Before I can reply, she’s striding in the direction of the registration tent, head high, braid swinging. I watch her make her way through the growing crowd. Cowboys in wide-brimmedhats and women in denim skirts and tight Levi’s move between pens. Most of them look like they’ve lived this life forever. I catch a few sideways glances and wonder if they recognize me from my time playing for the Stormhawks—or is it because word has spread that I got drunk, bought some horses, and decided to play rancher? I squash the thought and focus on Izzy as she reappears from the registration tent.
Two men in sun-faded jeans and work gloves pause in the crowd to greet her. Even from this distance, it’s clear they respect her—the way they stand, the easy way they smile when she speaks. And I get it. For all her smart-mouthed jabs and the way she manages to push every one of my buttons, Izzy Brooks is one of the most capable people I’ve ever met. She laughs at something one of the men says, the sound bright and easy, reminding me of the weekends and how much I’ve started to look forward to them, and to Mad’s and Izzy’s laughter ringing across the ranch.
I notice the way one of the men lets his eyes linger on where the buttons of Izzy’s shirt pull across her chest. My gut tightens and I fight the desire to walk over there and plant myself between them like a warning. Like a linebacker protecting his quarterback.
What the hell?
Just for a second I let my mind go back to the question that’s been churning my thoughts up night after night. What if it isn’t just the ranch work that’s getting under my skin—the steady rhythm and that sense of building something? What if it’s Izzy getting under my skin, too? But acting on the pull I feel toward her would be reckless. Another crazy mistake that would make my decision that bit harder. Because no matter how much I try, deep down, I’m no rancher. And at some point, I need to face that thought head on.
In minutes, Izzy is slipping into the pen, and the colt steps into her touch. His trust in her is absolute. It’s a reminder that there’s a lot more I need to get to grips with than just feeding horses and mending fences.
“Go on.” Izzy beckons to me, opening the gate to the pen and motioning for me to step out.
I hesitate. “What do I do?” The words slip out before I can stop them, and for a moment I feel just as clueless as the morning I woke up with a hangover and a ranch full of horses I didn’t know the first thing about.
Izzy flashes me a smile, and for once it’s more amused than mocking. “The foal auction is up first,” she says. “I need to lead him into the ring and show him off. Go watch. It should be exciting. If all goes well, we’ll get a decent sum for him and head home happy.”
I step from the pen and walk toward the arena. It’s nothing fancy. An oval-shaped, metal-fenced ring packed with dirt, and tiers of wooden benches. It’s a space I remember from years ago, coming here with Dad and my brothers to watch a rodeo competition. Back then, the stands were full, the crowd cheering. I can almost feel the sticky sweetness of the soda in my hand and the awe that came from watching the cowboys ride like their lives depended on it.
Today, the crowd is smaller and bunched around the fence. The seating empty. As I approach the ring, I feel a flare of excitement. Unexpected but not unwelcome.
The first foal is led into the ring. It’s timid with a coat the color of storm clouds. His handler struggles to keep him steady as he trembles at every noise. No one bids and the foal exits after only one circuit.
More foals follow. Some skittish, others bold and sparking a flurry of hands.
The announcer’s voice crackles from the speakers. “Next is lot number seventeen from Oakwood Ranch. Presented by handler Izzy Brooks. A five-month-old colt, sired by Logan’s Legacy, National Cutting Horse Champion three years running, and out of Willow, a mare celebrated for her exceptional temperament, agility, and consistent performance in reining competitions.”
The anticipation tightens in my chest. Nerves and excitement—like the adrenaline before a game. Izzy walks into the ring with her head high. The colt doesn’t trot at her side like the others. Instead, she loosens the rein, allowing him to move around the edge of the ring, his black coat gleaming under the lights. He looks like he belongs and the crowd notices.
Something flickers to life inside me as I watch Izzy and the foal. It’s been a while, but I know the feeling. It’s pride. I can’t take credit for Logan and Willow’s colt. That’s all Izzy. But damn if I’m not proud anyway to see him in that ring representing Oakwood Ranch.
The bidding starts in a flurry, the number climbing steadily as hands rise one after another. My pulse kicks up, a steady thrum in my chest that builds with every new number.
Izzy continues moving around the ring, her face calm and professional, but I can see the gleam of triumph in her eyes. The announcer’s gavel strikes down on the podium. “Sold!” The announcer points toward a man near the back of the crowd. The buyer is dressed in straight-leg denim and a white shirt. The buzz of victory humming in my veins feels like a touchdown as I watch a young ranch hand lead the colt away.
As I make my way to Izzy, people glance my way, but this time I don’t feel the weight of my past in their stares. Maybe they’re curious about something else—about what comes next. And for the first time, the thought of that doesn’t feel quite so scary.
My eyes find Izzy as she steps out of the arena, her shoulders relaxed. The faintest smile pulls at the corners of her mouth.
“I’m going to assume that went—” My phone vibrates in my pocket, cutting short the rest of my words. I reach for it, glancing at the screen and seeing Coach Allen’s name. My next inhale is sharp. My pulse kicks up. Why is he calling me? Hope sparks. A hope I thought was dead. I wave the phone at Izzy, gesturing I need to take it, and turn away without waiting for her reaction. In seconds, I’ve pushed through the crowd and I’m out the gates, standing in the shade of the arena, away from the noise.
“Coach?” I say, keeping my tone casual, trying to hide the desperation I feel pounding through me. Is he having second thoughts? Does he want me back on the team?
“Dylan, how are you?” Coach Allen’s voice is deep and gruff and painfully familiar, carrying echoes of a lifetime of team talks.
“I’m great,” I say quickly. “I’m still working hard and my knee’s feeling strong.”
The silence on the other end is a sinking weight. “That’s… good, Dylan. Keeping busy is good. I was just calling to check in, see how you’re doing. I know you’ve been coming by practice and watching the rookies a lot.”
“Yeah, can’t stay away,” I joke, wondering where this is going as that spark of hope turns to something darker.
“And it’s always good to see you, you know that. It’s just, some of the rookies are finding it a bit confusing, coming to you with questions instead of the coaching staff, and well?—”
“Oh, sure,” I cut in, saving Coach from having to finish. Hurt slices through me. I don’t belong. That’s what he’s dancing around. “Say no more, Coach. I’ll stay out the way from now on.”
“Hang on, Dylan?—”
“Sorry, Coach. I’m in the middle of something. I need to go.”
