Page 16 of One Last Rodeo

Jensen’s loud, too deep, mildly chaotic voice ricochets through the training room at the Denver stadium, bouncing off the walls like an irritated bull looking for a fight to pick.

If I have my way, he won't get to know what that’s like tonight.

I was waiting for this. I knew he’d lose it when he saw the roster for tonight's ride and the promotional material that I had Noa update. But what I didn’t realize was he’d throw a full tantrum in front of enough witnesses to make it impossible to ignore.

The guy seems stable enough in every other area of life, but something about bull-riding flips some deranged switch in him. The man could break his spine in half and still scream he’s “fine” and ready to get back on a bull. And at this rate, he just might.Which is exactly why I had to step in and stop it. I had to save him from himself.

The door to the training room slams open, smacking the wall behind it so hard a bit of plaster falls to the floor. His eyes scan the room like a guided missile until they find me and lock in on their target.

“You,” he points at me before he stalks toward me. "Doc." He spits the term out like it's an insult.

I don’t even look up. I stay focused on my assessment of Micah's leg, ignoring him completely. If he wants to talk about my clinical decision, he’s going to need to lower his voice and drop the emotion.

“Doc!” he barks again, this time he's right next to me. I can practically feel the heat from his breath touching my cheek.

“Jensen... watch it,” I hear Heath, one of my physical therapist’s voice come out in a warning. I don’t need him to defend me, but it’s nice to have some witnesses.

I turn slowly, giving Jensen the calmest, iciest look in my arsenal that I've perfected from years of working side by side men who lacked boundaries and manners.

“That’s not my name,” I say calmly.

“Doctor Alba,” he grits out, like the title offends him on a spiritual level.

I smile sweetly. “How can I help you today, Mr. Grant?”

He glares at me. “A word. In Craig’s office.”

Oh, so he wants to go cry todaddy. Cute.

“Sure,” I say lightly. “I’m going to finish with this examination, then we can talk.”

I press on a few more spots along Micah’s calf, checking for tenderness. Micah looks between me and Jensen like he's sensing the obvious tension that doesn't make sense and knows I'm stalling for time.

I don't really care.

Normally I’d let one of the trainers handle this part of Micah’s assessment, but I knew Jensen would throw a fit once he saw the lineup, and I didn’t want him cornering me alone when he did. No way was I going to let him use all that big-man energy to try to change my mind.

Big hands. Big thighs. Stupidly broad shoulders. Things I unfortunately—and against my will—haven’t been able to stop noticing about him since he walked back into my life. He’s just so… big. It's almost comical how large he is.

Big with no sense. My greatest weakness that I never knew I had.

“All good,” I say, releasing Micah and stepping back from the table. I flex my fingers, trying to bring the blood back to them, when really, I'm thinking about when I can wash them next. How long has it been since I've sanitized them? Probably an hour. A new record that makes my skin itch.

“Have a nice ride tonight. Good luck.”

Touching people still makes my skin crawl. I avoid it whenever I can. It's not about germs or viruses like you'd think. It's the personalness of touching. The only contact that ever felt natural was inside a person—after you peel back skin, bone, muscle, and actually fix something. Being a surgeon has always made sense. You're touching with a purpose. You're touching organs, not people. There’s a difference.

This job feels like I’m constantly trespassing on strangers’ bodies. Breaking barriers that they didn't consent to. Thank Godfor Whitewood Creek and the community hospital—it forced me to relearn residency-level tolerance for people and physical contact before switching to the Iron Horn Series.

Because athletes?Ugh.They’re always sweaty, sticky, radiating heat like human furnaces. Bumping into each other in gestures that seem playful while trading sweat and disease.

Disgusting and way too comfortable seeing each other naked. I could go on, but you get the point. Athletes and touching go hand in hand.

“Thanks, Doctor Alba,” Micah says sweetly like he's figured out that might piss off his teammate.

I swear Jensen snarls at him.

I don’t wait for him to follow me. I turn and walk right out of the training room in the direction of Craig’s office for tonight’s big event. Denver’s arena is cold and echoey, nothing like the warmth that we left behind in Austin. Not only can I hear Jensen stomping behind me, but I can alsofeelhim. His steps are heavier, angrier, his stare drilling into my back like I didn't save his life just a few months ago.