Page 17 of One Last Rodeo

Whatever.

This morning’s flight had been painfully early. Everyone on the plane had dozed off, the cabin practically silent as we crossed state lines. I was wide awake. Performing surgeries in my head and counting down the minutes until we landed.

I was excited to visit Colorado for the first time, yes, but my body also wakes at five sharp, no stimulants required. It's always been that way. Coffee tastes like trash and energy drinks make my hands jittery. Something I can't afford. Besides, I don’t get to travel often. In fact, I haven't traveled in years. So, flying over the mountain ranges was nice. Something I didn’t know Iwas missing out on when I was working myself to the bone in California. One of the few perks of this new job is the travel.

I knock once on Craig's door and push it open without waiting for an answer, because I already know what I'm walking into and the sooner we get there, the sooner I can leave.

Craig looks up from his desk. Jensen's already filling half the room with whatever is happening in his body right now—jaw tight, shoulders rigid, radiating the energy of a man who's been told no and has never heard that before. Unfortunately for me, Rory Jones is in his office. The North American Bull Riding Associations Public Relations rep.

“Oh, Doctor Alba. Great. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. You’ve benched Jensen for tonight’s ride. Why?” Craig says.

Ah. We’re getting straight to the point.

“THANK YOU!” Jensen bellows beside me, loudly enough that I’m surprised the glass doesn’t crack. His arms are spread wide, brows pinched together in frustration, and that's when I notice just how big his wingspan is.

Did I mention he's a big guy?

I fold my hands behind my back while keeping a cool and professional tone. “I benched him because as the series doctor, I know that he’s not in physical condition to ride tonight. He needs rest and therapy before he gets back on a bull.”

“This is because she did my fucking surgery,” Jensen snaps, spreading his arms even wider. This guy missed his calling in basketball or football. I bet he’s got a great arm on him. “This is a conflict of interest!” he bellows.

I inhale, slow and controlled, because I refuse to dignify that idiocy by reacting emotionally.

“Jensen, Let’s hear her out,” Rory says softly.

I clear my throat, hoping I have at least one person on my side. “Contrary to Jensen’s belief about our history as patient and doctor, that’s not why he’s benched. His shoulder is weak. I reviewed the last scans he had done. He needs rest and another round of physical therapy. If he rides tonight, he risks serious injury and potentially getting pulled from the entire series. He also risks needing surgery on an injury that's completely healable if he just takes some time off. This isn’t forever. It’s a temporary solution to get one of your athletes the clinical support that he needs.”

Jensen blinks at me. I blink back; expression carved from years of stone.

“You took something I told you in confidence after hours,” he says, voice low, wounded in a way he clearly doesn’t want Craig or Rory to notice. “If I hadn’t told you about my old shoulder injury, you would have never known. And now you’re holding it against me.”

“No, I took what your last doctor documented and made a clinical decision. He documented the shoulder injury but buried it under enough paperwork that I couldn't find it at first. Once I knew what I was looking for, I read his notes, got the old scans, and my decision is supported by that documentation.”

Craig sighs, rubbing his temples before sinking back into his chair like he’s already over this conversation. “Doctor Alba. He’s riding.”

“Craig. It sounds like there’s a real risk here. We have to think about media coverage and his sponsors too,” Rory interjects.

“Don’t care,” he says simply.

I turn toward them slowly, glare sharp enough to cut through bone. Usually, I can pretend indifference. Usually, I can let menbluster and puff up their chests without it touching my nervous system. But this? This digs under my ribs.

What the hell am I even doing here if my expertise, the thing I bled, cried, and nearly broke myself to earn, means absolutely nothing? I look at Rory, pleading with my eyes for help. She’s shaking her head, looking down at her laptop like she’s given up the fight already.

“With all due respect, sir,” I grit out, each word squeezed between my teeth, heat crawling up my neck like a warning flare I can’t extinguish. Because I don't respect him. At all.

Don’t care. Don’t care.

They’re all bodies.

Flesh and blood.

Don’t care.

I'm starting to realize athletes care even less about their bodies than regular people do. But I took an oath, avow.And I don’t take oaths and vows lightly.

“His shoulder is at major risk of tearing further. If he mounts a bull tonight, he could need surgery on it quicker than the completion of the series. Do you want your star rider out for the rest of the event?”

“Don’t care.” Craig says again and waves it off like we’re talking about a paper cut and not a muscular tear. Jensen’s in his thirties now. A bad enough injury could mean forced retirement. This isn’t something he should be brushing off.