[I killed a character, snuffed many more darlings, deleted scenes, inserted some sneaky flirtatious texting throughout the MS, and hopefully, with the help I've received here, I can move this project on past heavy rejection stage since I've learned I have the patience rivaling a toddler.'s I'm testing this query and pages to see if it's earned the romance subplot label. I cannot thank all the good people on RomanceWriters enough because I've been lurking and learning a LOT.]
Dear Agent,
I am seeking representation for SPLIT TIMES, a 74K women’s fiction novel with a romantic subplot about a 2008 Olympic Trials drug scandal that ignites a revolution in women’s athletics. Fans of Carrie Soto Is Back and Losing Sight will enjoy a midlife comeback story with a rock-star love interest and a doping dilemma.
At thirty-eight, Karly Locke has spent two decades putting everyone ahead of herself: three kids, a husband who stopped noticing her years ago, and a to-do list with no bottom. Then a song by rock prodigy Fender Archer comes on the radio while she’s stuck in the school pick-up line, and she feels it: she’s running at redline in a race while she’s sitting perfectly still.
Karly resolves to chase the big dream she shelved, an Olympic berth. The Trials are months away, and her training is a disaster. Her coach insists she’s progressing, but she can see the doubt behind his smile. The twenty-two-year-olds she’ll face are faster, fresher, and not running on four hours of sleep.
Then a new drug lands on her radar: a not-yet-legal, female-specific performance enhancer that could close the gap for her and finally fill the disparity in women’s athletics. Karly insists to the plastic Jesus she carries everywhere that it’s not cheating. She also knows she’s run out of time to be noble.
Then Fender Archer, the voice that’s fueled her miles, accidentally injures her while she’s running on a treadmill in his fancy hotel gym. In twenty minutes, he shows her more care than her husband has in five years. Gorgeous, wrecked, and nothing like the man in her earbuds, Fender is quietly struggling with pills of his own, until watching Karly run convinces him to quit. The irony is brutal: as he finds the nerve to get clean because of her, she’s deciding whether to get dirty.
Karly must decide between the shortcut with the potential to rock the running world and the finish line she can honestly cross, with a plastic Jesus riding along to watch, while two men, one who ignores her and one who sees her too well, pull her in opposite directions.
[Bio]
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
First Pages (long enough to get to the romance):
Chapter 1 - I Never Wear White
Karly - 2008
The only thing I was sure of is this tiny plastic Jesus.
Tomorrow is my first elite race in sixteen years. If I hesitate at the start, if I drop back, I will crawl over the finish line and pretend I never came to Baltimore.
The slim possibility of a win exists, but breaking the tape plays on repeat in my brain. Tiny Jesus agrees with his small plastic smile.
Lying here with my former college teammates in this no-frills hotel room, listening to their soft snoring, I wished I was in the regular 5K with the three of them. You know, the race for normal runners and not for aspiring Olympians like myself. My drive to be extraordinary exasperates me; I could have stayed out with them last night as they lined up shots and drank to our friendship until the bars closed.
I needed to sneak in a workout before they woke up. They’re unaware of my insane goal to qualify in the Trials. I don’t want them to know because they will try to talk me out of training.
Is it embarrassing that at 38 years old, I believe a spot on the Olympic team is well within my reach? My husband certainly thinks so.
I heard a groan.
“Karly?” Jess said through a yawn. “What are you doing up this early? Is it race day?”
“No. It’s tomorrow. Go back to sleep,” I whispered.
“OK,” she mumbled and her eyes shut before she hit the pillow.
My phone buzzed. I flipped it open to my husband CJ’s text: WHERE IS THE ORANGE JUICE
I sighed and texted him back: BEHIND THE MILK and my fingers hovered over the keys, and I wanted to but I did not add where it always is because the slightest bit of guilt churned in my stomach. I hadn't asked CJ if he was OK with me going to Baltimore, I'd told him, which wasn't like me.
CJ: FOUND IT. I GET YOU WANTING TO RACE, BUT COULDN’T YOU HAVE ALL RUN IN THE TWILIGHT TROT HERE THIS WEEKEND?
