Ridley Holland has just lost the love of her life. She has no desire to return to the world of motocross, but she knows Teuvo would want her to continue. So she plays the part: an upcoming professional athlete with inevitable determination to domina...
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Then...
Teuvo
This club is giving me a fucking headache.
Being inducted into the "Canadian Lifestyle" meant watching a hockey game while eating some maple syrup-flavoured shit. Not having my brain rattled at some sordid club on Lawrence Avenue in Downtown Kelowna. I think my friends duped me.
Sitting in the back corner booth, I trace the rim of my whisky, surveying the area. The bass thumps, making my heart feel like it's throbbing in my throat. Strobe lights pattern the walls and floors, switching from lime greens to midnight blues to gaudy pinks. People are strewn across the dance floor, grinding against each other. Stumbling over their heels and polished shoes. Drinks are sloshing over the edges of their frosted glasses, complementing the already-pungent perfume-and-body-odour smell riddling the space.
Shaking my head, I pick up the drink, sipping it carefully. While the drinks have done their job of numbing the nerves, I can't overdo it tonight. Tomorrow is my first day on the track. Showing up hungover will cause a poor impression. Probably a scolding from Martin Vargas, my new manager. He made it clear there's no room for funniness on his team.
After a couple of sips, I set the drink down, close to the edge of the table. The thought of listening to bass-heavy music until last call makes me slouch against the velvety seating. My body is itching to get to the track and trails. Based on the descriptions I've read, it's off the grid, surrounded by dense forest, diverse terrain, and natural water sources.
Martin's kept me up to date about the competition. The information's been minimal, but that's all I need. I don't research my rivals. Nor do I engage in petty, stalker-like behaviour. Seeing them perform on the track will give me a taste of who they are, what they stand for, and how well they ride. You need to live through an event to deem it as a worthy experience. Tomorrow'll tell me everything I need to know about the names I've heard: Ridley Holland, Dyami Bear, Blakely Knight.
They're the three other riders who are part of Martin's team. Although we'll sometimes race together, we're still rivals. We train together, ride together, play civil with each other. Hitting the track, depending on which race, changes everything.
My eyes find the dance floor again. While I watch my friends, Joe and Caden Marchand, mingle with two random women, I loosen the first two buttons of my button-down. Something tells me I'll be heading home alone tonight—if I can remember my address. I'll need to take an Uber. Although I'm still competent, there's enough alcohol in my system to be arrested for driving under the influence. Another thing I don't need to happ —
A purse lands on the table, almost spilling my drink. I grab it before it tips off the edge of the table and spills all over my pants. "What the hell?" I ask, more out of surprise than anger.
To be honest, I regret saving the drink. Losing it would've given me a reason to leave this table and sneak out. All I want to do is head home and crash into my bed. This is my second night in Canada, and I'm not accustomed to the area. Saying I feel out of place is an understatement. I miss the familiarity of Finland. Of my family.
