A spicy, festive new sports romance by author Kanitha P!
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When snowboarding champion Diego arrogantly tries pulling off a dangerous stunt, it goes as well as you'd expect. Now, stuck with an injury that requires lots of rest, and very angry sponsors threatening to pull their deals, Diego's in the doghouse.
His punishment? Banished to his small hometown, Blue Ridge Springs, to 'think about his actions', stay off his snowboard and clean up his image. How do you repair said image? By giving back to the community. As a damn ski instructor's assistant to Alara, his best friend's little sister. Diego should be livid, but Alara isn't little anymore... and she's way prettier than he remembers.
Your brother's best friend is always off limits, Alara knows that rule better than anyone. But it's hard to remember when Diego's gaze jumpstarts her heart and smiles at her like she's the only girl in the world. Besides, he's only here for the holidays, and she can keep a secret.
Sneaking around isn't the best idea she's ever had, but weren't rules made to be broken?
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Release date:
October 28, 2025
Publisher:
Headline
Print pages:
384
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The lengthy silence makes me check my phone to ensure the call hasn’t been disconnected. Coach Wilson’s name is still flashing on my screen, and I sigh as I balance the device on my knee. My gaze finds the blank ceiling, my fingers curling with annoyance atop the armrests.
“Coach?”
“You’re fucking with me, Diego.”
“I’m not,” I protest grimly. “Just wanted to make sure I heard that right . . .”
I’m keenly aware that my diversion tactic of playing dumb isn’t working in the slightest. I’m also certain Coach is busy pinching the bridge of his nose as he takes a deep inhale – just like he always does when he’s trying not to snap at me.
“Drop the act,” he tells me, a bite to his tone. He’s been coaching me for the past eight years, and there’s a ringing sound ricocheting in my ears that screams I’m in deep shit.
I groan. Again. “You can’t send me back there.”
“Oh, watch me, kid.” The last word makes me grit my teeth. “You’re out of the game for the next three months.”
“So you said.” Just like that, the pain in my leg shoots through my body. It’s a constant reminder that I screwed up. I’m banned from training, and the thought of not being able to mount my snowboard is fucking killing me. Absently, I massage my knee, but it’s no use to soothe the pain.
I still have yet to fathom the severity of my punishment because, if I’m being totally honest, I don’t understand at all. Sure, flashbacks from that day still haunt my dreams, and, sure, the pain isn’t something I joke about, but it was just a stunt that went wrong. I’ve made it clear that being this harsh is unnecessary, but, clearly, Coach thinks differently.
“You hurt your shoulder,” he says, as if I don’t live with the constant pull every time I try to put my clothes on.
“Thanks for the reminder.” He’s truly annoying me. Why is he pointing out the obvious?
“And your knee is pretty fucked up. Do you think you can get back on your board and take part in tournaments like nothing happened?”
A heavy sigh escapes my mouth. “I wish.”
Luckily, my knee and shoulder didn’t require surgery, but I know what’s coming, and it’s weeks and weeks of rest and recovery. Translation: endless time in hell, a torture that’s meant to kill me, because how am I supposed to survive without snowboarding?
“Look,” he continues gently. The sudden softness only makes my irritation spike further. “I need you to recover. Need you to think about your reckless actions. We just signed a million-dollar deal with big sponsors – how do you think they felt when they saw you fall down that slope and not come back up? We can’t flush that down the drain.”
“They’re not going to drop us,” I assure him. “It’s not even that serious.”
“It’s not even that serious?” he echoes, but shouting. I flinch, aware that I’ve struck a nerve. “Are you insane? Do you ever take things seriously?”
“I do!” This sport is the only thing I’m serious about and he fucking knows it.
“Really? Because, right now, all I’m hearing is my most talented rider whining like a little boy because he doesn’t want to face the consequences of his actions!”
Mierda. Coach Wilson is rarely this furious. He has every right to be, but, again, I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal. I’m not dead. My injuries could have been worse. The team hasn’t lost the sponsorship. He’s overreacting, but that’s an opinion I keep to myself.
