Rowan

The practice runs this afternoon went well. It’s been a while since I’ve been on this particular track—since the national championships last year—but part of my job is memorizing tracks. I paid particular attention last time we were here, knowing or at least hoping I’d be here again.

It’s a good track—steep and smooth, lots of turns throughout to keep you honest. Hard racing. Sixty seconds of pure concentration. All that time I’ve spent in the gym, on the track, in the wind tunnel, and it’ll all come down to this. Well, four times down the track, but every freaking one counts.

A chill runs through me and it’s not from the crisp winter air that feels as though you could shatter it with a swift elbow. No, I like the cold, I’m comfortable with the cold, I’m a downright creature of the cold. No, it’s about exactly what’s on the line here.

Last time I was at the SIGs, in Sapporo, I was brand new. No one expected all that much from me, and I delivered only a little more than that. No medal, twelfth place, and while it was a hell of a ride, I wasn’t sure I’d make it again. So many talented people who work so hard, give up so much for a shot—a shot—to get on that track. It’s rational to wonder if you’ll have the magic combination of working hard enough, the right resources, and pure luck. It’s the last one that’s a real piece of shit. If I think about it too much, it makes me want to sit on the couch and eat my weight in ice cream.

Here I am again, a few days from another chance to make good, to prove I deserve to be here. It’s possible I’ll get another go. Maybe in Trondheim. Maybe not. I’ve been lucky enough to make it twice, and maybe I’ll be even better in another four years, but just as likely, I won’t. I could get injured. Some young upstart could get recruited and blow me out of the water. I could be at my peak and not even know it. But I can’t think about that now.

Not even for a second. What I need to be thinking about is here, now. This is what should be occupying all my attention. So I run through the track in my head on my way to the restaurant where I’m meeting my dad.

He hugs me when I get there, a look on his face like he’s got a secret. That quirk of the side of his mouth gives him away every time.

I wait until the hostess has seated us and a waiter has poured us water to dig in. “Spill. You’ve clearly got something to say.”

“You had some good runs today.” He traces the top of his glass with a finger, around and around, and doesn’t look me in the eye.

“I was pretty pleased with them, yes. I feel like I’m not putting enough pressure with my left shoulder in that third turn, though.”

“That might be it. You should watch the tape with Gerrilyn.”

I don’t respond, because he knows as well as I do that’s on the agenda for the team meeting tonight. Gerrilyn’s my coach, and I’m lucky enough to work with her year-round in Lake Placid.

That’s one nice thing about having your life end. You can pick up and start over someplace else. That’s what my dad did when my mom died. After I found sliding and showed some promise, he latched onto it. A project to delve into, a thing to accomplish after half his life had been ripped away.

He quit his job, sold our house in Maryland, and we moved. Luckily, as a technical writer, he can work from pretty much anywhere. Lake Placid is as good as any place for him, and it’s the best for me. He’s never made me feel as if he regrets it, and we’ve had a pretty picturesque life there.

I’m grateful for everything he’s done for me, for all the support and the faith that I could in fact hack it at this obscure sport; the investment in the equipment and the coaches and the travel to competitions. There’s no way I’d be here if it weren’t for him, and I try to keep that in mind when he’s driving me up a fucking wall. Like now.

I let him make small talk about what he did today when we weren’t together, and finally, when he’s cutting into his bloody rare steak, he comes out with it.

“I saw your spot on Talk America this morning.”

Great.

“You mean other than when you were there for the taping? I thought it went well.” I stab a carrot with my fork and shove it in my mouth. I’d had to hustle out and hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to him afterward, but apparently we’re going to talk about it now.

“It did indeed. If you weren’t America’s surprise darling before that interview, you are now. The whole country’s going apeshit for you with that Zane fellow.”

