Love With Training Wheels: For the Love of Sports, #2

By Chrissy Q Martin

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?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chrissy Q Martin
• Release date: Apr 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798224146345

Book preview

Chapter One

If there’s a scent worse than cat pee, I haven’t encountered it in my seventeen years. I push open the screen door and in addition to the scent of old stuff and mildew, I catch a whiff of feline urine. The pungent odor causes my nose to twitch.

Ethan. I hiss his name under my breath. I’ve never met the guy who tops my list of least favorite people.

Maya? An aged voice croaks from an adjacent room as I step into the entry hall. Is that you?

The screen door bangs shut behind me. Yes. I adjust the package and envelopes in my hands. Who else would it be? I’m the only one who stops by every weekday at the same time for the last month. I have your mail.

I pass between the dining room and kitchen into the living room where Helen sits in a recliner with her feet up and a fluffy, yellow cat in her lap.

Let me see. Helen holds out her hands and I place the mail in them. She shuffles through the envelopes, most of which are junk mail. Helen’s thin eyebrows squish together as she shakes the box. She’s addicted to ordering useless things from catalogs aimed at the senior population.

Do you want me to open it for you? I ask.

Yes. Helen returns the items to me. Thank you.

I set the mail on the large oval table in the dining room, which is used for storage and not eating.

Did Ethan stop by yesterday? I crane my neck to see Helen around the wall separating the two rooms.

Helen nods, her focus on the television as she strokes the cat, Luna. Yes. He brought me a tin of cookies. Helen’s voice brightens as she talks about her great-grandson. They’re on the counter in the kitchen. You’ll have to look at them.

I roll my eyes. Ethan is the reason the house smells. Luna is picky and needs her litter box cleaned every day or she chooses somewhere else to empty her bladder. The scent is strong today, which means Ethan didn’t take care of Luna during his weekly Sunday afternoon visit. I really hate cat pee and Ethan belongs with it in the litter box.

I grab the box cutter and slice open the heavy tape on the package. Helen has arthritis in her hands and after a failed attempt to open a box, which resulted in blood, I’m the package opener. I pry the flaps of the small box back and pull out two objects covered in bubble wrap.

What is it? Helen’s mind is clear and high functioning for a ninety-one-year-old woman, but because she orders a catalog worth of stuff, she can never remember what is arriving and when.

I clasp the objects in my hands and return to the living room. They look like cat shaped salt and pepper shakers.

Let me see. Helen motions with swollen fingers for me to hold the shakers in front of her. She touches one, grabs it with a clumsy motion, and strokes the ceramic object as if it has fur. Ah. Yes. I remember. I thought they looked like Luna. Helen hands the shaker back to me. You can put them on the table.

I don’t dare ask what Helen will do with them. I know she won’t use them for their intended purpose. Ancient salt and pepper shakers sit near the stove, and they haven’t been used in years. Helen doesn’t cook. I help make her meals or she has them delivered by the senior care program.

What did you do with Ethan? I place the box with the comical cat shakers on the overcrowded dining table. The romance book of the month I opened last week sits on the table, as does a lighted magnifying glass I couldn’t get to work out of the box. I expect I’ll have to return it later this week.

He couldn’t stay long, Helen says. But he’s going to start taking me out for lunch on Sundays.

That’s nice, I say.

Helen won’t ask about my weekend at my dad’s. She never asks about my life, and it doesn’t bother me. Helen might seem selfish, but I think she’s rather intuitive. I don’t offer up facts about myself because I’m not one for people prying into my business, though Helen is the only business I have, or rather, community service.

I’m going to clean Luna’s box now, I say.

Don’t forget to feed her and wash her water bowl, Helen says as I pass on my way to the laundry room.

Sure, I say.

It’s the same reminder every time. I like things with Helen are predictable, but at the same time, it’s kind of annoying. I’ve been stopping by Helen’s house on weekdays since early August. My mom hooked me up with Helen to fulfill my twenty hours of community service required by my school for my senior year. It started as mail retrieval, taking out the garbage, and has morphed into running errands, preparing meals, and doing whatever else Ethan once did and passed on to me.

Luna’s litter box is full and saturated. I grumble Ethan’s name as I dump the contents out and replace the litter. All he has to do is scoop the poop and I take care of the rest, but no, the precious college freshman can’t even do this one thing to help his great-grandmother. I should get the tin of cookies for all the help and freedom I give Ethan.

