Ramping Up Read online

  Ramping Up is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2016 by Zoe Dawson

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ebook ISBN 9781101965511

  Cover design: Caroline Teagle

  Cover photograph: Stefano Cavoretto/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Gunner

  Chapter 2: Helena

  Chapter 3: Gunner

  Chapter 4: Helena

  Chapter 5: Gunner

  Chapter 6: Helena

  Chapter 7: Gunner

  Chapter 8: Helena

  Chapter 9: Gunner

  Chapter 10: Helena

  Chapter 11: Gunner

  Chapter 12: Helena

  Chapter 13: Gunner

  Chapter 14: Helena

  Chapter 15: Gunner

  Chapter 16: Helena

  Chapter 17: Gunner

  Chapter 18: Helena

  Chapter 19: Gunner

  Epilogue: Gunner

  Skateboarding Glossary

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Zoe Dawson

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Chapter 1

  Gunner

  “Don’t worry about him,” Falcon said quietly. “He’s jealous.”

  A few hours ago, it was unimaginable to me that Falcon Dane, number one surfer in the world, would be reassuring me. But then, this had been a crazy day. I hadn’t just quit surfing, the sport I had been training for basically my entire life. I had ditched a major competition, not bothering to even complete my heats. And now I was just…hanging…with the same guys who had been my competition for the past few years. We had brought our skateboards to this office building called the Waterwick on the outskirts of San Diego, an hour from San Clemente and Lower Trestles Beach. It was the ideal location, plenty of stairs and these cool glass walls that were exactly perfect for vert riding, going vertical at the height of the curve.

  When we arrived, I had hung back, sitting on a low wall, catching my breath. My T-shirt was soaked with sweat, so I had stripped it off and wiped my face.

  Charlie Powell, world-class surfer, currently in the number six position and the mouthiest guy on the circuit, made some comment that I’m sure was directed at me, and a couple of the guys with him laughed.

  Powell had always been a dick to me, I was used to it. But Falcon was a mystery. He wasn’t exactly my friend, but not exactly an enemy either. He was a rival in competition until a few hours before. I wasn’t sure I could trust him any more than I could trust Powell.

  When he saw my look, he smiled. “It’s true. I’ve seen you surf and, man, you hold back. Maybe not consciously, but you do. I don’t pretend to know your story, but you have what it takes. The reason I’m number one. You.”

  That made me choke with laughter.

  “Thanks for the pep talk. You should let Hawley know. I’m sure they’ll be in a hurry to offer me my sponsorship back.”

  “Gunner, when I first saw you, I thought, ‘Damn, I’d better up my game. This guy, if he put his mind to it, could blow me out of the water.’ Powell’s no idiot. His constant ragging is because you barely try and still manage to place. Powell goes all out and uses up all he has just to keep ahead of you. It puts him on edge.” He pushed hair out of his eyes. “He’s ecstatic that you lost your sponsor. He wants you to quit. Me, I just say you haven’t reached your potential, man. Not even scratched the surface. That’s why I hate to see you go. You are part of my edge.”

  I stared at the ground, uncomfortable, unsure what to think. I believed that I had tried my damnedest to excel at surfing. But no matter what I did, it was never good enough for my father.

  I didn’t want to think about my father right now.

  Falcon rose and walked over to the other guys, but I stayed behind, still thinking about what he’d said. Then Powell shouted at me, “What’s the matter, Smith? Scared of a little competition?”

  His tone was contemptuous, and I wanted to shrug it off like all the other times, but I couldn’t seem to. Unlike surfing, skating was sacred to me, something my father hadn’t managed to ruin. I didn’t like the way he suggested I was scared of it.

  I rose, grabbed my board, and sauntered over. “No, Powell. You’re the pro. I’m just a junkie.”

  He bowed and indicated the course. “Why don’t you go first?” he said with a laugh.

  Falcon grinned. “Show him what you’ve got, Gunner.” The tone of his voice was challenging, but not in a mocking way.

  I smiled.

  I took a running start, and the ride became a blur of movement, intensity, and joy. My thoughts switched off, and the world around me seemed to vanish.

  It wasn’t until I got to the end and stepped off my board that I saw their expressions. I suddenly realized what I had done—I had ridden my board in front of people for the first time in my life.

  Falcon grabbed me by the back of the neck and screamed in my face. “That was awesome, dude! I had no idea!”

  I bumped his fist, noticing Powell looking on sourly. Of course they had no idea, because I didn’t share my skating with anyone. It was mine alone.

  Sometimes skating was the only way for me to deal with my life.

  It let me become so absolutely free that my very existence was an act of rebellion.

  When I skated, I didn’t belong to anyone.

  Surfing wasn’t like that, and it never had been.

  It was probably why walking away from it had been easier than I thought. But I also knew my coach—my dad—wouldn’t let this go. I started surfing at Lower Trestles when I was very young; Lowers was arguably the best surf spot in the world. But it wasn’t just someplace I’d surfed. It was, in a twisted way, my home. It was my beginning and end. Some of my best and worst memories had taken place on that beach.

