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...
Hoppsan! Denna bild följer inte våra riktliner för innehåll. Försök att ta bort den eller ladda upp en annan bild för att fortsätta.
Teuvo
Martin Vargas is an asshole.
After our meeting, I'm tempted to punch a hole in the wall. Or perhaps skip the team meeting and listen to Look What You Made Me Do by Taylor Swift on repeat. He's a sour, geriatric white man who loves abusing his power. There wasn't a single pleasant word about the women on the team. I step out of the trailer feeling dirty, as if I need a scaling shower to clean the grime off of myself. Also, I feel like I need to apologize to Ridley and Blakely despite not doing anything wrong.
Sighing, I run a hand through my hair and head down to the track. I didn't know I could ride from the trailer to the track. I parked my dirt bike down there, then hiked up the incline for the meeting with Vargas. Although I'm fit, that meeting has drained most of my energy. Men having such backwards views about women are the reason women carry their keys between their knuckles.
The incline comprises compact dirt and the occasional weed. Although the summer sun hasn't broken the mountains yet, I can feel the promise of inevitable summer heat. I also curse for not applying sunscreen. My skin is pasty as fuck, and it burns easily. If I don't lather it up, I end up looking like a lobster after twenty minutes.
At the bottom, I tug the collar of my jersey, trying to create an airflow. It's the lightest jersey I have—made of a polyester blend and complete with mesh areas around the neck and under the pits. Little airflow makes its way through thanks to the chest protector atop my jersey. My shoulders slouch in defeat. Finland has a similar climate to Canada, but the Okanagan is something else. They don't call it the California of Canada for nothing.
Ahead, near the starting line, I can see my new team. Two of them are facing me, one isn't. The one who isn't facing me wears a hot-pink jersey and has the name KNIGHT written across the back in bold letters. The next person is Dyami Bear—I know because he's the only other guy in the group.
But the next person...
I stop dead in my tracks, feeling a wave of... nausea? Guilt? Lust? I can't tell what the fuck I'm feeling.
I see Ridley Holland before she sees me. She's wearing a black sports bra with her black motocross pants. Slides are on her feet instead of steel-toed boots. Her hair is suspended in two French braids that fall well past her shoulders, giving me a prime view of her abstract face and pouty lips that are painted red.
She's also the woman I fucked last night.
The one who was gone by the time I woke up.
Hence the reason shock is plastered to my face.
Something hits the back of my head.
"Close your mouth, Mäkelä. Holland's the enemy." He claps me on the back, grinning. Then he gives me a little shove forward, forcing me to walk. "When you're not doing a team race, that is."