Luna rubs against my legs and purrs while I fill her food and water bowl. Don’t act all nice with me, I say. Luna resembles a miniature lion with the mane of yellow hair around her head. I know you peed somewhere. Are you going to show me?

Meow. Luna gives my ankle one more rub before she saunters over to inspect the dry food I put in her bowl. She turns her nose up at it and leaves the laundry room.

Great, I mutter and grab the cleaning spray and a rag. Following my nose, I head off in search of Luna’s inconvenient pee spot. It’s not hard to distinguish it’s in the guest room. Ethan stayed here for a couple weeks before moving into the dorms at the University of New Mexico, or so Helen told me. I met her shortly after he moved out, and I think I know why Luna picks this room to use as a litter box. She dislikes Ethan as much as me.

I don’t mind helping Helen, but the tasks keep piling up and I don’t know how to say no. She senses my level of compassion and knows how to play it for her benefit. My twenty hours of community service are nearly complete, but I agreed to help Helen through the end of the school year. Helen’s making off with an unpaid personal assistant and I’m making off with…I’m not quite sure…extra cat hair stuck to my black leggings?

I scour the thin carpet with pet stain remover, though it barely puts a dent in the smell. The original carpet is threadbare, and the padding underneath peeks through. The house is over fifty years old and was one of the first built in this rural, mountain neighborhood east of Albuquerque. Helen is quite proud of this fact. She mentions it all the time. I often hear stories about the road once being gravel and treacherous during winter storms. The road is now paved and plowed by the county when we have the occasional storm. I live across the street from Helen, in a house forty years newer than hers.

The landline phone rings. Helen doesn’t have a cellphone, which I’m conflicted about. If she had a cellphone, I’d be the one constantly helping her to figure it out. She needs enough help with the television remote and old-fashioned answering machine. I had to read the manual to help Helen when the machine decided to act up. I do worry if Helen falls, she won’t be able to get help because she doesn’t have a cellphone on her.

Maya? Helen calls.

With a spray bottle in one hand and a rag in the other, I head out. Yes?

Luna has resumed her place on Helen’s lap. Helen is a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, with what must have at one time been a slender frame but is now swollen and saggy in places. Honestly, if I make it to my nineties, I wouldn’t mind looking like Helen. She still gets around, though she uses a walker. Her silver hair is cut in a chin length bob, which she holds back with gold barrettes. Thin wire spectacles cover her glassy blue eyes. There are photos of a young Helen scattered around the house, and she was quite the looker in her day. For being nearly a century old, she’s still beautiful. Annoying, but beautiful.

Helen wags the phone at me. Ethan wants to talk to you.

Ethan? I grimace. He only requests to talk to me when he wants something.

I move the rag to my hand with the spray bottle and take the phone from Helen. A curly cord drapes from it to a base on the table next to Helen’s recliner. The phone belongs in a museum, as does most of the stuff in this house. One of those antique or hoarding reality shows would have a field day here, especially in the large, unattached six car garage. That thing is packed to the gills with old stuff.

Hello? I say into the phone. Luna yawns on Helen’s lap as I stand over the recliner.

This is E…Ethan, the voice on the other end says, as if I don’t already know. Can you take Helen to the bank tomorrow?

I can’t tomorrow, I reply with a miffed attitude.

Ethan lives less than thirty minutes away and Helen even gave him her old minivan to use. He could drive up here more than once a week to help his great-grandmother.

Is there another day you can take her? Ethan asks. She needs to withdraw more cash soon.

I sigh when I glance at Helen. How can I say no? I suppose we could go on Wednesday.

I already talked to her about this, but I figured I’d tell you too, Ethan continues. Make sure she gets some cash in twenties this time, not all ones and fives.

Okay. I’ll try.

Ethan has a point, but I’ll listen to Helen over him if she demands small bills. Helen gives me cash for her groceries, and it’s a pain to hand over a wad of ones to the cashier. Helen has a mind of her own, and it’s a stubborn old one. I figure Helen has the right to be stubborn if she’s gotten this far in life.

She says she gets small bills for tips, Ethan says. Do you know who she tips?

The hairdresser? I look down at Helen. Her eyes are on the television across the room, but she must know we’re talking about her. And maybe when she has someone drive her to town for appointments? I get out of most driving because the appointments are when I’m in school, but Helen has me lined up to take her to her next hair and nail appointment. And there’s the pest guy.