“Ah, come on, Coach . . .”
There’s a beat of silence. Another one. Then, I hear a heavy exhale. “I’m going to say this once, and once only. This is your last chance. I’m not going to tolerate this behavior again.” Before I can ask what he’s referring to, he continues, with an edge to his voice that makes me wince. “Remember that time in Zermatt when you refused to participate at the press conference after you performed poorly? Or that time in Aspen when you got in a heated argument with a judge after your qualifying run? And, after that, you had the nerve to snap at a reporter when he pointed out that you’d lost your cool! I’ve been patient with you, Diego, I really have, but I’ve had enough of your impulsiveness and nonchalance.”
I gulp. He’d promised not to bring up those days again, but I knew it was too good to be true for him not to hold a grudge. Admittedly, my reactions had been terrible, but they were valid. Plus, I haven’t had any slip-ups since then, and I know he’s just bringing up every single time I’ve messed up to dig the knife deeper in my wound.
But that was last season! are the words resting on the tip of my tongue. Thinking better of it, I bite the protest back. I still think he’s being irrational and unfair, though.
“So, what? The miracle solution is to force me to spend three months in Blue Ridge Springs? That’s how you want me to reflect on my mistakes?” I roll my eyes. I’m thankful we’re not sitting in his office right now, because, if that were the case, he would not only be giving me shit for my lack of seriousness but also for my attitude.
Okay, maybe I understand where he’s coming from and why he’s so completely done with me.
“Yes.”
What the hell?
Basically, I’m in the doghouse now. Great.
Blue Ridge Springs is the small town in Colorado where I grew up – a beautiful place surrounded by endless waves of mountains that are dusted in snow in the winter. Funnily enough, this is where it all started almost a decade ago, when Coach spotted me training at the snow park one gloomy morning. We’re both from there, you see. He’s someone I’ve looked up to my whole life and it’s an honor to be one of his trainees.
Wyatt Wilson is a five-time gold medalist – one of the best snowboarders to ever compete. Unfortunately for him, a severe injury forced him to put an end to his career, and that’s when he started coaching. That’s when he invited me to grab a coffee and asked if I had an agent, and if I wanted to join his team to compete all around the world.
That had been the easiest yes I’d ever uttered.
Even though he’s currently giving me so much shit, I’m still grateful to him. But, right now, he’s irritating me, and I’m tempted to end the call, but that would only worsen my case.
I don’t exactly visit Blue Ridge Springs much. To be frank, I kind of avoid my hometown like the plague. Unless it’s an emergency regarding my mom or sisters, I try to stay away as much as possible. So, being banished from training and forced to go back there to think about my mistakes is not only making annoyance wrap around my chest, but it pisses the hell out of me too. Why? Because there’s nothing to do except ski or snowboard in the winter there.
It seems like Coach Wilson’s main goal is to torture me. What have I done to deserve this?
I thought attempting a Quad Cork 1800 during the tournament would give me the gold medal. I had landed the trick perfectly during practice the day before, but I was clearly out of focus during the competition. Coach had also advised me not to do the figure because, for one, it’s dangerous, and, two, it’s one of the most difficult stunts to land – but who am I if I don’t take risks? Well, obviously, it has cost me a lot.
“Enlighten me, then,” I say dryly. “How is going back home going to help?”
“You’re going to go to physiotherapy. Three times a week.” My fingers dig into the fabric of the armchair as it dawns on me that there’s no way out. “I’ve already arranged for you to meet with Dr Ellis. He’s a great one, and you’ll be in good hands.”
“Awesome,” I drawl.
“Please stop with the sarcasm,” he snaps. “You’re already testing my patience.”
Tightening my jaw, I look at the screen. The call has been going on for thirty-two minutes. We’ve been going in endless, pointless circles. “Sorry.”
A sigh echoes from his side of the line. “You can’t snowboard while you’re there. At all.”
