better?”
“Yes.” My mutter is grumpy, but I find my fingers edging toward my phone, and finally I pick it up. There’s only so much time left in the day, and given how long it can take to get around, with all the construction and security and traffic, I probably have a fairly narrow window to meet up with Zane. If it even is Zane. If he even wants to meet up with me.
But of course it’s him.
There’s not much going on today, but my manager scored us tickets to mixed doubles curling. You game?
“It’s him, isn’t it?”
My dad’s giddy interrogation makes me stick out my tongue before going back to my phone.
I actually love curling, and I’ve never seen mixed doubles. Does that count as PR bait? I can’t imagine there’s going to be tons of press there.
A few seconds later, he’s replying. Apparently his thumbs are as dexterous as his tongue, but I shouldn’t be surprised. I listened to him play last night.
There won’t be, but it’s close to the hockey and figure skating arenas, and there will be press milling around there. I thought we could pretend to be sneaking off to the curling. You know, make them think we’re trying to keep this under wraps. Everyone loves an undercover romance.
I should be put off because he’s clearly practiced at this—I can’t help but wonder how many women in his parade of past girlfriends were press props like me—but I can’t be. Means I don’t have to think about it, and I really do love curling.
Game on.
Zane
When Rowan meets me at the entrance to the park, I can’t help the smile that breaks across my face. She’s wrangled her long hair into braided pigtails that are draped over the front of the vest she’s wearing. She’s also got on tight jeans that show off her legs, and fur-topped boots that are frigging adorable. When she’s not looking like she could fly into battle, make life-and-death decisions in a split second, she’s cute as pie, my Valkyrie.
She looks around as she approaches and I tip my head to a crowd of photogs waiting to get into the hockey rink. We want to get their attention without seeming like we want their attention. I half wish Rowan were wearing some of her team gear, but this is better for appearing like we’re sneaking around.
I’ve got my hands shoved in my pockets because I’m a freaking moron who didn’t bring gloves to the SIGs. I mean, come on, it’s going to be cold. It’s right in the name: Snow. Ice. But I’m kinda glad when she walks up to me, close enough to kiss, and hell if I’m not going to RSVP to that invitation.
Her neck is cool, but I can feel her pulse beating beneath her skin and that makes the stupidity worth it. This morning was frigging phenomenal, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t jerk off in the shower after she left. Because I totally did. Thinking of her. Thinking of the other things I’d like to do with her.
When we part, she takes my hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and ducks her head, although I can tell—the photographers saw us and now some of them are snapping pictures while others point and try to figure out if we’re worth photographing. The answer is yes, fellows, and I want to put up a neon sign over our heads for the walk to the curling center, even though I’m hoping that once we get there, we’ll mostly be left alone.
Once we’re inside, we find our seats, and Rowan unzips her vest, showing off a tight off-white turtleneck sweater.
If I don’t start talking to her, I’m just going to stare and she’s totally going to know I’m scheming about when I can get under her sweater again. Think, Rivera. Conversation. Have it. “So, were you serious when you said you liked curling? It’s hard to catch tone over texting.”
She slides a look my way, the corner of her mouth curving up. “I believe I said I love it, and curling is no joke. Obscure sports played on ice need to stick together, and curling’s up there. I’ve played a bit, and it’s way harder than it looks.”
“I don’t know much about it. Just, you know, rocks and brooms. Seems like something kids would come up with in some frozen hellscape when they got bored of building snow forts. Maybe in Minnesota or Finland or Siberia or something.”
Rowan folds her arms and puts on this haughty face, nose in the air and lips pursed. “It was sixteenth century Scotland, thank you very much. You’re probably not so far off with the rest.”
We watch more of the match, Rowan explaining some of the finer points of play to me, and blushing after she suggests we could play sometime. I swear to god if I get the chance, I’m going to take this girl on a curling date. During a break in play, she takes a sip from her bottle of water.
“So, last night . . .”
Memories flash through my mind, Rowan pulling off my shirt, how she tasted on my lips, how she felt around my—
“Zane?”
Jesus. If I’m not careful, I’m going to overheat in the arena—and the place is a goddamn ice box. “Yeah, uh, last night.”
She smiles, looking devious and I pray to god she’s not going to give me a recap right here. Because I’ve got a semi just thinking about it. “Not that part of last night. Besides, that was technically this morning.”