I glance at the mousetrap under the nearby radiator. Fortunately, it’s empty. Helen hires a guy to come and deal with the mice and spiders. I don’t do pests. Ethan included.

I guess. Ethan’s voice isn’t low, nor is it high. It has a slight nasal sound to it, as if he’s dealing with allergies. He clears his throat. Thank you for taking her.

Sure. A little compassion overtakes me at Ethan’s gratitude. Would you like to talk to her again?

I hand the phone over to Helen before I get a response. In my head, I give Ethan a piece of my mind and berate him for passing off all his grandmother chores to me. I can’t tell him in real life, only the virtual one in my head. In the real world, I tend to nod, smile, and agree.

Helen ends her call with Ethan while I put away the cleaning supplies. Mondays are an easy day unless Helen has other things on her list for me. She keeps a pad of paper and a pen next to her chair in case inspiration for a Maya Do strikes.

I pinch my lips together and walk into the living room. Anything else? My hands clench behind my back in anticipation. Please, oh, please, let me be done so I can get home.

Helen’s eyes narrow behind her glasses. Hmm. Let me see. She picks up the pad with my fortune and squints at it. Oh, yes. She takes a pair of reading glasses from the table and switches them with the long-distance ones she has on. That jar of pickles you bought me last week. I can’t get the lid off. Would you mind loosening it for me?

Sure, I say. Anything else?

That’s it. Helen swaps the reading glasses for the pair connected to a beaded chain around her neck. Thank you.

I open the refrigerator and spot the delivered meal Helen will warm up in the microwave for dinner. Next to the packaged meal sits a jar of bread and butter pickles. I grab it and pry the lid off, making sure to leave it loose for Helen.

See you tomorrow, I holler as I head toward the side door.

I glance at the clock on my phone. There’s just enough time to run home, get ready, and make my power date. I only hope this time he shows up.

Chapter Two

Where’s Maya? I hear my mom yell.

From what I smell, she’s in her pain cave, Wesley, one of my younger brothers, yells back.

If I could talk, I would holler, but my breathing is too labored to speak at the moment. I’m not sure where Wes learned the term pain cave, but it’s an appropriate one. Pain sears my legs and lungs, but I know it’s temporary. I’ll be out of the cave soon. The finish line for this segment is only meters ahead, and I focus on giving one final push.

Maya? Mom opens my door and sticks her head in. Her thick blonde hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and she wears her paramedic uniform. It’s obvious I get my dark blonde hair and brown eyes from my mom. Though, Mom has fair skin which burns easy, while I tend to tan, thanks to my dad’s darker complexion.

Yeah? I respond after I finish the sprint. I settle back on the saddle of my bike and spin my legs to recover. My avatar on the screen of my laptop now sports a green jersey. I captured the sprint award for achieving the fastest women’s time on this segment out of the riders currently using Zwift, the virtual bicycle training program.

Dinner’s in about ten minutes, Mom says.

I’m cooling down. I switch the gearing on my bike to lessen the amount of power I put in. I’ve been riding for close to an hour.

Did you do a workout or race? Mom walks in and peers at the laptop perched on a stool in front of my bike. My road bike is mounted to a smart trainer.

I’m just riding a course today, I reply. No workout or race.

But you won another jersey? Mom points to the screen.

My avatar rides through a virtual desert world sporting a leader’s jersey. I could ride through a real desert world outside my room, but the virtual one isn’t windy, and I don’t have to contend with vehicles and loose dogs.

I couldn’t help trying to get it. I have a slight addiction to virtual jerseys, and if I know I can achieve one, I’ll go all out for it. This route always ends at a sprint. Plus, there aren’t many people on right now, and I had a good chance of getting it.

Mom points to my time displayed on the screen. But it’s your personal best in the last thirty days.

I shrug. Zwift keeps track of lots of statistics while I ride my bike connected to a smart trainer. It’s basically a stationary bike on drugs.

Anyways… Mom wrinkles her nose. I don’t smell good, which makes my room stink. Even with a fan blowing on me, I sweat like crazy while cycling on the trainer. How was the weekend with your dad?

It was good.