Only my dad could use the words “apeshit” and “fellow” in the same sentence and sound only slightly ridiculous. I shrug, because it’s one thing for Kate to tease me good-naturedly about the thing I have for America’s heartthrob, but it wouldn’t feel as kind from my father. “He’s a big star. I guess I’m lucky he wanted to meet me and not some short track speedskater or curler or something.”

He pauses with another forkful of red meat halfway to his mouth. “That’s true. You seemed pretty flustered by him.”

“It’s not every day you meet an honest-to-god pop star.” At the rate I’m going, I’m going to run out of carrots soon. Good thing there’s plenty of whitefish and quinoa left, although they’re less satisfying to jab with my fork.

“How about twice in one day?”

That comment sends the tines of my fork skidding across the plate, making an unfortunate screech on the china that turns some nearby heads. When I look up, my dad is looking very pleased with himself indeed. Maybe too pleased. “What are you talking about?”

“I may have received a call while you were at the track from a Stanley Johnson. That name ring a bell?”

“No. Should it?”

“He’s the manager for License to Game.”

I’m trying super hard not to get the quinoa in my mouth lodged in my throat, but I’m having a hard time swallowing. Breathing, too, for that matter. Finally I manage to choke it down. “What did he want?”

“It was a have Zane’s people talk to Rowan’s people kind of thing . . .” Yes, my dad is my people, thankfully. Not only do I trust him implicitly, but most people don’t get to pretend to be a penguin family with their people. “Stanley had a proposal for you, and I thought it would be best for all of us to talk. We could’ve done a phone call, but since Zane is obviously in town . . .”

Holy shitballs.

“What did you do?” I’m hoping my icy tone will make my dad wince, but he grins. Oh my god, dads. They’re all the same, like they consider embarrassing their kids one of their primary parental duties. Maybe I’ll stab myself with this fork instead of the carrots. Then where would he be?

“We’re meeting your beau at his hotel in half an hour. Stanley will call in and we’ll all have a chat.”

“He’s not—”

My dad waves away my protest. “Sure, sure. Eat up, because it’s going to take us about fifteen minutes to get over there and you need to get back to the village in time for the team meeting.”

Butterflies are not an accurate description of what’s flying around in my stomach. I need something bigger, more aggressive to describe them. If pterodactyls weren’t extinct, I’d go with that. Whatever they are, they ruin my appetite.

“I’m finished.”

Zane

There’s a knock on the door to my suite, and I take the opportunity to wipe my hands on my jeans. I’m not nervous, but it’s a habit. Before I open, I check the peephole to make sure it’s who I think it is. In the hall stands a man who looks a lot like a certain blond luger but with a beard. Behind him is Rowan. In jeans, a coat, and scarf. Under all those clothes, you’d be hard-pressed to tell she’s a world class athlete, but I know better.

I open the door, trying for a friendly smile. This is going to be a weird-ass conversation, and I’m going to do my best to make everyone as comfortable as possible, even though it’s strange for me too. I’ve heard of this stuff happening, but it’s never happened to me quite like this and I never thought it would. Stanley knows what he’s talking about, though, and Nicky was right. I have a responsibility, and there are worse ways than spending time with a beautiful girl to fulfill them. As long as she understands that’s what it is, because it can’t be anything more.

Mr. Andrews shakes my hand, grip not quite as firm as his daughter’s, which gives me a kick for some reason. Rowan takes cover behind him and offers me a little wave. Which feels silly, but she’s probably not used to this.

I want to take her hand, or rub her back. Tell her there’s nothing to worry about. But we don’t know each other well, and if she doesn’t want me to touch her, I won’t.

After the brief introductions, I point them to the living room. “Stanley’s going to call in a minute, you can have a seat anywhere you like. Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got any beverage you could possibly ask for.”

“I’ll take a scotch, neat,” Mr. Andrews volunteers, and I don’t miss Rowan rolling her eyes, fondly.

Walking over to the bar where I’ve got a damn good scotch even though it’s not my liquor of choice, I toss a question over my shoulder. “For you, Rowan? Anything?”