“Yeah, you already said that.” I drag my hands over my face, hating this ordeal. But he needs me to think about my actions. To do better. To change. My entire future lies in the palm of Coach’s hand. “You expect me to go to a snow resort and not get on a board?”
“Watch what happens if you so much as think about stepping on skis or a snowboard.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Are you threatening me?”
“You’re not taking me seriously, so yes.”
Coach isn’t one to joke, and that makes me even angrier.
But there’s no use in arguing with him, so I relent. “Fine.”
Deep down, I know he’s doing this to prevent me from hurting myself even further, but he should be the first one to understand that I can’t breathe without snowboarding. This is going to be really, really, really hard, and I might not survive those three months. I don’t know how he expects me to do so.
Coach Wilson and my sponsors are diabolical.
“Good. That’s not it, though.” Of course, it isn’t. “I don’t want you to wallow and be miserable, so you’ll have to work.”
“Work?”
“It’s not a word that belongs in your vocabulary, is it?”
I scoff. “No need to be an ass, Coach.”
“Sorry.” He’s not sorry at all. “But, yeah, you’ll work at Rock Snow and you’ll assist the owner’s daughter during her skiing lessons. I need you to give back to the community.”
“Give back to the community?!” What does that even mean?
“What are you? A parrot?”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Taking a hold of my phone, I stand and suppress the grunt rising in my throat when the pull in my leg becomes uncomfortable. I walk around the living room, running my fingers through my hair. I breathe in calmness. Breathe out anxiety. “You want me to work at Rock Snow?”
“That’s literally what I said,” Coach deadpans. I can tell he’s done with me.
I’m very familiar with Rock Snow – a popular gear store in town owned by Joe Bradford. Joe is not only Coach’s longtime friend, but also one of my closest friend’s dad. Jordan Bradford often travels out of Blue Ridge Springs, and he enjoys visiting me when he can, but since the recent launch of his brand-new winter athleisure line, he’s been busy, and I haven’t heard much from him. Not that I blame him – I don’t check in much either.
I bought my very first snowboard at the age of just five at Rock Snow. All my gear comes from that store, really. Even if I haven’t visited in a while, Joe has always answered my calls and shipped anything I needed.
Joe Bradford is a great man. Gives great advice. Checks in on everyone. He was one of the first people to call me after I was released from the hospital last week. His wife, Donna, even had a bouquet of flowers delivered to my place.
“Okay, so I’m going back to Blue Ridge Springs. Gonna stay there for three whole months and go to physiotherapy. Gonna work at Joe’s store and help Jordan’s sister with her skiing lessons at the resort?”
This is all planned. This whole scheme is utterly insane. They’re going to watch over me like hawks – especially Joe, so he can report back to Coach. But I think part of me is relieved to know that I’m going to work with Joe. He’s a man I deeply respect and whom I’ve known my whole life. A sense of familiarity, comfort, and relief crashes through me – albeit for a flickering beat.
“See? You know how to listen.”
I could knock the sarcasm out of him right now.
I loosen a breath, leaning against the kitchen island. My gaze drifts towards the window, observing the gray sky on the cusp of turning granite while thunder rumbles in the distance. “Why are you doing this? Why are you punishing me?”
“Diego,” Coach says, in a soft tone, “do you hear yourself? You don’t take shit seriously. You’re reckless. This is not me punishing you, this is just me wanting you to get better. There’s no choice but to take time to recover if you want to get back on your board. Besides, it’s not like I’m sending you to a village in the middle of nowhere in New Zealand. It’s your hometown, dude.”
I guess he has a point, but still – I’m pissed.
“What happens after the three months?” I ask, through clenched teeth. “Say my leg and shoulder are fine. There’s the USASA National Championships in March—”
“Diego.” Fuck me, the way he cuts me off and says my name is not a good sign. “You can’t possibly think that you’ll be able to compete without going to physiotherapy first? My role is not only to make you the best snowboarder, but also to ensure your health stays intact. I have no doubt that you’ll recover just fine, but March is too soon to compete. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you participate in the championship.”
