Rowan

Really, Kate? Really?

I love my roommate, but she’s not always the most considerate person. I guess I should count myself lucky this is the first time I’ve come home to a sock on the door, but all I want is to go to bed. Kate and the Russian are probably going at it on every available surface. I’m pretty chill about the human body—I have to be to get along with Captain Naked in there—but voyeurism’s never been my thing. Fuck.

My watch says it’s only nine, but between the press junkets this morning, team meetings, practice runs, and the slightly uncomfortable dinner with my dad, I feel as though this day has been happening for at least a hundred hours. Part of me wants to sit down in the hallway and cry.

I suppose I could go down the hall to see if I could crash with Angie and Lola or Aiden and Travis, but all I want is to be alone. Is there no place in this entire goddamn city where I could have some privacy?

I thunk my head back against the wall and consider lying down in front of the door until the Russian leaves. But they could be at it all night. We have our first race the day after tomorrow, so this is the last time Kate will fuck until the races are over. Then I’ll be socked out of our room again probably until we go home.

Calling my dad is unappealing for several reasons, and the only option I can think of . . . well, Zane isn’t actually my boyfriend. Calling him to see if I could crash in his suite is something a girlfriend would do. Except, if I were his girlfriend, wouldn’t I be staying with him already? Couch-surfing while sexiled is a totally acceptable reason to text a friend though, right?

What’s the worst thing he could say? No? A little voice in the back of my head pipes up: The worst thing he could say is he’s already got company.

I want that stupid voice to stick a sock in it. So what if he does? It’s none of my business. I don’t think he would, though, if for no other reason than getting caught with a girl in his room when he’s supposed to be in love with me would taint his squeaky-clean image. Can’t have that.

For someone who’s so capable of making split-second decisions on the track, I sure am skilled at talking myself in circles off it. Just text him, Andrews.

Before I get back on the merry-go-round of “should I or shouldn’t I,” I grab my phone and text Zane with one eye closed. Because surely that will make it less horrifying if he’s all, “Uh, no, I fulfilled my obligation for today already. You’re on your own, blondie.”

Hey, my roommate’s banging her Russian in our room. Could I borrow your couch for a while?

Not even thirty seconds go by before my phone pings back.

Sure. Come on over.

Thank goodness Zane is a nice person who takes pity on damsels in distress.

Twenty minutes later, I’m knocking on his door, and as with the text, I can barely take a breath before he’s there.

And he’s wearing . . . glasses.

“Hey, come on in.”

“Thanks.”

The suite looks the same as I remember it from when I was here only a few days ago with my dad. How was that only a few days ago? Time warps at the SIGs, that’s the only way to explain it.

“So I guess the rumors about how many condoms you people go through aren’t an exaggeration, huh?”

I know it’s complete and utter nonsense, but I could swear my heart stops. Is he implying—? Oh, right. The reason I’m here. Jesus, that’s just the kind of mistake you want to make, thinking your fake boyfriend is propositioning you for some very real sex.

“Kate goes through her fair share, that’s for sure.”

Zane heads toward the sitting area and gestures me to sit. “Drink?”

“Water?”

The corner of his mouth goes up. “Do you ever drink anything else?”

“Uh, milk? I don’t like juice and most of it’s empty sugar anyhow. Soda’s even worse.”

He pours me a glass from a bottle and hands it over. “Just promise me if you win, you’ll toast me with champagne, okay?”

My brain stutters on the image of clinking a champagne flute over a gold medal with Zane before we kiss, and find a more physical way to celebrate. I have to shake it off. Surely our celebration would have to be in a public place so we can end up plastered all over social media and the gossip blogs. “Uh, yeah. I’m sure that could be arranged.”

He sits in the same chair he sat in the first time I was here and seems to study me as I drink. It’s flattering and disconcerting at the same time, so I pretend not to notice. Finally I can’t ignore it anymore. “I’m sorry I interrupted your evening, you should go back to whatever you were doing. Honestly, I just needed someplace to sleep that wasn’t the hallway outside my room.”

