“You let go!” he fires back, showing no signs of listening to me.
Then Buck barks—loud and excited—darting between us. His solid body hits the back of my knee and everything goes to hell. My leg buckles, the post lurching sideways. Dylan tries to catch the weight, but it’s happening too fast. The next thing I know, we’re both going down hard—a tangle of limbs and timber.
The post lands across our shins, the pain sharp and searing, but it’s the way my shoulder knocks into the solid muscle of Dylan’s chest that has me gasping out in surprise, trying to pull back as Buck dances in a circle like he’s laughing at us.
Dylan’s shoulders shake and I realize he’s laughing too. Or trying not to. A second later his laugh rings out, a deep, full-bodied sound that rumbles through his chest.
“This isn’t funny,” I say, but even before the words leave my mouth, a reluctant laugh escapes me and soon we’re both giddy and breathless, the kind of laughter that loosens something inside.
Then the laughter fades and we’re lying side by side, my body against his, our legs tangled, the post forgotten. I lift my face and find he’s looking down at me, his lips inches from mine. Our eyes lock, and suddenly nothing feels funny anymore.
I force myself to shift away, break the moment. I groan as I blink up at the blue stretch of sky.
“You OK?” Dylan asks, pushing onto an elbow, gaining more distance from me too.
My braid has come loose in the fall and I tuck a stray strand of hair away from my face and nod as I sit up. “Nothing bruised but my pride. Wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me carry the post on my own.”
“Wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me help.”
We wrangle the post off our legs, then he stands, pulling off his glove and reaching down. I hesitate—but only for a second—before I remove my glove and take his hand.
The second our palms touch, a snap of heat shoots through me. Of awareness. A pull that makes the world go a little quieter around the edges, yanking my thoughts right back to the moment just now where we almost kissed and wishing I’d let it happen.
His grip is strong and steady, and he hauls me up, and then we’re both stepping back, brushing off the dirt.
“Next time, listen when I say I’ve got it,” I say.
One side of his mouth shifts into a smirk. “Next time, let me help.” Buck gives a low, sheepish woof. Dylan’s tone softens as he speaks to the dog. “Yeah, you should be sorry, Buckie. Stay out from under our feet next time.”
I huff a laugh and finish brushing the dust from my jeans. I grab one side of the post and Dylan takes the other, and we start loading the truck. The tension between us is still there, and there’s no way I’ll ever admit it, but it’s easier with the help. Maybe there’s a rancher buried somewhere deep inside Dylan after all.
If he wants it.
And that’s one big if.
TWELVE
DYLAN
CHASE:Yo Dyl, I’m at the ranch. Where are you?
JAKE:Izzy probably had enough of the grump and buried him in one of the paddocks.
CHASE:Who would blame her?!
DYLAN:I’m on the field.
CHASE:Got time to help me with my timing on out routes?
DYLAN:Sure.
The football field sits at the back of the ranch, out of sight from the house and the paddocks. It’s quiet here, away from the sounds of the horses and Buck’s occasional barks. It’s been a while since I’ve been up here and the field is rougher than I remember—grass long, lines faded—but the goalposts still loom, and the space still feels sacred, like our own home turf.
As kids we were out here every day we weren’t in school—me, Jake, and Chase. Playing until we couldn’t see the ball. It was onthis field where football stopped being just a game and became a language it felt like only the three of us understood.
I’ve got cones set up in a drill I’ve run a thousand times before. Today, I’m testing footwork, timing, trying to work around a known gap in the Stormhawks defense. I might not be on the team anymore, but the habit hasn’t left me. It feels good to do something I’m good at.
I throw the ball into the air, watching it spin before I catch it again, trying to ignore the ache in my knee. It’s been sore since the post landed on it three days ago—thanks to Izzy being too stubborn to let me help.
