For the Love of Sports Paperback Bundle

TRAIL CROSSINGS
Lucy refuses to bike. Aidan vows to not give up on her. Will she choose the right trail to find healing?

Dealing with survivor’s guilt, Lucy has let her life fall to pieces. Until a crash, she was at the top of the youth mountain biking scene. When Lucy’s best friend, Ava, dies because of the crash, Lucy withdraws from everything in her life. Eight months later, during the summer before her senior year, Lucy is a dark shadow of her former self. Now Lucy’s parents are forcing her to do things and Aidan, her training partner and Ava’s twin brother, reveals his true feelings for Lucy.

Burdened by fear and guilt, Lucy struggles to put together the missing pieces of her former life. Scared to bike and afraid to admit her real feelings, Lucy sabotages Aidan’s attempts to get close to her. Turning to running and a new friend, Lucy discovers she has the choice in which trail to take. Reconnecting with her former friends, Lucy finds the missing piece in her life and decides to bike after Aidan. But Aidan is carrying a guilt as deep as Lucy’s, and when Aidan crashes, Lucy is faced with the same nightmare she thought she outran.

This YA sports romance is a story of overcoming guilt, rediscovering yourself, and finding love, all with a side of sports.

LOVE WITH TRAINING WHEELS
Maya isn’t looking for love. When her virtual world collides with her real world, she’s bound to crash headfirst into it.

Maya has a hard time saying no. She’ll say yes to helping her friends, to extra errands for her elderly neighbor, and to chasing another virtual jersey with a mystery guy on her bicycle training program. Maya wishes she could say no to Ethan, the great-grandson of her neighbor, who keeps handing off his chores to her, but she can’t.

Ethan is only a voice on the phone to Maya, and the mystery guy she trains with is only a virtual avatar on a screen. When Maya finally meets Ethan, they grow close, and she’s torn between him and the mystery guy she only knows as Mr. Awesome. Mr. Awesome understands Maya and helps her train for a spot on an esports cycling team. But when a crime destroys her opportunity and her neighbor ends up in the hospital, Maya will have to learn to say no. Can she do it, even if it means hurting someone she loves?

Race into this sweet sports romance, a standalone in the “For the Love of Sports” series. Get sucked into the draft of Maya chasing after her heart and her pain when she throws off the training wheels of love too soon. Can Maya recover and who will be there to help pick her up?

TRAIL CROSSINGS

Through the tinted windshield I see it hanging on the bike rack, taunting me as it does whenever I come into the garage. The vivid orange frame is tangible evidence of my guilt and a haunting reminder. I avert my eyes, but the neon paint is hard to miss in the dark garage. My mountain bike seems to be a flashing marquee with “Ride Me” written on it. I ignore the plea. The bike might miss me, but I won’t allow myself to miss it. It’s the cause of all my pain and suffering.

With a scowl on my face, I grab my bag from the passenger seat of my dad’s car and shove open the driver’s door. Once out, I slam the door and keep my eyes off the mountain bike determined to haunt me. A thick layer of New Mexico dust coats the frame. The dust is from nonuse, not from riding dirt trails. The bike has been hanging in the same place for months, ever since my accident. There isn’t enough dust to cover the memory of the last time I rode it.

When I enter the quiet open house, I find my dad at the kitchen island, a fork in his hand and a plate in front of him. The scent of coffee hangs in the air and my stomach rumbles. I drop my bag on the bench near the door, kick off my shoes, and walk into the kitchen.

“Hey, Luce,” Dad says. “I left some eggs on the stove for you.”

“Thanks.” My words are the bare minimum.
I take a plate from the cabinet and step to the stove to examine the remains of Dad’s scramble. I never feel like eating, but I do because I’m supposed to. Like everything else in my life now, I do stuff to get through the day. The scrambled eggs are dry and stuck to the bottom of the pan. I scrape some bits out with a spatula and dump them on my plate. I feel like the eggs, dried out and piled up in a heap. Dad watches me while I grab a bag of grated cheese from the refrigerator. I sense his hazel eyes on the back of my head, boring into me and waiting for the right time to ask when I’ll get back on the bike.

“I’m surprised you’re up early on your first day of summer.” Dad lifts a cup of coffee to his lips.

The sound of the nearby highway resonates in through the open windows and fills the silence. Grated cheese cascades from my long fingers onto the scrambled eggs. I place the plate in the microwave and grab the first mug in the cabinet before answering.

“Might as well keep a schedule,” I reply.

I pour myself a cup of hot coffee and wrinkle my nose. My scent isn’t as pleasant as the coffee. I’ve been sweating at early morning spin classes at the community center every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday since January. It’s now the last Friday of May.

“When does work start?” Dad swallows his coffee, with a repeated sip, sip, sip noise which causes me to cringe. It’s like listening to a clogged sink trying to drain water.

I roll my eyes, because Dad knows the answer and because his sipping sound drives me nuts. “A week from Monday.”

My shoulders flinch when another of Dad’s loud sips punctuate the silence. He makes the noise because he knows I can’t stand it. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“Seems like a good time to get back in the real saddle.” Dad sets his mug down with a soft thud. There’s hesitation in his voice, and I know he’s worried how I’ll react. This conversation hasn’t gone well in the past. The irony of my situation isn’t new to me. It doesn’t seem right for a talented mountain biker to forgo the great outdoors and her real mountain bike to instead ride on a stationary bike in the dark hours of morning. It’s sad. The reason I do it is sad. Everything about my life is sad. And I don’t care, but I do care. Ugh. I’m a mess.