I want to claw at my throat. The air feels too tight. The room feels like it’s closing in around me, caging me in and suffocating me.
The pounding in my chest grows louder, becoming deafening as I process the information.
Shit. Shit. Shiiit!
What am I going to do? I’ve been looking forward to the championship for almost a year. I have to take part in it – there’s no other way. Saying goodbye to the X Games being held in January is fine, but the USASA? I’m going to do everything I can to recover just in time, even if that means pushing myself to my limits.
Dropping my phone onto the counter, I grip the edge with my trembling hands, letting my head fall forward, trying to understand that my dream is on the cusp of escaping from my own grasp.
Fuck that. I’m so angry at myself for ruining the only thing I’ve ever loved.
I only wanted to impress the sponsors. Wanted to make Coach proud. And now I’m paying the price for my foolishness.
“That means I won’t be able to acquire enough points to qualify for the Winter Olympics,” I say through the thick lump that has built up in my throat, as though Coach doesn’t already know this. The quiver, the sheer desperation in my voice can’t be concealed.
Coach Wilson is silent, probably letting me soak it all in. My morning had started just fine, until he called me to tell me the bad news. That reminds me that my coffee is sitting there, untouched. But all I want is to blow some steam off, to release all that pent-up frustration. My only solace is snowboarding, and now I can’t even ride a slope. If I do, if I so much as break another rule, I could lose everything.
The first drop of rain crashes against my floor-to-ceiling window – in exactly the same way my heart shatters when the realization dawns. The only hope I have of winning another medal is by listening to Coach.
The tightness in my chest hurts as much as my leg, and when I glance around my luxurious apartment I realize that there’s not much for me here anymore. Moving to Utah after I landed a huge deal with my team was the best decision I had ever made. The view from my living room will always take my breath away, but what’s the point in staying here if I can’t even ride a slope? If I can’t even put my gear on and grab my snowboard and head out to the resort? I won’t even be able to step foot in the training center without feeling my heart bottom out at the sight of my teammates practicing some drills. This is pointless, and I know the way my brain works – continuously blaming myself is going to destroy me, so maybe a change of scenery and a breath of fresh air is what I need.
I love this place, but it’s not lively – the walls are blank, the spacious apartment way too big for just me, the bed too cold and unwelcoming. I love this city, but it hasn’t stolen my heart in the way I wanted it to when I moved here. Though I’m reluctant about Coach’s plan and going back to my hometown, I think finding my way back to my roots maybe isn’t that terrible.
Nothing’s worse than being forbidden from touching my board, anyway. Me? Dramatic? Please.
I love snowboarding more than I’ve ever loved anything. If I could just feel the exhilaration of doing rotations in a halfpipe, if I could just let the cold breeze caress my face when I cruise down a piste one more time . . . I’d give everything up for that. So, if going home is the solution, then so be it.
“Listen, just pack your bags, go hug your mom, take a breath, and focus on yourself. We’ll see how things go with your recovery, but don’t be too hopeful. You fucked up bad, and now you need to clean up your image. That’s what the sponsors and I want. We want the careful, put-together, electric Diego Ramirez to come back to us, but that can only happen if you take the time to recover without rushing the process.”
Does he really think that selling goggles and helping Alara Bradford with children is going to help me polish my image? Doubtful. Really, really fucking doubtful.
But I’ve disappointed Coach once, and that is not something I wish to do again. Therefore, I need to get my shit together.
What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?
A deep sense of nostalgia crashes over me like a wave – bringing me back to reality, soothing me in a way I can’t exactly comprehend. I’ve dreaded my arrival in Colorado since that messy call with Coach Wilson, and so it wasn’t until my gaze landed on the familiar mountains that I remembered how much I used to love descending those, how much time I spent perfecting tricks and stunts at the resort.
Gabriela – my little sister – is rambling about her day as we drive by the “Welcome to Blue Ridge Springs” sign. She picked me up from the airport, and seeing her wide smile before I tackled her in a hug made me momentarily forget about the thorough annoyance clinging to my chest.
