Motocross Me by Cheyanne Young
Publication: 336Love (6/4/2013)
Genres: Romance, Young Adult
Purchase links || amazon | bn || add to goodreads
When Hana Fisher moves to the small town of Mixon, Texas to live with her dad, she dreads having to work at the boring pile of dirt he fondly calls a motocross track. But when she gets there, she finds the rinky-dink dirt bike track from her childhood has grown into the most respected racing track in the state.
Now popular by association, Hana endures the pain and sweat of working in the summer heat in order to fit in with a sport she’s growing to love. She gets a real family, a best friend and not just one, but two of the fastest racers trying to win her heart.
When Hana abuses her status as the track owner’s daughter to help the gorgeous Ryan Russo cheat in the biggest race of the year, she risks more than just losing her job. Every good thing in her life is at stake now- her friends, her dad’s trust, and Ash Carter- the kind-hearted racer who may not be as alluring as Ryan, but is proof that nice guys don’t always finish last.
Now popular by association, Hana endures the pain and sweat of working in the summer heat in order to fit in with a sport she’s growing to love. She gets a real family, a best friend and not just one, but two of the fastest racers trying to win her heart.
When Hana abuses her status as the track owner’s daughter to help the gorgeous Ryan Russo cheat in the biggest race of the year, she risks more than just losing her job. Every good thing in her life is at stake now- her friends, her dad’s trust, and Ash Carter- the kind-hearted racer who may not be as alluring as Ryan, but is proof that nice guys don’t always finish last.
about Cheyanne || Cheyanne is a native Texan with a fear of cold weather and a coffee addiction that probably needs an intervention. She loves books, sarcasm, nail polish and paid holidays. She lives near the beach with her family, one spoiled rotten puppy and a cat that is plotting to take over the world, one scratched up welcome mat at a time.She's a cubicle dweller and all around sarcastic weirdo by day. But at night, Cheyanne can be found furiously typing on her computer, probably complaining on Twitter about how she should be writing. When she's not honing her procrastination skills, she's writing books for teenagers. She is the author of several books for teens and recently turned her love of superheroes and writing for teens into books about teenage superheroes. POWERED is her first superhero book but it won't be her last. Because POWERED is a trilogy. Duh.
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{ excerpt } .
Just because they’re the
two fastest two-fifty Pro riders in Texas, doesn’t mean they have a reason to
hate each other. I promise myself I’ll find out the big secret that Shelby
doesn’t know. I’ll find it and I’ll fix it. But when I see Ryan, all thoughts
of anything remotely comprehensible drift out of my mind like a message in a
bottle, tossed out to sea.
He’s on the tailgate of his truck, slouched over with his elbows on his knees, staring at the ground and breathing heavily. A half-empty bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade teeters in his hand. Sweat rolls off his hair in all directions – down his ear, through his bangs, and probably down the back of his neck though I can’t see that far. It’s amazing how something as gross as sweat can be so gorgeous sparkling in the sunlight on a sculpted, beautiful, and extremely talented body.
I have to stop thinking in metaphors, or my heart might share the fate of an over-inflated water balloon. There I go again. I slow my steps so as not to seem eager, and approach him with as much apathy as I can gather in my weakened state of mind. Apathy is, after all, one of my more prominent talents.
“Hey there,” I say, hands in my front pockets. Ryan looks up and sweat rolls down his temples like water. For something with no body fat, how was that much sweat coming out of his head?
“Hey.” He shuffles to the left and taps his hand on the spot next to him. The tailgate is as high as my neck so there is no way I can climb up there. He sees my hesitation and grins.
“Put your foot on the tire and grab my hand and I’ll pull you up.”
I do as he says, and when my foot is on the tire I grab onto the side of the truck and reach for his hand. In one swift motion he pulls me onto the tailgate like how Wesley saved Buttercup from harm in the Fire Swamp. There may not be any Rodents of Unusual Size under Ryan’s truck, but it’s fun to daydream.
My legs swing freely below me. I need to say something clever that will show off my intellect and charm, or at least make it seem like I have some. Ryan gulps the rest of his Gatorade and tosses the bottle on the ground.
“So what kind of gas mileage do you get with this thing?” I ask.
He laughs. All of my careful conversation planning, and he laughs.
“If you really want to know, I get about ten miles to the gallon with these tires.”
He leaps off the tailgate, grabs the empty bottle and tosses it in a blue plastic trashcan. Then he comes back to his truck and unzips a large duffle bag full of clothing and extra riding gear.
“Sometimes it’ll get up to twelve.” He chooses a white t-shirt from the bag.
“That must get really expensive.”