Jesus, she’s not even old enough to drink legally. Although I feel like if you’ve got the expectations of an entire country on your shoulders, you ought to be able to have a beer.

“Water. Thanks.”

I bring back the drinks just as my phone rings, setting the glasses down on the table along with a beer for myself before I pick up.

“Stan the man. I’ve got the Andrewses here, so I’ll put you on speaker and we can get started.”

Rowan clutches her glass as she sits on the edge of the sofa. Her dad, on the other hand, has made himself at home and takes an appreciative sip of the scotch as he lays an arm along the back of the same couch.

I sit kitty-corner to them in a chair and lay my phone on the coffee table.

“Rowan, Mr. Andrews, so glad you could join us. I’ve got a dinner to get to and I understand Rowan’s got a team meeting soon so I’ll make this quick.”

I wish Stanley were here so I had something to look at, but all I’ve got is a very nervous Rowan who looks as though she could crush the glass of water in her hands. What happened to the bubbly girl from the interview this morning?

“I don’t know if you’ve got your fingers on the pulse of social media, but that’s something we pay a lot of attention to in our industry, and I have to tell you Rowan and Zane’s appearance on Talk America has been a huge boost. It’s blowing up every social media platform I can think of and probably some the kids invented yesterday. People love it.”

“That’s great,” Mr. Andrews says. “But I’m not sure why we’re here.”

“Well, I know it was supposed to be a one-off spot, but I think we could make this work for both of us.”

I don’t like the way Stanley and Mr. Andrews are talking about us as though we’re not even here, and Rowan doesn’t seem to like it any better. She’s staring into her empty glass. Empty. Even if I can’t take control of this conversation, I can at least make sure the girl’s not thirsty.

So I reach over and take the glass from her hands, our fingers brushing as I do, and a blush rises on her cheeks. She looks softer, more vulnerable out of her tracksuit, like a regular girl instead of a person who’s about to take the world stage in a few days. When I bring back the refilled glass, she smiles at me, her lashes fluttering as she looks away and quietly says thank you.

“License to Game has an album coming out soon, and we could accelerate the release of the first single to take advantage of the buzz. I know it would be nice for Rowan to have more in the way of sponsors, right? Those custom suits and sleds can’t come cheap.”

When did Stanley become an expert on luge? I guess part of his job is to know things that will nudge deals to our advantage, which apparently means pressing the Andrews’ buttons.

“So what if their appearance on Talk America was just the start? We get Zane and Rowan to go out on a couple of dates, Zane shows up to watch Rowan race, we get press to ‘catch’ them walking around the city. America loves its athletes and its pop stars, and it really loves a good romance. We’re hitting all the high points here. After the games, maybe Rowan can show up at a License to Game concert, or maybe they break up amicably and go their separate ways. No muss, no fuss.”

Stanley can be a bit of a shark, but I appreciate that most of the time. The man knows what he’s doing—he’s one of the best in the business. Thanks to him and our agent, our contracts are some of the most favorable you can pull off, and he’s made me and the guys filthy stinking rich. Of course, it’s in his interest to do so, given that he takes a cut, but that means he pulls hard for us and, like a shark, he never stops swimming.

This is the latest in a long line of schemes to keep us in the press.

“So what do you say, kids?”

Now Stanley asks for our approval. Well, he had to get it sometime.

“Rowan?”

She looks me in the face this time, her green eyes wide with nerves. “I don’t want to ruin your vacation.”

She’s so quiet, I don’t think Stan heard her. I’m kinda glad he’s not here right now, because he’d see the half-smile that tugs up the corner of my mouth, genuine, and he’d smell blood in the water. He can turn those killer instincts on his clients as surely as he can the people he’s negotiating with on our behalves. I don’t want him knowing I have more than a passing, purely sports-related interest in Rowan Andrews. “My vacation?”