“You didn’t interrupt anything. I was—”

His lips close tightly around whatever he was going to say and suddenly I want to know very badly what exactly he was doing. You don’t clam up like that unless it’s something secret or embarrassing.

“You were what?”

His gaze is fixed on me, no dimples now, and he looks me up and down, evaluating me. “Can you keep a secret?”

I’m a little disappointed he was up to something secret, and not say jerking off to thoughts of me. But a secret works too.

“Yes. For example, I’m not going to post a pic of you in your glasses in any of the fan forums I belong to.”

That makes him laugh, but also reach for his frames to tug them off his face. “Oh, shit. I forgot I had these on. I look like an enormous dork, right?”

“No.” Not at all. You look serious, studious, intense . . . delicious. “Why are you wearing them anyway? I didn’t know you had glasses.”

“I don’t wear them much, don’t actually need them most of the time. It’s not a vanity thing. Well, not entirely. I only wear them when I’m reading. Or writing.”

His gaze darts over to the dining table and I notice something I didn’t on my way in—a sheaf of papers and a guitar. My fangirl heart goes into overdrive. He was writing a song? Just being in his general proximity around the time when that was happening is thrilling in a totally embarrassing way. Not really something a person can brag about. “Yeah, I was totally sitting on his hotel suite couch a few minutes after he wrote a part of a song.” What the fuck is that?

“I definitely didn’t mean to interrupt if you’re working on new music. You should’ve told me you were busy.”

He shrugs, looking sheepish. “It’s not going well, honestly. Even if it were, I’m not going to let you wander around the village in search of a place to sleep.”

Yep. He would’ve done this for anyone, him and his Prince Charming complex. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m here and I may as well enjoy it while I can, because when these weeks are over, I won’t see him again. Probably. Even if I do, he might not remember me. The American public doesn’t give a shit about luge for forty-seven months out of forty-eight, why should Zane Rivera be any different?

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I don’t why I’ve offered. It’s not as though I have any meaningful skills in his world. Unless you count googly-eyed, sycophantic staring. That I could do.

He has his hands on his hips—those narrow, jean-clad hips—and his dark eyebrows gather. “There might be, actually. But you came here to rest, not to—”

“I assure you it would be my utmost pleasure. I may not come home with a gold medal, but helping Zane Rivera write a song would definitely earn me bragging rights.”

That goddamn smile of his is like the sun coming up over a snow-covered mountain: sparkly and blinding. “Are you sure? This isn’t a song that just needs polishing. It’s only the beginning, and it’s a mess. I’ll stop and start a lot, and it won’t even sound like a song, and you’ll have to listen to me play the same thing like a hundred times in a row—”

“What about ‘yes’ do you not understand?”

He freezes, his dark eyes getting huge and his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as though maybe he’s not thinking about music anymore. He wouldn’t be the only one. But he nods, heading over to the table and picking up the acoustic guitar. When he brings it closer, I can see it’s beat to hell; scratched all over and with a strap that looks like it’s seen better days.

“There’s one more thing you should know before we get started.” He throws the papers down in front of him with a pen. There’s chicken scrawl all over them—how does he even read these himself?—stuff crossed out and circled again, doodles, numbers, and arrows. I force my gaze to his face because there’s clearly something he feels the need to say. “This isn’t . . . It’s not for License to Game.”

The corners of my mouth pull down. “Who else would it be—”

“Me. Just me.”

Zane

Could Rowan look more like I’ve murdered her puppy? It’s my own stupid fault for telling her. Of course she’s upset. She loves LtG, and if she thinks I’m breaking up the band to start a solo career . . . Yeah, I basically ran over her dog.

“Hey, not any time soon, okay? Actually, I’m contractually prohibited from doing any solo stuff any time soon. I’m starting to plan my exit strategy, you know? I’m twenty-six, and you can’t be in a boy band forever. Not without being fucking creepy at any rate. It’s like how you can’t compete at luge forever. So you must have a plan for what you’re going to do when you’re done on the track. You want to be a paramedic. Right?”