“I can afford it.” He grins, removing his jersey in a quick motion. My heart stops and a chill runs through my body. I curse myself for wasting sixteen years of life never noticing how gorgeous a man’s chest can be. How could I have been missing out on this? But then again, I’ve never seen one this close. With the t-shirt still in his hand, he stands in front of me on the ground, letting his eyes meet mine. I’m so high in the air, I can probably see over the top of his head if I dared to look away from his shirtless torso, but that isn’t a dare I want to make.
“Girls ask a lot of questions about my truck but that my dear, is never one of them.”
“Well, maybe I’m just not that kind of girl.” Girls ask him about his truck? Way to be original, Hana.
He’s on the tailgate of his truck, slouched over with his elbows on his knees, staring at the ground and breathing heavily. A half-empty bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade teeters in his hand. Sweat rolls off his hair in all directions – down his ear, through his bangs, and probably down the back of his neck though I can’t see that far. It’s amazing how something as gross as sweat can be so gorgeous sparkling in the sunlight on a sculpted, beautiful, and extremely talented body.
I have to stop thinking in metaphors, or my heart might share the fate of an over-inflated water balloon. There I go again. I slow my steps so as not to seem eager, and approach him with as much apathy as I can gather in my weakened state of mind. Apathy is, after all, one of my more prominent talents.
“Hey there,” I say, hands in my front pockets. Ryan looks up and sweat rolls down his temples like water. For something with no body fat, how was that much sweat coming out of his head?
“Hey.” He shuffles to the left and taps his hand on the spot next to him. The tailgate is as high as my neck so there is no way I can climb up there. He sees my hesitation and grins.
“Put your foot on the tire and grab my hand and I’ll pull you up.”
I do as he says, and when my foot is on the tire I grab onto the side of the truck and reach for his hand. In one swift motion he pulls me onto the tailgate like how Wesley saved Buttercup from harm in the Fire Swamp. There may not be any Rodents of Unusual Size under Ryan’s truck, but it’s fun to daydream.
My legs swing freely below me. I need to say something clever that will show off my intellect and charm, or at least make it seem like I have some. Ryan gulps the rest of his Gatorade and tosses the bottle on the ground.
“So what kind of gas mileage do you get with this thing?” I ask.
He laughs. All of my careful conversation planning, and he laughs.
“If you really want to know, I get about ten miles to the gallon with these tires.”
He leaps off the tailgate, grabs the empty bottle and tosses it in a blue plastic trashcan. Then he comes back to his truck and unzips a large duffle bag full of clothing and extra riding gear.
“Sometimes it’ll get up to twelve.” He chooses a white t-shirt from the bag.
“That must get really expensive.”
“I can afford it.” He grins, removing his jersey in a quick motion. My heart stops and a chill runs through my body. I curse myself for wasting sixteen years of life never noticing how gorgeous a man’s chest can be. How could I have been missing out on this? But then again, I’ve never seen one this close. With the t-shirt still in his hand, he stands in front of me on the ground, letting his eyes meet mine. I’m so high in the air, I can probably see over the top of his head if I dared to look away from his shirtless torso, but that isn’t a dare I want to make.
“Girls ask a lot of questions about my truck but that my dear, is never one of them.”
“Well, maybe I’m just not that kind of girl.” Girls ask him about his truck? Way to be original, Hana.
“And what kind of girl are you?” He keeps the shirt in his hand and put his elbows on the tailgate on either side of me. My stomach does a somersault.
“Whatever kind of girl you want me to be,” I say. It’s lame and cliché, but it feels like something a guy like Ryan would want to hear.
He’s close to me. Really close. Closer than a guy has ever been to me. He is still shirtless. Does he want me to feel this uncomfortable and intimidated? Do I want him to? My heart is no longer dead; it is, in fact, beating faster and louder than it has in that whole semester I took of cross country running.
He curls out his bottom lip and peers into my eyes. We are so close now I’m afraid to breathe. My heart thumps and my brain is a blurred frenzy trying to make coherent thoughts from the electrical currents shooting through my veins.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” He leans closer to me. “I really like your little good girl image.”
His lips hover inches from mine. I brace for him to kiss me. He backs away and puts on the shirt. I sigh with force of the breath I had been holding. Ryan notices. How freaking mortifying. At least it’s dusk and the sun is setting in on us because my cheeks burn with the fury of a thousand suns. What if he wasn’t about to kiss me and I just thought he was and now he thinks I’m a loser?
He straightens the shirt over his abs and reaches up to help me jump down. My feet hit the ground and a little poof of dirt covers my shoes. His arms slip around my waist and pulls me straight into him. We kiss. Right on the lips.
And we’re still kissing.
KISSING.
His hands let go of me and his lips tear away from mine. I think he says something but I don’t know. All I know is I just got my second ever kiss and this time, it wasn’t from a lanky kid with braces.
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