“I’ll be riding my bike to work,” I say.

I face away from Dad and pour a generous helping of flavored creamer in my coffee. I don’t know how Dad drinks his black. I prefer my creamer with a little coffee. I stir the creamer in, watching it swirl with the dark coffee to create a creamy concoction. A slight anxiousness builds in me at the thought of biking to work and I set the spoon down when my hand starts to shake.

“Are you going to ride your mountain bike to work?” Dad asks.

My shoulders tighten, compounding the tension always present in my body. I wish the bike would have disappeared after the crash. It’s not like I don’t know how to get back on the saddle after an accident. While I ride within my ability, sometimes accidents happen, and crashes occur while mountain biking. Most of the time I roll and pop back up with some dirt rash. At fourteen, I suffered a slight concussion after a bad crash and returned to biking when the doctor cleared me to ride a week later. When I was fifteen, I crashed in a 24-hour race, received stitches below my knee at the nearest ER, and was back on the bike in a few hours for my leg of the four-person relay. But this last crash…this one is different. This is one crash I wish I could forget, and the one I’ll always remember.

Dad lifts his mug and takes another obnoxious sip, and the noise brings me back to the moment. I inhale a substantial amount of air and rub my right wrist. I know Dad is trying to be helpful and I shouldn’t lash out at him. He’s patient with me, but I’m not ready for his type of help. I don’t even know what kind of help I need. I only know I’m a mess.

“No. I’ll take my road bike,” I finally answer. My road bike hasn’t been ridden in months either, but it hasn’t thrown my life into a tailspin like the mountain bike. I retrieve my eggs from the microwave and shuffle over to take a stool one away from Dad.

“I’d think you’ll be more comfortable on your mountain bike.” Dad’s persistent, but he’s not right. I can’t even stand to look at my mountain bike, so no…I don’t think I’ll be more comfortable on it.

“It’s only three miles,” I say and stuff eggs in my mouth to avoid having to say more. Three miles on a paved road should be a piece of cake. I’ve been riding the Santa Fe century or half-century since the age of eight. This year was the only time I missed riding it in the past nine years. I’ve also completed numerous endurance rides on my mountain bike. Three miles should be nothing to me, and it’s all downhill on the way to work.

“Have you thought about riding the crest climb with me on Wednesday?” Dad asks. I place another forkful of eggs in my mouth and don’t respond. Dad pushes it further. “Your mom is taking your sister to ballet. I thought we could ride the tandem if you’re not ready to go solo.”

A sigh escapes me. I drive Ruthie to ballet every Wednesday to have an excuse not to cycle. The crest climb is a weekly group road ride on the Crest Road to the top of the Sandia Mountains. The bicyclists start at the bottom and bike the thirteen miles to the top with four-thousand feet of elevation gain. After reaching the top of the Sandias at 10,678 feet, there’s the reward of thirteen miles of downhill. The Wednesday rides started in April to help prepare riders for the Santa Fe Century and Iron Horse Bicycle Classic in Durango, Colorado.
“I don’t know.” I scrape my fork around my plate.

The climb is great training for mountain biking and it’s exhilarating to get to the top under my own power, but right now it doesn’t appeal to me. There’s no motivation to be found in any portion of my body or brain. If I do have some hidden motivation, I’m not motivated to find it. I just don’t care, but I do care. Ugh. I’m a mess.

“Everyone has been asking about you.” Dad lifts his cup and proceeds to take another noisy sip.

I swallow hard and lift the coffee to my mouth. I hold it there and don’t take a drink. My eyes glimpse the design on the mug. My ceramic cup has a tandem bike on it. I have an urge to throw the mug, but instead take a slow drink. I really don’t want to be around others, especially on a bike, and people don’t want to be around me when I’m a shadow of my former self. A very dark shadow.

“What are they asking?” There’s an edge to my voice. It’s hard not to wonder what people are asking or saying. I’m sure everyone thinks it’s my fault. I know it’s my fault.

“Lucy.” Dad’s voice has a scolding tone, and he places his mug down with a sharp thud. “They’ve known you since you were in diapers. They’re just concerned.”
My parents started pulling my younger sister and me in a trailer on the crest climb years ago and we’ve gotten to know the perennial group. I progressed to a trail-a-bike behind my dad, then a tandem with one of my parents, and finally to riding it solo.

I narrow my eyes and take another drink. The sweetness of the coffee contrasts with my mood and I don’t feel a need to say anything else.

“The tandem would be a good way to start out slow,” Dad continues. “You don’t have to worry about steering or braking. You can just pedal and ride along. We don’t have to go to the top this time. We can shoot for the ski area in the middle.”

“Hmm.” I don’t give a definite answer.

Dad acts like I’m still on training wheels. Maybe I am. I haven’t biked in ages and mentally count the months. Eight. It’s been eight months since my crash. Eight months since her accident. And she wouldn’t have been in an accident if I hadn’t crashed.

“It’s been long enough, Luce,” Dad says. My eyes stare at the gray refrigerator covered in photos. Dad keeps his eyes on me. “It’s time you got back on the saddle.”
Eight months of not biking hasn’t seemed very long, but eight months without her has been an eternity. I can’t get back on the saddle. Because of the bike. Because of me. Because of her. It’s all the bike’s fault. I think that about the bike, but I know the truth. It’s all my fault. If she can’t get back on the saddle, then I won’t get back on.