I want her to understand, I need her to understand, and I don’t want her to feel betrayed. God, if this is what it’s like telling a girl I’ve only known for less than a week, what is it going to be like telling the guys? Torture. They know, of course, but only in the vaguest terms. Like this is a thing that’s happening . . . someday.

The fans, though, they have no clue. They think we’re going to be around forever. My exit strategy had best involve hiding out in some third world country with no extradition policy for a few years until the statute of limitations on crimes against tween-dom runs out. I am so completely fucked.

“Yeah,” she says. “I get it. I do. You surprised me. I had no idea you were unhappy, that’s all.”

I want to say I’m not, that being a pop star is the greatest gig in the whole world. Because the truth is, in some ways it is. I get to play music for a living, and how many people dream of that? The reality is often different from the dream. Way more paperwork, way more politics, and it’s less about the music and more about the promotion—I’ve gotten jaded. “I’ve loved doing this with my buddies for the past ten years. We never imagined when we were playing in Benji’s basement that we’d ever be here. It can’t last forever, though, and I don’t want to wake up one morning and realize I have nothing left. That I’ve sold my whole life and any talent I ever had, and didn’t keep anything back for myself.”

Rowan nods and licks her lips. “That’s allowed. I’d still love to hear it. If you’re still willing to let me.”

So maybe I overreacted. She’s not angry, she doesn’t hate me, she’s not accusing me of ruining her life. I surprised her, and she understands. And she still wants to hear it.

“You’re sure? Because it’s not going to be pretty.”

“You think the first time I took a run down this track it was anything like what you’re going to see the day after tomorrow?” She shakes her head. “No way. And I promise I won’t tell anyone. Anything. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You have to put your glasses back on.” The look on Rowan’s face is downright impish; in this moment she looks more like a puckish fairy than a Valkyrie. I like her this way too.

“You drive a hard bargain, Andrews.”

“Not that hard. I could’ve said you have to play naked.” As soon as she’s said the words, she claps her hands over her mouth and mumbles through them. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that.”

Truth is, I’d almost rather do that. I’ve played shirtless I don’t know how many times and sat for magazine shoots with only a sock-like thing to cover my junk. Physical nudity is nothing compared to the vulnerability I’m about to impose upon myself.

For the past ten years, the only people who have heard unfinished work have been my bandmates. The guys can be turds, but they also know when to shut the fuck up, and how to pull and push me through writing new music. We’ve got it down now, and they know all the ugliness. Rowan will be seeing it for the first time, and now she wants me to wear my glasses too?

“Hey, I’m all for no clothes. But if I have to play naked, you have to listen naked.”

She looks at me through her fingers and shakes her head. Her face must be burning up under her hands. Her blush cracks me up. “No. Just your glasses please. You said you need them if you’re going to be reading or writing, and judging from your notes, you’re going to be doing a lot of that.”

She’s right. “Fine. But you promised, no pictures. If this winds up on fan forums, I’ll know where it came from.”

Finally she lets her hands fall away from her face, and holds one out for me to shake. “Deal.”

I try to sit in the chair I was occupying before, but there’s not enough room for my guitar.

“Here, we can trade.” Rowan starts to get up, but I wave her off.

“No, stay. As long as you don’t mind me parking at this end.”

So she scoots over to the end of the couch, tucking her knees up and biting her lip, her eyes lit up like a kid who’s actually managed to wait up and hears Santa coming down the chimney. She looks as though something’s about to explode out of her mouth. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason.”

“You’re such a bad liar.”

“No, I’m an awesome liar, but I also happen to be a massive fan girl and you’ve overloaded my brain. I’m getting my own personal Zane Rivera concert. I have played it so cool for the past week, but you can’t blame me for losing my shit over this just a little.”

