Page 100 of One Last Rodeo

Chapter 30 – Catalina

I’ve never seen an arena quite like this. But then again, I’ve never worked the semi-finals for North America’s most watched, most anticipated bull-riding series at the end of a long, brutal summer.

The place is packed tonight. There are bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, and every inch of the Charlotte stadium is crawling with people in denim and spurs. The pre-show is already in full swing. Barrel racing. Trick riding. A warm-up act that involves yodeling. Country music’s biggest star right now, Cody Cameron, is set to take the stage in just a few minutes to perform his newest hit, “Mayday,” and the roar from the crowd is so loud it’s vibrating through the concrete.

It’s deafening and a contrast to the usual, clinical silence that I’m used to working in. And yet, I've already acclimated to it. Ifind myself craving the noise and raucous energy. Somedays it reminds me of working for the professional baseball team.

Tonight, I’ve barricaded myself in the small office they’ve labeled “Broken Spurs Team Doctor,” hiding behind paperwork, double checking everything to be sure that the athletes from our team who made it to the semis are ready to compete with no major injuries, updated treatment plans, and proper warmups.

I sit at the desk, flipping through folders, rereading medical notes, injury histories, and trainer assessments from this morning. Joel’s chart. Micah’s. One of our racers who sprained her wrist at the start of the series. Heath’s neat handwriting tracks progress, stiffness, pain thresholds, and any medication administered. And like a magnet I don’t fight hard enough to resist, my attention drifts back to Jensen Grant’s file.

I shouldn’t linger here. I should do the bare minimum of what’s required of me professionally and ethically. But my fingers betray me, sliding the papers free from the folder anyway as if reading about him can bring me closer to him.

I flip to his series headshot, and my chest tightens like I’ve been punched there. Soft brown eyes. Hair a little shorter than he wears it now. Beard fuller, darker. He looks relaxed in the photo... happy. It’s the man that I met when I first joined the series. Not the one who looked hollow in Seattle while riding on the back of his bull or waving to the fans from the tiny screen I watched the replay on. And not the one who stood rigid and wounded in my parents’ bathroom when I left him hanging and he told me no matter where I went, it wouldn’t be far enough.

Did I do that? Am I the reason the light's drained from him? The reason he rode like he was punishing himself, instead of chasing after something he loved?

The thought lands heavy and ugly.

Do I do this to people? Am I some sort of energy vampire?Is that why Davis cheated and left me for someone younger and brighter?

I took Dani’s advice. I’ve been focusing on the next immediate priorities. Olivia's repeat surgery is scheduled. The pre-op notes are done. Everything that needed my hands today has had them. There's nothing left to prepare, nothing left to organize, no legitimate reason to still be sitting in this small, fluorescent-lit office instead of walking out that door and finding him before he gets on that bull.

I miss him. It's that simple. I owe him an apology. I know that. And I’ve been too much of a coward to do it.

He's out there right now thinking I'm still angry, and I'm not—I haven't been, not really since I got the photo from June of his hands and knew I still cared about him and probably always would.

But I haven't told Jensen that. I've been hiding behind Olivia's chart and tonight's pre-ride checklist and every professional obligation I could stack between us like furniture.

There’s a sharp knock at the door. I jump so hard my neck twinges. Papers scatter. I shove Jensen’s file back into the folder like it burned me, smoothing my hands over the desk, over myself, forcing composure into place like I wasn't just spying on the boy I have a crush on.

“Come in,” I chirp, far too brightly.

The door opens and I let out an audible gasp. Jensen stands in the doorway like he stepped straight out of my thoughts and a country calendar. Hat in his hands, fingers twisting the brim slowly. His shoulders look tense beneath his jacket. Tired. Not injured—thank God—but worn in a way that has nothing to do with his body and everything to do with emotions I wrecked.

“Jensen?” I clear my throat, slipping the professional mask back on even as my pulse stutters.

It's only been a few hours since I saw him last across the bar in Whitewood Creek, and yet it feels like too much distance. How did we go from being strangers, a man I didn't respect for continuing to ride after his surgery, to a man that I fear I might care way too much about to let go easily?

“How can I help you tonight?” I ask softly.

He steps inside and closes the door behind him with careful precision. The click echoes loud in the quiet room, sealing us away from the noise outside—the cheers, the music, the chaos.

“I needed to talk to you,” he says. “Before my ride. Please.”

I meet his eyes. He meets mine. That same unspoken current crackles between us, the one that’s always been there that says what we were doing was never just casual and we both knew it.

I gesture to the chair across from my desk, grateful for the barrier.

“Sure. Have a seat.”

He sits, and the chair immediately looks too small for him. It takes me back to the first time he shook my hand. The roughness in his touch. The way he’s learned how to love gently. I've felt it when he's been inside me. It takes a lot of restraint for him to hold back with me. And I've loved that. Because I've loved his rough. I’ve grown to appreciate it.

Frankly, I've loved all of him.

“How can I help?” I ask again, softer this time.

His gaze pins me in place but it's not angry anymore. Just sad. He swallows.