I blink slowly, the bourbon tugging loose the edges of thoughts I usually keep tucked away, hidden. In another world, I’d have worked alongside him, breeding horses. When I was a kid, it was all I wanted.
I think of Oakwood Ranch. It’s where I grew up, where Mama lives. Of all of us brothers, it’s just me who lives there full time—a grown-ass man who had to give up the sweet loft apartment a few blocks from the Stormhawks training facility because I could barely hobble from one room to another, let alone face the five flights of stairs to my apartment.
The room tilts. Oakwood Ranch is my home. Those rich green paddocks that stretch over the land, split by weathered wooden fences. The sprawling white ranch house, the tall red barn. Acres of beauty framed by the craggy foothills and the distant peaks of the Rocky Mountains, snowcapped even now in the blistering July heat, with the air as dry as dirt and the sun unrelenting.
Earlier today I couldn’t wait to leave, but now all I can think is that it’s a ranch that hasn’t seen horses or real ranch work for two decades.
I finish my drink and the warmth spreads through me, making my body feel loose, my mind stepping out of itself, drifting away. I don’t even have to think as I say the next words that come into my head. “We’ve got space at Oakwood.”
Bill laughs, a strong hand clapping my back. “You’re a football player. What do you know about ranching?”
“Iwasa football player. I’m not anymore.” My eyes drop down to my chest where it feels like a knife must be lodged. “And I remember some.” The hell if it’s true, but the weight of Bill’s hand on my shoulder has reminded me of Coach Allen’s pitying smile.
I don’t know how much time passes, how many more drinks we share, but the late-night drinkers have replaced the after-work crowd by the time a plan is taking shape.
“It’s poetic,” I say, my words slurring at the edges. “You bought our horses from Mama after Dad died. Now I can buy your horses from you.”
Bill is all smiles now, talking about how much he loves his horses. How lucky he was to have the best ranch hand in Colorado helping him out. Both of us are sold on our idea. “You agree to keep my ranch hand on for a month—no, let’s say six weeks—so I know the horses will be looked after while you find your feet, and they’re yours. Up to you whether you keep Brooks on after that.”
I nod, trying to stay sitting up straight on my stool. I scan the bar for blondie, but she’s gone. It’s an effort to keep my thoughts on the conversation.
“What do ya say?” Bill asks, sounding a little tipsy now, too. But he’s got nothing on me. Man, I’m drunk. Room spinning, everything is fuzzy and funny and who cares about football anyway? Maybe it’s the bourbon that makes me do it. Maybe it’s the memories of my dad and the hole his death left behind. Maybe it’s the need to escape the sting of failure. Whatever the reason, I raise my glass to Bill’s and pick up the contract.
“How hard can ranching be anyway?”
FOUR
DYLAN
JAKE:Dyl, wake up and get your ass downstairs.
CHASE:What happened?
JAKE:Dylan fucked up!
CHASE:What did he do?
JAKE:Get back to the ranch with Mama and see for yourself.
The banging is relentless. Loud. Invasive. Like someone’s taking a hammer to the inside of my skull. The pounding only gets louder. Where the hell is that noise coming from? How much did I drink last night?
I groan as I force my eyes open, squinting against the daylight spilling into the room. Relief trickles in when I recognize my bed, my dark gray walls, and the solid wood furniture of my room. Last night’s clothes are tossed over a chair and an empty water glass sits on the nightstand. My eyes catch on my gym bag on the floor by my weights rack, the bright whiteof my new cleats sitting on top, ready for the training camp in Arizona I’m not going to.
I’m not on the team.
My stomach churns. Last night’s bourbon and the bitterness of disappointment burn the back of my throat. I can’t think about this right now. I pull the covers over my head, cutting out the light but doing nothing to keep out the noise. Why does it sound like the entire population of Denver is outside my window?
Then come the footsteps. Light and fast, tapping on the wood staircase. A second later, my door flies open.
“Uh… Dylan?” Harper’s voice cuts through the haze. “You might want to come see this.”
I pull the cover down an inch and crack open an eye, hissing softly at the light. Harper stands in a white sundress that floats around her ankles, her expression halfway between amusement and concern. My soon-to-be sister-in-law is petite but fierce, with brown hair that always looks like it’s styled ready for a magazine cover. She’s not one to burst into my room, though, which means something is definitely wrong.
“Whatever it is,” I mutter, “it can wait.”
Harper hesitates. “It’s just… well?—”
Heavy footsteps cut her off, and a second later Jake appears. A year younger and an inch shorter than me, with the same thick, dark hair, he’s still massive as he towers over the bed. He’s already dressed for the day in jeans and a fitted gray tee that stretches across his broad chest.