This town hasn’t changed at all. It’s lively and dynamic – homey, even. Lights have been hung overhead, a reminder that the holidays season has begun. The streets are busy, every shop has their “open” sign on display, and there’s just this ambiance, as if peace and happiness emanates from every single person we drive by.
We pass in front of my all-time favorite restaurant – Fleur de Sel, which is owned by a Swiss couple who offer a delicious range of European cuisine. My mouth is already salivating at the thought of their cheese fondue, perfectly paired with bits of stale homemade bread.
When Gaby hits the horn, I startle and turn my attention to her.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
She only laughs, rolling her window down as she throws her hand out to wave at whoever she has just honked at. Then, she simply proceeds to drive toward the house I grew up in, grinning like a madwoman and stealing glances in the rear-view mirror.
“That was just Alara,” she informs me, still laughing to herself.
My body reacts on its own, turning to see the girl I’ll be spending the next three months with, but she has disappeared in a mass of people walking along the sidewalk.
“You remember her, right?”
I rub a hand across my jaw. “Just her name.”
“Do you not listen when I tell you all about my best friend?”
There’s a beat of silence as I press my lips in a thin line. “Think you got your answer here.”
Gaby rolls her eyes so hard her lashes flutter. “Pendejo.”
It’s not that I’m not interested in my sister’s life, it’s just that she talks non-stop, and I only remember half the things she rambles on about.
The next moment, we’re pulling up in the driveway, and my chest tightens. My mom and sisters are the only people tying me to Blue Ridge and, even though they’re all extremely supportive of me and my career, the sense of guilt consuming me in this very instant is unnerving. While Gaby turns the engine off, I try not to think about the way I left them behind to pursue my dreams.
Then, she unbuckles herself and turns to me, a grave expression taking over her features. She looks so much like Mom – dark hair that reaches her shoulders and equally dark eyes, a round face but beautiful nonetheless.
“What’s the matter with you?”
I shrug, keeping my gaze on the red front door. “Can’t I just come and visit my fam?”
Yep. I haven’t told Gaby nor my mom why I’m back.
“For three months?” she asks, in disbelief. “When you come back it’s for, like, two days. Thanksgiving and Christmas. Thanksgiving is in two weeks, so . . . What did you do, D?”
Pulling out a long sigh, I shake my head. I don’t want to tell them the truth because they’re going to be disappointed. So, I stay silent – for now.
“I just missed you.” I reach over, applying pressure on top of her head with my knuckles, messing up her hair. She huffs, fixing her locks.
“You’re full of shit,” Gaby mumbles, before opening the door.
“Let’s just get inside and sit down. I don’t want to repeat myself, so I’ll tell you and Mom all at once.”
My sister can be sweet when she wants to be, so she offers to carry my suitcase inside. Of course, she knows about the injury. Of course, she knows I’m not remotely close to being okay. Gaby is my whole world, I tell her everything – well, almost. With only two years between us, we’ve always been close.
The moment I step foot in the foyer, Valentina launches herself at me, knocking the air from my lungs. I chuckle, enveloping her in a tight, warm hug.
I grin against my youngest sister’s hair. “Hey, Val.”
The force of her embrace tells me everything she doesn’t say out loud – I miss you. Why don’t you come home anymore? Please don’t leave so soon. I press a kiss to the top of her head, knowing my affection means the world to her.
“You don’t look so good,” she says, when we pull away, a frown to her brows when she studies me, even though I’m grinning down at her.
“Jeez,” I breathe. “You’re as sweet as ever.”
She gives me a once-over and turns on her heel. “Mom is in the kitchen.”
Flabbergasted, I look over to Gaby as she pulls her coat off. “When did she start having this much attitude?”
“Since she turned sixteen.”
Valentina has grown so much since the last time I saw her. She’s always been the quiet one between us three, but it seems her personality is coming out little by little. Though she has never openly spoken about it, I think she’s still having a hard time coping with the loss of our dad. He passed away when she was only nine, but they were really close and had a unique relationship. She likes to find solace in books and journaling, but I love seeing her bloom like a flower.