“You said you were coming to Denver for a break. I . . .” If she had a dusting of pink on her cheeks before, now it looks as though someone with a heavy hand took a paintbrush and smeared her cheeks with red. She fidgets with her glass some more before placing it on the table. “I read it on Celebrinews.”

Oh my god, she’s a total fangirl. I mean, I knew from her reaction on Talk America that she likes our music, but I didn’t know she followed us on the gossip blogs. That’s a whole other level. While I usually find it a bit overwhelming, and I want to tell the girls who’ve built shrines to LtG to pay more attention to school, or politics, or something else that’s more important than a boy band—which is, frankly, just about anything—I won’t condescend to Rowan that way. She busts her ass training and I know from my own reading she wants to become a paramedic when she’s no longer competing. So her hobby, which happens to be my career, is charming. Maybe even a bit flattering.

“Well, I don’t feel like spending time with you would be a real hardship,” I say. “And it wouldn’t be a lot. I know you’re not here to date—you’re here to win a medal. I don’t want to interfere with your obligations. Not at all. You’d call the shots on how much we’d see each other.”

Stanley can’t be happy about that, but he keeps his mouth shut. Rowan blinks at me.

I continue, “Unless you know, you find me repulsive. Then I’d understand why you wouldn’t want to hang out.”

Then my Valkyrie giggles. Covers her face, which is a funny habit for such an outgoing girl, but I’m starting to suspect that being outgoing is something Rowan has to practice as hard as she trains. She’s capable and dominant in some areas of her life, like on her sled, but far less certain basically anywhere else. I’m finding the combination increasingly attractive, which is not good. This is not for real, Rivera, this is for the press.

“I don’t find you repulsive.”

“I mean, I know I’m not Teague. We could probably get him out here if you wanted instead, but—”

“No.” My heart thumps extra hard when she cuts me off with her refusal. It’s pretty widely understood Teague’s the real hottie of the five of us, though I like to think I run a close second. Benji’s friendly-looking and generally gets the tween vote, Christian’s got the whole mysterious, broody thing going on, and Nicky’s the goofball. “If I were to do this with anyone, I’d want it to be you.”

She hasn’t quite agreed, but I think we’ve almost got her, so I turn up the charm just a bit. Not so much it’ll seem fake and turn her off, but enough to convince her to sign on, give us both a tick in the win column. Stanley and the guys will be thrilled, and yes, hopefully this stunt will help Rowan out too.

There’s space left on the couch, so I sit next to her, our knees touching, my elbows resting on my thighs and my hands clasped between my spread legs. I knock her gently with my shoulder and turn my head so I’m looking at her. She’s got her hair tied up, but I know how it would look if it were cascading down her back or falling over her shoulder. Lowering my voice so no one but her can hear me, I say, “So we’ll give it a shot? You can change your mind anytime, and I promise to be the consummate gentleman. Chivalry is not dead. You can be my queen and I’ll be your knight in . . . well, not armor because that shit’s heavy as fuck and I can’t imagine it’s warm, but Team USA gear?”

She laughs again and shakes her head.

“You can sleep on it if you want.”

“No, I don’t need to sleep on it. It actually sounds . . . fun?” She looks at me, uncertainty written all over her face, as if she needs my permission to enjoy this and not make it some sort of cold transaction. Well, in addition to getting some press and taking a break from LtG, that’s my mission for the next two weeks: show this girl, who’s dedicated her entire life to sliding down a track a thousandth of a second faster than the last run, a damn good time. What would be the harm in letting myself enjoy it a bit too? So I give us both permission to have fun, be a little silly.

“Better than a fork in the eye.”

I offer her a hand and Rowan shakes it this time, no manager or chaperone between us. Gotta love that strong grip of hers that she’s not afraid to use. She nods, a decisive dip of her head while she looks me in the eye.

Without letting go of her hand or breaking eye contact, I raise my voice so Stanley will be able to hear. “We’ve got a deal. Let the dating begin.”