Right. Of course not. And yeah, this morning. “So, uh, which part?”
“When you . . .” She drops her voice to a whisper and looks around us, though no one in here is paying us any attention. “Sang. When are other people going to get to hear that?”
I could hedge, throw out some industry jargon about how long it takes to put a record out and blah, blah, blah. But I don’t want to. She’s already promised to keep quiet about this, and I have no reason not to believe her. There’ve been no pictures or mention of me wearing glasses anywhere, and Rowan is . . . She understands the value of hard work, and she wouldn’t screw anyone over when they’ve put in the time.
“Not for a long time, probably. Label’s not keen on me going solo.”
“Well, I’m not either, but couldn’t you do it as a side project? Lots of people do that.”
Yes, they do, and a lot of times that’s the beginning of the end for the band as the solo project takes off. The label didn’t want to deal with that scenario, so side projects were one thing our agent sacrificed during contract negotiations for something we wanted more. At the time, I couldn’t imagine making music without my buddies, because I’d never done it. Can barely imagine it now, to be honest. Rowan doesn’t need all those details, though. I’m sure she’d be bored to hell by them, and it looks like the action’s about to start on the ice again. Don’t want her to miss any of her beloved curling.
“I’ve asked a few times over the past couple of years, but I always get the same answer. It’d be in violation of my contract and they have no interest in amending it. So.”
I bite down on my back teeth and hope she doesn’t notice the sign of frustration. I’m not some poor little rich kid, and I don’t want her to think of me that way, so I’ll suck it up and deal.
“That’s too bad. I’m sorry, I hope it happens sooner than you think. I, for one, can’t wait to hear it again. Maybe I’ll get a mention in the album notes?”
She bounces next to me and elbows my side gently. There’s nothing I can do in response except smile and try not to dwell on my frustrations, or the peril I could place myself and all of LtG in if I decide someday I’ve had enough and opt to give my label the finger. “Definitely. Now shush, I think that guy burned the stone and I want to see if he calls it.”
“Zane Rivera, you curling fiend, you.”
Rowan
After the curling is over, we stand awkwardly in the arena. I don’t actually have anything to do right now or for the rest of the night. Nothing until practice tomorrow morning. But is it, I don’t know, presumptuous to invite myself back to his place? Again?
It’s not as if I can have him to mine, because A, Kate, and B, they don’t let outsiders into the village. Athletes and coaches are the only non-SIG folks allowed in. There are visitor passes of course, but I didn’t think to score him one. Why would I?
At any rate, we’re standing here shuffling our feet, not making eye contact. Finally I get up the nerve, because what’s he going to say, no? That’s fine. The banging is not, after all, part of our bargain. Besides, he’s already said yes once, and the first ask is always the hardest. After that, it should be smooth sailing.
While I open my mouth, he opens his as well, and it’s a jumble of words.
“You go first.”
He’s got that lopsided smile again, and half his face scrunches up. “You’re probably busy, but if you’re not—”
“I’m not.” Yes, I’d wanted to get to bed early, and I probably should, but suddenly my mind is overwhelmed with thoughts of other things I could do in bed, and the heat of my body is pooling in the areas I’m now hoping Zane will spend some time attending to in the near future.
“Then do you want to—”
“Yes.” Yes, for once in my life, I’m going to be a little reckless—off the track.
Zane laughs, those goddamn dimples showing in his cheeks again. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I was assuming you were going to ask if I wanted to go back to your place and fuck like rabbits until we get exhausted, and then when we wake up in the morning do it again until I have to go to practice.”
I don’t think his eyes or mouth could get any rounder. Part of me wants to do a victory dance because it’s not all the time you get a person to make that face, never mind someone who’s used to performing in front of tens of thousands on a regular basis and exposing his body on magazine covers and in front of stadiums full of screaming fans without blinking an eye. A single run-on sentence from me? Makes him look thunderstruck and has him blushing.
After a few seconds without a response, I start to worry I’ve gone too far, but then he shakes his head and starts to laugh—so hard that I want to reach out and pound on his back because he might choke. Eventually he gets ahold of himself, and that sexy-as-fuck and enthusiastic grin is back.
“Rowan Andrews, you read my mind.”