Dad would be beyond proud of her.
He’d be so fucking proud of Gaby too. She’s just graduated from college and landed a job in marketing that she’ll start in the spring.
But he’d shake his head at me. He’d ask me why I keep on being reckless. Why I try to impress the people around me when there’s no need.
My feet drag me into the kitchen where delicious aromas whiff in the air – onions, garlic, herbs I can’t name for shit. The scent of dried chiles and toasted cumin rises like a memory, stirring my appetite and something deeply nostalgic. The cocktail of spices takes me back to afternoons in my abuela’s kitchen in Mexico, where I’d steal spoonfuls straight from the simmering pots, too impatient and hungry to wait. I love that Mom still cooks like she never left Puerto Vallarta – her devotion to keep every single flavor alive is something I quietly admire. My parents moved here to Blue Ridge Springs for Dad’s job when I was barely a year old, so I don’t recall living and growing up elsewhere. But still, they’ve held on to where we came from, to who we are. And I don’t say it often . . . but damn, am I grateful for Mom’s cooking, and for everything else that our roots carry.
Fuuuck, yes. I almost fall to my knees when I realize Mom is making her famous tacos al pastor. She notices me after putting the lid back on the pot in which the meat is slowly cooking. Her entire face lights up, and, fuck, if that doesn’t crush my heart a little bit more.
“All of that for me? You didn’t have to, Mamá.”
She rolls her eyes in amusement before wrapping her slender arms around my waist. I close my eyes, marveling at the feeling of being home.
When we part, she cradles my cheeks. “Let me look at you,” she whispers. I can’t help but smile down, studying the lines of fatigue on her face, the greying hair by her temples. Her eyes are full of joy, though, and that makes me happy. “Guapo.”
“He looks so much like Dad,” Gaby comments softly from the island, where she has taken a seat on a stool.
I swear to God, if my sisters try to make me cry today, I’m going to pull a prank just to piss them off.
Mom’s eyes are brimming with emotion when she releases me. “Go sit next to Gaby and tell us what happened and why you’re here.”
The stern tone she uses makes me obey in a heartbeat. All these years in Blue Ridge have softened her accent to a whisper, but sometimes, in the hush between syllables, it returns like a warm memory. Whenever she’s upset or angry are usually the times she sounds as if she never left her hometown.
Valentina reaches into the pantry to retrieve a bag of Takis, only to have it swiped away by Mom. “We’re eating soon.”
“But I’m hungry!” Valentina whines, before seating herself on my other side, her bottom lip jutting out in the most dramatic way.
While they bicker, I look around. The fridge’s door is littered with pictures from not only our childhood but also recent shots. I spot an article from my latest tournament, where I won the silver medal, drawings from Valentina from when she was younger, and postcards from the cities Gaby has visited.
When I spin on my stool, I notice the door leading to the hallway is open, and my eyes land on a family portrait that makes my heart squeeze. Valentina is only three years old in that picture and she’s propped up on Dad’s shoulders. Gaby is smiling widely, holding a cup of hot chocolate in a gloved hand, foam sticking to her upper lip. Mom has her arm looped through Dad’s, her other hand gripping my shoulder. My grin is broad, my cheeks flushed, my hair sticking to my forehead, and my snowboard is tucked to my side.
This was taken on my twelfth birthday during the town’s amateur snowboarding competition. I had achieved third place – it’s my happiest memory. It was right then that I knew I wanted to go pro, and that nothing would ever make me feel the way snowboarding does.
I let out a long breath, then rattle off everything that happened – from the doctor’s opinion to Coach’s plan to keep me at Blue Ridge for the next three months.
Mom nods in understanding, Gaby watches me with that pitying look that I can’t stand, and Val doesn’t say anything. But when they all tell me that everything will be okay, that I’ll be able to bounce back easily, I have to dig deep. . .
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