“Look, I know you don’t talk about your family and crap, but you don’t have to do this whole lone-wolf act forever.”
I turn my head slowly, jaw tight. “It’s not an act. It’s survival.”
He studies me. Long enough to make it uncomfortable. “Alright.” He walks off without waiting for me to follow because he knows I won’t.
I walk back toward the hotel in my tattered shirt. My shoulder burns under the tape. I pass rodeo fans spilling out of the grandstands. A few people notice my ripped-up shirt and patched-up body. Women nudge each other and stare. Someone takes my picture. I should have driven over here earlier but that seemed stupid when I could walk across the street and half a block to the rodeo grounds.
Every once in a while, I lift my head to scan the crowd from under my cowboy hat, half-hoping Kinsley's still here but I don’t see her. Just strangers moving past.
My phone buzzes:Dad. I let it ring once, twice. Then answer because I'm a glutton for punishment tonight and being mad at him mixes with pain like peanut butter and jelly.
“You comin’ home this week or not?” he asks.
“Not.”
“You hurt?”
“I’ll live.”
“Good.” Click.
That’s Dad. Duty and disappointment wrapped in denim and dirt. I keep walking, jaw tight, and push throughthe lobby doors of the hotel. The air conditioning hits my bare chest like a slap.
Buzz.Grandpa.
Of course. Because Dad must not have berated me the right way and now Grandpa's got to get in on the action. The motel doors whoosh open and I step inside.
“What?” I answer.
“You done playing yet? We’ve got a ranch to run, and you’re out there riding the livestock.”
“I’m ranked third in the world,” I snap. “That ain’t a game.”
“Third don’t put up fence or work cows, son.”
“Neither do you,” I mutter, too low for him to hear.
He keeps going. “You’re wasting yourself. All that grit, all that talent, poured out for a bunch of spectators who won’t remember your name in a year.”
“They will tonight,” I say, and hang up before he can answer. I pace in the lobby. My reflection in the soda machine looks older than it should. Tired.
My phone buzzes again.Mom.
I hesitate. Then swipe to answer. “Hi, Mom.”
Her voice is soft. “You alright, baby?”
The lump in my throat nearly chokes me. “Yeah. Doc taped me up. Just a strain.”
“I saw the ride. And the fall.”
Of course she did. She's the only one who cares. “You need to rest that shoulder,” she says gently, “and we need you home. The ranch needs you.”
I close my eyes. “I know.”
“Your father—he means well. He just... doesn’t say it right.”
“I know,” I say again.