My dad lives in Albuquerque, and I head there Fridays after school. I get up early Monday morning to drive to the other side of the mountain to attend school. Then I spend the week with my mom, stepdad, and two half-brothers in the mountains east of Albuquerque. The small towns on this side of the mountain are known as the East Mountains. The weekends with Dad and weeks with Mom have been my life for the past eleven years, ever since my parents divorced when I was in first grade.

And the car is working fine? Mom’s lip twitches.

It’s fine, I say and sigh. No problems.

Dad bought me a car to use my senior year of high school. It’s less driving for him to pick me up and drop me off, and it means I get my own car. Mom wasn’t too pleased with the arrangement, but Dad did ask her permission before he bought the car. Mom needed to make sure it had an acceptable safety rating before she agreed, and she almost nixed the idea. I don’t think there will ever be anything safe enough for Mom.

Mom places her hands on her hips and squints at the laptop screen. No Mr. Awesome riding with you tonight?

He hasn’t been on for over a month. My shoulders slump.

I won’t tell Mom, but I miss riding with Mr. Awesome. I enjoyed our messages and the time in a virtual world without preconceived notions. It’s nice to ride and chat with someone without any worries, and knowing we’ll never meet makes it easier for me to open up.

Hmm. Mom’s lips pinch together in an attempt to not smile. She thinks she’s proven her point to me.

He isn’t a creepy stalker. I rub sweat off my forehead with my arm. You saw some of our chats. You can check my phone whenever.

Mr. Awesome and I would direct message on the mobile Zwift Companion app, but nothing to make Mom worry. Some of the messages seem flirty, but they were totally innocent. I’m not that devious of a child. I’d be the first to block the dude if there was anything creepy or off about him.

Why’d he disappear? Mom asks. You wouldn’t let him follow you and when he couldn’t get anything else out of you, he moved on to someone else.

Mom, I say in a warning tone. I take my hands off the handlebar and sit straight to stretch my back. We rode together for over six months before he disappeared. He’s probably riding at other times now.

Mom won’t allow me to follow anyone on the cycling program except for Dad. He’s the only one allowed to follow me. My mom is suspicious of everyone. She thinks anyone asking to follow me is an internet predator. I will say, some of the people who request to follow me appear to be creeps, but I doubt Mr. Awesome is one of them. We only sent messages back and forth through the Zwift app while riding, but he didn’t give me any creepy vibes. I peeked at his profile, and while he didn’t have a photo, I also didn’t see any black marks. Other than his profile name is I.Mawesome, or I’m Awesome, which is why Mom started calling him Mr. Awesome. I’m bound to find more creeps on other forms of social media, but I’m one of the lone holdouts. I don’t have any normal teenage social media accounts, and Mom would be my first follower if I ever enter the virtual social world. While other teens are on TikTok, I’m cycling the Tick Tock route on Zwift.

Mom straightens her uniform. You can never be too safe, she says. I swear that’s her mantra. There are people out there who will try to take advantage of young girls.

I think I’ve been raised by a mom who’s taught me pretty well about what to look out for, I say.

Mom? Wes steps in and plugs his nose with two fingers. Woo. It stinks in here.

Mom swishes a hand at Wes. Get your brother and go set the table for dinner.

Can I…? Wes’s dark eyes are wide and hopeful. He’s a miniature version of my stepdad and could easily be mistaken as my dad’s son.

No. Mom narrows her eyes at my brother.

But you don’t even know what I’m going to ask, Wes whines.

You want to go to the trampoline park for your birthday, Mom says.

Please! Wes whines again.

No, Mom replies. Now go set the table.

Wes turns and his feet stomp on the floor as he heads to the kitchen.

It could be fun, I say. Wes is in third grade and going to turn nine soon. He really wants to go.

Do you know how many kids get hurt at those things? Mom shakes her head. I’ve seen it all.

Yep, I say. That’s the problem. My mom has seen it all, and she tries to shelter the rest of us.

Speaking of brothers… Mom bites her lip because she’s going to mention another problem. How’s your other brother? She’s referring to her former stepson, my dad’s other kid, and my older half-brother, Marc. Marc is twenty-six and out on his own. Way out on his own.

I don’t know, I reply. I haven’t heard from him in over six months. I focus on my avatar on the screen, but out of the corner of my eye I see Mom’s eyebrows arch up. Dad hasn’t heard from him either, I add.

I don’t know anything, Mom says, meaning she hasn’t been