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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Ridley
On Monday, my ass is sore.
But it's the price I'm willing to pay for winning two races in a row—and watching Stefan McGrath throw a tantrum like the whiny man baby he is. Yesterday's race proved to be more challenging than the first. My adrenaline levels were lower than Saturday's, which allowed more room for negative emotions like self-doubt. People also saw me as a threat. They didn't expect me to win on Saturday, so riders played extra dirty on Sunday. Black Widow almost drove me into the mud. McGrath cut me off, causing me to veer off the trail for a moment. Even my cousin threw a roost at me.
Blakely's move, however, was the worst because I don't know if it was accidental or not. With all the recent digging I've been doing, it's difficult to tell. The terrain was rocky, opening up a field of natural obstacles—a dirt bike can feel the smallest of rocks. When Blakely and I were neck-in-neck during the fourth lap, her front tire hit a rock (a very obvious one) and it veered into my back tire. It sent me tumbling to the ground. She went off to the side, landing in an entanglement of thorny bushes. It took a lot of grit to recover from lost time. Plus, I'm still picking out gravel from around my elbows.
It sounds accidental enough, right?
But when I analyze the situation, there were many red flags. One, the rock was visible—I avoided it first. Second, she had room on her left. Instead of taking me down, she could've guided her dirt bike in the opposite direction. Third, after climbing to my feet, we made the briefest moment of eye contact. She was steaming, and I'm positive all that hate was directed at me. It was intense and made me uncomfortable.
I chew on my bottom lip, staring at my feet while I process my thoughts. Because Jacks gave us the day off, I'm sitting on the dock. The weather is hot today, with the temperature set to raise the mercury past twenty-nine. Last night I made the executive decision to cancel my therapy appointment and spend today relaxing. Dr. Solace was pleased and was kind enough to refuse the fees I insisted on paying. She told me choosing to relax was progress.
That's why I've thrown on a sexy bikini, slathered my body in sunscreen, and parked my ass on the dock. I intend to be out here for hours and work on my tan while enjoying freshly squeezed lemonade, watermelon, and a vegan lemongrass Bahn Mi from a local market. There's an ombre orange towel beneath me. I also have my Bluetooth speaker set up. It's playing the same playlist Teuvo, and I listened to while painting the living room. Listening to music that reminds me of him probably isn't good. However, these are some of my favourite artists. Not listening to them would be detrimental to my happiness—and it would mean I'm letting his passing ruin the things I enjoy. If I can get back on a fucking ATV, I can listen to Sam Fender, Taylor Swift, and Noah Kahan.
Music aside, it's good to be out enjoying the sun and water—and the privacy. There's no one around to question my facial expressions. When I'm lost in thought, my face is far too revealing. And the more I think about Blakely, the deeper my frown becomes. Something about her character is off, and I wonder if confrontation would be a good idea. Okay, maybe not confrontation. Inviting her over and throwing subtle hints into our conversation would be a better option. That way, I run less of a risk of pissing her off or offending her. If Martin is manipulating her, then something needs to be done.