NO
I WANT TO MOW THIS AFTERNOON AND IF YOU WERE HERE, I COULD
LET DAVID RUN THE MOWER. JASON AND ELI LIKE TO USE THE AIR TANK TO CLEAN OFF. BRIBE THEM WITH ICE CREAM
THEY CAN’T HANDLE THAT
I wanted to scream at him: Yes, they can. Quit underestimating their abilities. My phone buzzed again and I sighed.
THIS OLYMPIC TRIALS, THAT’S SERIOUS. AREN’T YOU WAY OVER YOUR HEAD? AND BY THE WAY, I’M DOING YOU A HUGE FAVOR HOLDING DOWN THE FORT THIS WEEKEND
A favor? I rolled onto my stomach and beat down my pillow with my fist before casting a quick look at Jess, my closest friend curled up close. Now there was a friend who loathed my husband. Maybe even more than I did, but come on, a favor? When the hell had it become my sole job as sherpa to the family? These days I did everything: kids, house, even the books at CJ’s mill.
CJ wasn’t finished: YOU AREN’T AS YOUNG AS YOU USED TO BE. HOPEFULLY THIS WEEKEND WILL GET IT OUT OF YOUR SYSTEM
I turned off my phone and thought about going back to bed. I could skip my run this morning and wake up with my friends. Discuss a breakfast spot. Enjoy another coffee. Just hang out and laugh our asses off at shared jokes about our time at Harrington U and updating our lives with one another.
Instead, I pushed back the covers and cringed as my bare feet landed on the cheap carpet. After dressing in the dark, I threw my phone and my trusty iPod in a flimsy string pack and shrugged it on over my shoulders. I crept out quietly, squeezing through the door to the bright hallway so I wouldn’t wake anyone.
I jogged lightly down the stairwell to the lobby, looking forward to running in a new location, but one glance outside at the downpour confirmed it would be a dreaded treadmill day. The shitty gym featured one solitary machine facing a blank gray wall, the belt threadbare. It was plugged in, but no amount of jostling made it move…it was dead.
No. Absolutely not.
The manager at the desk apologized profusely and with a conspiratorial wink he handed me a pass and pointed me a block away to TallShips Hotel, "...which has an incredible gym. My uncle owes me a favor.”
His eyes ate me alive.
“The all-black look suits you,” he continued and he brushed back his hair. I found myself oddly fascinated with his smile; there were two chips on the same tooth. I loped away towards the entrance. “Hey darlin’, we were talkin’,” he called behind me.
It was raining sideways under the covered drive but I bolted out the door. I tightened the string pack only to gasp as I blasted into the icy assault, fully knowing I was doing this for one block to avoid the whole storm.
Between the downtown mid-rise buildings, lightning cracked across the sky, brighter than fireworks. Door numbers blurred since I had to squint. TallShips Hotel was tucked back on its own cliff overlooking the harbor but the waterfall pouring down from the sky formed a curtain concealing most of the imposing entrance.
A thick boardwalk ushered me to the doorway, held open by a man in a suit. Inside, polished wood floors gleamed beneath a soaring atrium. A grand marble staircase ascended through leafy greenery. I had to remember to close my mouth after my eyes couldn’t drink in enough detail. The flower arrangements. The maritime paintings. It smelled of cedar and a sweet woody aroma. Holy shit.
Another suit aimed for me and snapped up the dripping pass I held up. He glared at the expanding puddle underneath my feet and pointed down to a wide, shallow spiral staircase. I nodded once to show I understood. Go now.
There was a glass-walled fitness suite overlooking the storm-lashed harbor with two Woodway treadmills just beyond the automatic door, glowing and ready, rows of machines and weights, and stacks of thick fluffy towels with a lavender scent. Wow. I grinned. Someone consulted with a team of serious athletes when they built this.
After I did a quick towel dry, I reached into my pack for my iPod, then stared in horror at the blank screen and jagged split down the middle of the pack. Dammit.
I always ran with music, even when I raced.
