I close my eyes. “But it’s not torn.”
“No,” he says slowly. “Not yet.”
He knows what I’m going to say. I know what he’sabout to recommend. We go through this dance every few months.
“You might be able to finish this week,” he says, “but if you don’t take two weeks off to heal, it will tear. You’ll be in surgery before summer ends.”
“I just need to finish Cheyenne.”
“Of course you do.” He opens a drawer and pulls out a small white bottle. “Muscle relaxers laced with pain meds. You’re taking them.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Wyatt—”
“You know I don’t do pills.”
He meets my eyes, steady and calm. “And you know I wouldn’t offer it if you didn’t need them. This isn’t about ego. This is about finishing this week.”
I stare at the bottle. I don’t mess with anything that muddies the line between pain and performance. Pain tells me where the edge is.
“I’ll take ‘em,” I mutter. “But they’re going in my pocket. Not my stomach.”
“Fine,” he says, and hands them over.
I tuck the bottle into my back pocket.
“Come on, Doc. I can't keep the ladies waiting.”
He reaches for the tape, muttering something about stubborn cowboys. As he wraps me tight, I stare at the canvas ceiling.
“You’re not made of iron, you know,” Doc says quietly.
“No,” I say. “But I’m made of something close enough.”
He finishes and steps back. “Come back tomorrow before your ride and I’ll give you some movement. You’ve got maybe two rides left in that shoulder before it gives.”
“That's all I need. Thanks.” I hop off the table, ignoring the way the floor wobbles under my boots.
Outside, somebody else is chasing their eight seconds now. And somewhere out there, Kinsley is still watching. I don't want to stop thinking about her now. She’s a darn good distraction. The night’s cooled some, but sweat still clings to the back of my neck, soaked into the collar of what’s left of my shirt.
Jake finds me standing there and trying to decide if I’m going back to the hotel or if I should find something to eat. “You look like someone chewed you up and forgot to swallow,” he says, voice casual, as he takes in my taped shoulder and bruised jaw. “Doc clear you, or just pray over it?” He hands me back my phone and I tuck it in my back pocket.
“Both,” I mutter. He holds out a paper bag. “Take a whiskey, man. You’re as tense as a fence line in flood season.”
I look at the bag. Jake means well—this is cowboy first aid, plain and simple. But I shake my head. “I’m good.”
He leans against the fence rail near the tent. “You should work that shoulder for some sympathy from a pretty young thing in painted on jeans.”
“My grandpa always says, ‘never sleep with a woman you don’t want raising your babies’.”
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Want to know what my grandpa told me?”
I can’t even imagine.
“The heart wants what the heart wants and sometimes it just wants a weekend.”
I shake my head and grin as I let out a breath and look away, past the trailers and food trucks, scanning faces I knowI won’t find. My attention catches on a brunette near the vendor tents, but it’s not her.