  “Damn, but you’re clumsy. I was riding a surfboard like a master at your age. You embarrassed the hell out of me in the competition, and that’s not going to happen again.” My father’s voice never changed modulation, but I knew the tone of it. He was completely plastered. “How many times do I have to tell you that you have to perfect duck diving? You look like a freaking pansy out there.”

  Pansy equated to weak, and in my dad’s book that was the darkest hole any son of his could fall into.

  But I hated going under the water, under a wave. Big waves freaked me out. I didn’t seem to have enough power to press the board deep enough to stop water from getting in my nose or losing my board and having to swim for it. I was cold and tired from a full day battling the waves, losing spectacularly in competition. The thought of having to do anything more in the cold water with the sun now almost gone made me sick to my stomach.

  “I’m tired and hungry. Can’t we do this tomorrow?”

  “You will get your ass out into the water, now!” he screamed at me, and I could smell the whiskey on his breath. The cooler that held the “iced tea” he was always drinking was open, and I could see the empty interior.

  Great.

  He shoved me, and Mom grabbed his arm. She tried to reason with him in hushed tones. I met my sister’s terrified eyes. She was standing in the sand, t
he bruise my dad had given her yesterday for being two minutes late from school still fresh on her cheek. Mom’s arm was covered, but I knew there were bruises there, too.

  “I’ll do it,” I said immediately as I saw the savage way he looked at her. I grabbed my surfboard.

  “No, Gunner—”

  “Go home, Julia,” my dad barked. “Take Madison with you.”

  “David…I won’t have you—”

  “You won’t have me what?” he snarled. She squared her shoulders, but I quickly stepped between them, my back to my dad.

  “It’s okay, Mom. Go home. I’ll be okay.”

  She closed her eyes, pushing back what I was sure were tears of frustration. I knew that look as well as I knew my dad’s tone.

  She’d left then because she knew staying would only make it worse for me, and my chest tightened as she walked away, holding on to my sister’s small hand. Even though I knew she had no choice, it still made me feel hollow to watch her go.

  He pushed me then, and I headed back out to the rolling waves, my gut clenching. I hit the water, and it was freezing.

  I duck dived for hours. Once the board cracked me in the nose, I was bleeding. Worried now about sharks, I lost track of the time, the exhaustion only getting heavier, my stomach growling, my arms feeling like lead, then just feeling empty. My injured nose and throat were raw from the stinging salt water.

  “That’s enough,” he finally shouted in disgust, his voice seeming to come from far away. Was I as weak as he thought I was? Why couldn’t I get this right?

  I tried to climb out of the surf, the waves pushing my body toward shore. But he said, “Back out and sit on your board. I’m going up to Carl’s Jr. to get something to eat.”

  I straddled my board, hating him so hard, hating surfing, the water, the cold, and my own incompetence. I floated on the swells and shivered, holding back the tears that wanted to fall. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of making me lose it.

  Six months later in the dead of night, my mom woke me from my bed, and it was the first time we’d run. She had a terrible bruise on her face then, a gash on her temple from a horrible fight, one that had left my sister Maddy cringing in the back of the closet and me standing guard by the door. It was the first time my mom had told him she’d had enough. She wasn’t going to allow him to abuse us anymore. She had been fearless and I had been terrified for her—for us.

  So, surfing was history, a sport I despised. That didn’t mean I wasn’t scared about what would come next.

  It was my father’s dream I was ending, and I wished like hell I could see my own future, but it remained blocked. All I knew was I had to take my life back, and it wouldn’t be an easy fight. It would be brutal, bloody, and dangerous.

  My father would see to that.

  Chapter 2

  Helena

  I stood at the table, refilling my punch glass, scanning the room for Isaiah Morton after attending the Way Brand Classic, a basketball competition for highly recruited high school boys. If I didn’t manage to speak to him, the whole reception would be a waste. It was why I was here in the Big Apple, and my dad was counting on me. He was in Philly talking to an NBA player he wanted to bring into our family fold.

  After looking around, it was clear the sharks were out in force. It was a hunting ground for sports agents interested in the upcoming NBA draft and the movers and shakers who would be prime candidates for representation. Nitor, a leading sports apparel and equipment company, was here, too, looking for the up-and-coming players who would soon be stars.

  I was here with my friends Trista Jordan and Hannah Walsh. We had met in college and now all three of us worked as sports agents at Mavrick Allstars.

  Finally, I spotted Isaiah, just as he was ducking out the door. He looked upset. I knew he had been talking earlier to Ray Canton, a San Diego–based sports agent, and I wondered if Ray had done something to rattle the kid. The man only cared about himself and his bottom line. It was no mistake that he’d been fired a month ago from Mavrick’s for some shady deal taking money under the table that my dad had discovered.

  In fact, the biggest coup of my career had happened a few weeks ago, when I successfully maneuvered Christopher Washington away from Ray. Chris was an amazing college senior who was easily the number one draft pick for the NBA, was more than ready to play pro ball. To say Ray was pissed at me would be an understatement.

