Page 20 of One Last Rodeo

“Fuck!” I grunt when I hit the ground.

The rescue crew rushes out. The crowd boos. It's an ugly, rumbling sound I haven’t heard in over a year, and one that I know will haunt my dreams later.

I scramble to my feet, shoulder throbbing like a warning siren. Catalina warned me. I didn't listen. She was right. I've made it worse.

I lift a hand, wave at the crowd like that’ll calm them down. The announcers start rambling about the score—some bullshit about the ride—I tune them out like I always do. I don't look at the board. There's no point. I gotta get out of here.

I stalk toward the gate, catching Dawson’s confused stare. His dark brown brows are drawn together in concern, and his eyes don't look pleased.

“What happened?”

“My shoulder threw me off.”

He presses a finger to his bottom lip, unimpressed. “You should’ve listened to that doctor.”

I swing over the gate, biting back a curse because he’s not wrong but he also didn't encourage me to listen to Doctor Alba either. He wasn’t against her recommendation; he just stayed silent when he realized I’d made up my mind and couldn’t be talked out of it. I have no one to blame but myself now.

“I’ll go get it looked at in training. See what the damage is.”

He nods. “Fans will be disappointed if you can't ride after the break.”

I fucking know that.

I take off down the hallway toward the Denver training room, heat building under my skin half from embarrassment, half from knowing she was right and feeling guilty as hell for not listening to her. Heath’s already waiting for me, patting a bed like he’d been watching the ride on the TV and knew I’d come straight here.

“What happened?” he asks. “The way you landed made it seem like you let go on purpose.”

These guys are pros, have watched us ride for years and know our tells better than we do.

“Right shoulder’s pulling. I let go before it got worse.”

He guides me to lay back so he can start his examination. The pressure is immediate when he touches it—deep, blunt, and entirely unwelcome.

"Fuck me. That hurts."

“The ligaments feel stretched,” he mutters while he continues.

Dammit.Even I know that's not good.

The next second, the doors to the training room swing open softly. I know it's her before she says a word. Usually, Catalina storms into a room like she's got a personal grudge against the hinges. Loud. Annoyed. Ready to tell me exactly why I'm not thinking straight.

Not tonight.

Tonight, she slips inside quietly, her footsteps barely making a sound. Like she's exhausted. Like she's run out of energy to argue with me. And that worries me more.

There's still a shift in the air when she gets close to the table. A pull I feel before I even look up. But tonight, instead of anger crackling around her, there's only a heavy kind of disappointment.

I shut my eyes tight, but it doesn’t matter. I can practically hear her heartbeat. I can smell her scent. I'm not sure what I thought she'd smell like. Maybe antiseptic and lavender since that's what I remember smelling when I woke up from surgery. But that's because I was in an OR where everything was clinical. Here on the circuit, she smells warmer. Like the spices my grandma used to put out on Christmas morning. And cocoa.Somuch cocoa.

Even panicked, even hurting, something in me steadies the second she steps closer to my body and touches me. She doesn't ask for permission, and though I have a strong feeling she doesn't enjoy this part of her job, she does it anyway with strong, controlled fingers. Maybe it’s because what she’s doing is clinical and not personal.

Her hands press into the strained, swollen flesh while she murmurs something softly to Heath. My eyes are sealed shut and I'm in my head. That static noise I always hear reverberating in my skull, except now it’s full of her voice telling me I should have listened.

When I come back to my body, her voice is warmer, but the disappointment is still in her tone. The static in my head, always full of rage, pain, adrenaline—goes silent. And for some fucking reason that I can’t examine right now, my whole-body syncs to hers like she’s the only steady pulse left in the room.

No longer is it the rush of blood in my ears that I hear, but it's the blood in my heart, pounding, reminding me I'm alive because ofher.I’m breathingbecause of her.

“Okay, let’s get some ice on it first, Jensen,” Heath says. “Just lay here for a couple minutes while I grab that.”