That’s actually pretty cute. But she’s right—if this is the true level of her fandom, I’ve only seen glimmers of it since I’ve met her. She’s been exceedingly chill the rest of the time, made me feel as if she liked spending time with me and not the lead singer of License to Game. I’m not quite sure how to feel about that. Has this been what’s going on in her head the whole time? She thinks regular old everyday Zane is boring, but pop star Zane is what gets her motor running? It’s half adorable and half disappointing as fuck.

Instead of getting too mired in why I might feel that way, I strum the strings and give her a dark look when she squeaks.

“I’ll be good, promise.” She draws a quick X over her heart and I roll my eyes. This will be memorable if nothing else.

I suck up my anxieties and close my eyes, hoping if I can focus on the music, I’ll forget about Rowan sitting two feet away. Unlikely.

It works well enough that I can get into the groove and can even hear some of the comments the guys would make if they were here. Teague would tell me the melody’s too complicated, Christian would tell me to give him something to do, Benji would say he thinks I’m onto something epic but it needs fine-tuning, and Nicky would say it sucks donkey balls because that’s what he always says—until he doesn’t, and that’s always when I know I’ve got something good.

Even though they aren’t here, I hear them, and I almost forget Rowan is sitting right by me until, alongside my frustrated tenor and the increasingly tense thrum of the strings, there’s a light and airy soprano. Not the kind of voice that would make someone a hit, or even stand out in a crowd, but sweet, pure, and with perfect pitch—which is more than I can say for a lot of the big names.

What she’s doing, a simple but pretty harmony, hits something in my soul. Like a cold glass of lemonade on a hot summer day, it shouldn’t be remarkable—how many glasses of lemonade have you had in a lifetime?—but there’s something about it that will remain with me for the rest of my life.

I finish out the section I’ve been playing over and over, and start to scribble. From those few bars, she’s jumpstarted something in my head, and the notes come to me. I read somewhere that a lot of writers hear voices in their heads. Well, I do too. Voices and instruments, words and beats. Though I’ve been stuck on those same repeating measures for months and I’d started wondering if I’d ever be able to hack it on my own, Rowan’s opened the floodgates.

She sits quietly while I scribble, not asking me any questions or offering any advice. When I start to play again, she sings along until I get to the new measures, and then she’s quiet; listening. Really listening, because after scribbling some more things down and getting another burst of sound pouring through my brain, I start over again and she’s memorized enough of the new things to at least hum along.

It’s like a being in a hurricane, so caught up I get in the madness, and it’s only when I look at the clock I realize we’ve been doing this for two hours. Rowan’s slumped over on her end of the couch, curled up with her eyes closed, still humming dreamily.

Not quite awake and not quite asleep, I hope she feels like this has been a dream come true. God knows that’s how I feel.

It’s fucking selfish of me, but I don’t want to stop. Not yet, not while there’s still fairy dust in the air. The song is almost done, and I think if I can get a few more runs in, it’ll click. But with another glance at Rowan, I know I can’t do it.

She’d already had a hard day when she got here, and then what did she do, rest? No, she sat here with me and helped me work through this. She had said she’d take the couch, but I’d been planning to offer her the bed. She’s got a race the day after tomorrow, and no way am I going to be the person responsible for her getting a shitty night’s sleep.

I set my guitar on the table and then kneel in front of her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, Rowan.”

She makes a sleepy “mmph,” but otherwise I get nothing.

There’s some hair in her face, so I brush it away, noticing for the first time she’s got a sprinkling of pale freckles across her cheeks. For some reason I can’t quite explain, that small detail twists something in my stomach. She’s really beautiful. In a way I didn’t appreciate at first, or maybe in a way I took for granted.

It’s as though I’m seeing her for the first time. Yes, I’ve been attracted to her since the beginning, but she’s not just a hot body on a sled, not just a twittering fangirl. I’ve wanted her, enjoyed kissing her, but that want has turned into something deeper, and for the first time worry nags at me. On my end, I don’t have room to spare to take on any new obligations. As much fun as relationships can be, there’s a responsibility there too. Can’t imagine Rowan’s got a ton of spare time on her plate either. What’s going to happen to us at the end of these two weeks? The likely answer is nothing.