I saved my absolute favorite band, Orion, for my hardest training sessions and treadmill runs. Orion’s lead singer, Fender Archer, pulled me through the worst of it until the pain went quiet.
Maybe it was his voice, raspy at the edges, with power shot through the middle. And the lyrics matched the mood. "Half of Neither" felt like he'd known how upset I was every time a stranger spoke to me in Spanish. I look Latina. I most likely am, but my adoptive parents are white. I shook my head as I put the towels I used in a bin and warmed up on the treadmill while I watched the rain pound the glass.
Tiny Jesus watched me run as he stood on the console. He smiled through the ridiculous hope I’ve placed in him. He has helped to center me, in my impossible running goals, and also to finish this too-long workout.
Trials were fifteen weeks out. Third place or better, or I didn't go. Not fourth, not "so close," not any of the soft words people say when they want to be kind about falling short by half a second.
The automatic door behind me whooshed and cold air swept in against my sweat. Someone entered but I ignored them and pushed myself harder while I wiped my brow.
Weights clanged, a low breath hissed. Male. He mumbled about the remote not working, and stepped closer to the TV, pushing the buttons furiously. I took out the batteries before he got here. I hated a blaring TV during my workout.
I maintained speed for the 30 second pick-ups, just to keep the legs ready to blast off tomorrow. Since I already committed to it, I should, at the very least, pump myself up for my first professional race. Ever. A surge of adrenaline kicked through me, tomorrow would be my time to shine.
BAM! I jumped, losing my concentration.
Another BANG! This one louder. Sounded like a weight being dropped.
Something slammed into my treadmill, causing it to jolt to the side.
Stumbling, I grabbed the rail for balance and sent a sideways glare towards the idiot. Dammit, what’s he doing? Got right back to my cadence.
What the hell!
I glanced down for a moment and spotted a weight lying next to my treadmill. Was he lifting too heavy and a weight slid off? Was he that clumsy?
"Nice save," he said in a low pitched and deep voice that was startlingly familiar. Whoa. No. Could it be?
I stared straight ahead at the storm-streaked window instead of turning to verify. In the reflection I caught his wild chestnut hair curling around his face from sweat or the rain. His build was lanky, and he confidently lifted a 50 pound kettlebell with a straight arm, only to lose his balance a bit and wobble. I frowned. My eyes roved to his narrow waist with a peek of his hip bone jutting out as a kraken slithered up his side. He turned slightly and I snapped my eyes back to the window.
No.
He was tying his shoes, then stepped onto the treadmill next to mine, tapping the console as he fired up his workout. Tattoos snaked down his muscular arms.
Holy shit. I took a deep breath. It was Fender Archer. In the flesh. The world’s most notorious rock star. My notorious rock star.
He began a slow jog and I stared ahead while every nerve in my body was screaming to look at him. Fender Archer was my workout. I had his songs, entire albums, on playlists arranged by workout intensity. If I had a shit day and needed a long easy run, there was a playlist. If I needed to push myself, he was the playlist.
His hand slammed on his console. He paused his workout and began fidgeting with the buttons. They beeped loudly as he tried to find the right setting. He exhaled through his mouth dramatically like he’d run ten flights of stairs. I didn’t care if it was Fender Archer, he was annoying the shit out of me. I didn’t need any distractions. But still, I couldn’t wait to tell the girls.
We were those stupid fans. If I was rich, I would go to every single concert he performed all over the country.
I heard the hollow crackle of his plastic bottle as he took a swig.
I tamped down my annoyance. Focus, Karly. I glanced at my console to see how much longer I had to go but a second later I forced my eyes back to the window.
It was strange to think Fender Archer would be doing something as mundane as working out. I’d always imagined him in a hot tub full of groupies when he was off-stage.
And here in this gym, watching his slow clumsy jog, his famous hip grinds and dance moves popped into my head. I couldn’t even pretend not to look, and when our eyes met in the window’s reflection, I didn’t tear my eyes away and neither did he. A quick flush of heat that had nothing to do with my workout flooded through my veins.
I couldn’t look away fast enough.