Page 58 of One Last Rodeo

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I won’t say it again.”

He gives me a small nod. “Thank you. I had a girlfriend who tried to control my decisions once. Long time ago. Back when I first got into riding at twenty and was still a wild kid. She never understood that it’s the only thing I have.”

I file that away for later. He had a girlfriend at twenty years old before the media started reporting on his relationships like he was a celebrity. She didn’t understand or support his career. I wonder if that’s why they broke up. I wonder what she looked like. Whether she was soft and easy, and the kind of woman who could make a man feel like staying put. I wonder if he tried to be something different for her and couldn't, or if he never tried at all.

I wonder which version of that would hurt more.

I know which version I recognize. Davis never asked me to be different. He quietly found someone who already was. He found someone warmer.

“But bull-riding isn’t all you have,” I say.

His jaw clenches. “It is. At least until something better comes along, Doc. Until I find something worth loving more.”

I watch him. He watches me. This silent limbo that we've always felt comfortable in stretches between us but tonight something in it has shifted. For as outgoing and talkative as he is, I like that Jensen's comfortable in the silence with me. That he doesn't feel the need to fill the empty space between us with words that don’t have meaning.

“I don’t like when you call me Doc,” I tell him.

His brow lifts slowly, like he’s both curious and amused by that response. “Really?”

I nod.

“Would you prefer I call youDoctor Alba?”

“At work, yes. But that's not because I need to be reminded of my credentials. It's so that the other guys respect me and don't think that I'm giving you special treatment because we're... um... you know." I can’t even use the word friends.

He nods. "I understand."

I shift slightly in the water. "But when we’re not working...” I wet my lips, heartbeat thudding in my ears. “You can call me Catalina.”

He sits back a little, thinking, the moonlight turning his eyes a softer shade of brown that makes him even more attractive. His hands rest wide behind him on the edge of the tub, broad chest rising and falling slowly. That nose ring he's had in since the day I first joined the circuit glistens a little. I thought I hated piercings. I thought I hated tattoos. Now I don't think there’s anything about Jensen I could hate.

“You told June you’ve never had a nickname,” he says.

“That's true.”He was listening to that?

His gaze flicks down to my mouth, then back up again. “May I give you one?”

My heart stutters. Because no one’s ever cared enough to want to do that. Nicknames feel intimate. They feelfamiliar.

My sisters got theirs from our parents—Daniela got Dani, a logical choice. Isla’s nickname became Lala. I was always just… Catalina. Serious. Focused. Armored in ambition. And when I became a doctor, the title became a shield that I could hide behind. Then, the only people who called me Catalina were my parents or sisters.

Formality instead of softness. Title instead of affection. Names mean something, especially in my culture, which is why we oftenhyphenate the mother and father's surnames. They give identity. They indicate placement in a person's world. They help you feel safe and known.

My ex never called mebabeorsweetheart.Those were pet names reserved for cute women who giggle, and not serious ones like me.To him, I was always Catalina, or even Doctor Alba at work and out of it.

And now Jensen—half-naked, steam-laced—is looking at me like I’m something worth naming. He’s asking if he can give me something I’ve secretly always wanted to have but never had the voice to ask for.

“A nickname?” I ask again.

He smiles. "Yeah. If you don’t mind. Catalina’s beautiful, but I’d like to give you something new.”

“Only my parents and sisters call me Catalina. Everyone else calls me Doctor Alba. I don't even know what my nickname would be.”

He studies me for a moment; his eyes sweep over my face in the moonlight. “What do your friends call you?”

“I… don’t really have any of those.”

Don't really have friends.How sad is that to say out loud? How sad must that look to a man like Jensen who's friends with everyone?