  I downed my punch and followed Isaiah through the door and out into the hotel corridor. The kid had walked to the end and huddled in a corner.

  I walked over to him, and at the sound of my footsteps his head came up. His eyes were red, and he looked devastated.

  “Hello, Isaiah, I’m Helena Mavrick,” I said gently. “Do you mind if I sit?”

  He shook his head and stared straight ahead. “No, ma’am,” he said, his voice thick. He was a six-foot-eleven powerhouse player, one of the most consistently hardworking big men I’d ever seen in high school basketball. You couldn’t teach what he had, the intensity and competitiveness—a dream player. However, he did have one flaw. His performance tonight, winning the MVP award with twenty-six points and eleven rebounds, made him the golden goose.

  I sank down next to him. “Is everything okay? Are you here alone?”

  “No, my aunt is with me. But she’s talking to Mr. Canton.”

  Ray was already after this kid, and my expression softened, my voice lowering. “Oh, I see. Did you receive some bad news?” I asked.

  “I’m just…I’m worried about my mom. A while back she was in a car accident, and she’s in the hospital in a coma. They don’t expect her to pull out of it. Her brain activity is fading. I didn’t want to come here because I was afraid she would die and I wouldn’t get to see her.” He blinked rapidly.

  My throat tightened. He was losing her on the verge of manhood and with many big decisions to make. That was a lot for an eighteen-year-old to deal with. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

  He nodded, and I slipped my arm around his broad shoulders. “I lost my mom when I was seven, so I understand what you must be going through. It’s devastating.”

  He brushed at his eyes, his voice low and strained. “She’s the best. She raised me alone. She’s the toughest person I know. I’m going to miss her so much.” He rubbed his palms against his jeans. “She made me promise something, and it’s going against what everyone else wants. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Do you want to talk it through? It might not be as complicated as you think,” I offered.

  He sniffed. “Before the accident, she made me promise to go to college. I didn’t think it would be a problem. But now—her medical bills are pretty high, and my aunt isn’t rich. She wants me to sign with the NBA.”

  “She does?”

  “Yes, and Mr. Canton is pushing hard to be my agent. They are all pushing so hard.” He covered his face, and his throat worked. I squeezed his shoulder a little, and he turned toward me. My heart hurt for him.

  “What do you want to do, Isaiah?”

  He raised his head and looked at me, his expression surprised. “I’ve been offered a full basketball scholarship to North Carolina.”

  “The Tar Heels.” I fist-bumped him. “Nice! Anything in particular you want to study?”

  “Actually, yeah. Broadcasting,” he said somewhat shyly. “I would like to do that once my NBA career is over.”

  “Way to look ahead.” I gave him a smile.

  “Are you a sports agent?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Like I said, Mr. Canton, all the others, they want me to go straight to the NBA. What would you do?”

  “Signing with the NBA would put you on the fast track. It makes sense.” I felt a twinge of regret. It wasn’t exactly what I thought he should do, but I was worried Ray would swoop in, sign the kid, and corrupt him. At least if he were with Mavrick, I could nurture him.

  “Isaiah?” The sound of a woman’s voice traveled down the hall.

 
He met my gaze and his softened with relief. “Thanks for listening. I’ll think this through. I’ve got to go. That’s my aunt.”

  I reached out and squeezed his arm. “You take care and have a safe trip home.”

  He rose and started to walk away, then turned back to me. “Do you have a card or something?”

  I stood up, dug into my purse, and pulled out one of my business cards. He took it as his aunt came into view. A slight smile came to his mouth, and I smiled back.

  Isaiah was a talented basketball player and would be a great addition to Mavrick. And, if I could steer one more player away from slimy Ray, that was a plus.

  I went back out into the main room. The reception was winding down, and it was getting late. I decided to head outside and hail a cab. But just as I reached the pavement, Ray appeared. “You are a piece of work, lady.”

  “Why, thank you, Ray.” I offered him my most charming smile.

  His eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. “Washington and Morton were ready to get on board with me.”

  “And I pulled away your gangplank?”

  “Yeah, you’re Darth Vader in Chanel.”

  “Then why don’t you come to the dark side, Ray? We have cookies.” It was a waste of time trying to explain myself to someone like Ray.

  “You’re a meddler.”

  “If I were really a meddler, I’d make your life a living hell on purpose, but instead, I just sit back and watch you do it all by yourself.” I reached up and patted his cheek. “Have a nice swim.”

  He leaned close, got right in my face, but I neither flinched nor backed up. “I’m going to make it my mission to take a client from you. One that means a lot. I’ll bide my time, Vader. As for the dark side, you have no idea.” He turned and walked away.

  “What did Stickman with No Soul want?” Trista asked, coming up beside me. “I could kick his ass just for the sheer pleasure of it.” Trista was one of my best friends, but she was also a pain. Opinionated, a cross between a tomboy and a runway model. She might look nice and beautiful, but inside she had the drive of a four-wheel-drive truck on acid and the kick of a mule. She was a former surfer who’d given up the waves because, while her talent kept her in the top three, she never got to number one.