“And now?” Izzy asks, her voice soft, like she knows this isn’t an easy question.
I feel her gaze on me and the weight of what she’s asking. She wants me to tell her again that I’m all in. That I know what I want now. For a split second, I think of the coaching offer again. Then I shove it aside.I haven’t even spoken to Coach Allen about it. I’m not even sure if I want to.
“When I first got injured, I didn’t know who I was without football. I guess I’m still figuring it out,” I admit. “But yeah, I’m breathing a little easier.”
It’s not the all-in commitment Izzy wants, but it’s the truth. And from the thoughtful look on Izzy’s face as I glance her way, it’s enough. For now.
An hour north of Idaho Springs, Izzy points to a field already filling with trucks. Beyond it is a small arena lit by bright floodlights. I shake my head, huffing a laugh as it dawns on me where Izzy has brought me. Not a restaurant or a bar, but the rodeo. Of course she has.
A grin lights up my face. “I can’t believe you thought of this place. I haven’t been here for twenty years.” A pang of sadness hits my chest. The last time I was here, we were a family of five, with Dad behind the wheel of our old truck, Mama beside him, Chase squeezed in the middle between me and Jake.
“Is this OK?” she asks.
I see the sudden hesitation in her expression and throw her an easy smile. “It’s more than OK.” And it is.
“Nothing beats a local rodeo,” Izzy says as I park and kill the engine.
I turn to look at her, drinking her in—just as fucking beautiful now as when she’s hauling hay bales.
Izzy’s eyes land on mine and suddenly the air between us is elastic pulled tight.
My voice when I speak is a low rumble. “Keep looking at me like that, Brooks, and this date ain’t making it out of my truck.”
The corner of her mouth quirks, and the glint in her eye tells me she might not have a problem with that. So I grab the door and jump out before I can give in to the need hammering in my chest. A second later, I’m opening her door, holding out my hand for her to take, but she jumps down on her own. Typical.
There’s a muggy heat to the night, the promise of another summer rainstorm brewing. The air smells of grilled meats and cotton candy. The scents wrap around us as we make our way to the arena. “So do you bring all your dates to the rodeo?” I ask as we weave through the crowds.
She exhales a laugh. “If by dates you mean Mad and Flic, then yes. After Hooper, dating was the last thing on my mind for a very long time. And even if it wasn’t, apparently my prickly ‘might kill you with a pitchfork’ personality doesn’t exactly lend itself to dating. Which is fine by me,” she adds quickly. “Madison, horses, and ranching—that’s all I need.”
Something about the way she says it makes me think she’s convincing herself as much as she is me.My jaw tightens at the mention of Hooper and the pain he’s caused Mad and Izzy over the years.
“What about you?” she asks, shifting the conversation. “Where do you take your dates?”
“I don’t remember,” I say truthfully. “For a long time, I couldn’t think about anything but my injury. Before that, I was dating a fitness instructor. She was nice, but when I got injured, I couldn’t focus on anything else.”
Izzy shoots me a look. “‘Nice.’ Wow,” she says in a teasing voice. “I can’t imagine why it didn’t work out.”
“Maybe I just prefer pitchfork-wielders over nice.”The back of my hand brushes against hers, sending a bolt of energy through me that makes me want to sweep Izzy over my shoulderand straight back to my truck. I squash the caveman thought. Right now, I’d settle for slipping my fingers into hers and pulling her close, but something makes me hold back.
We join the crowds of families, couples, and groups, wearing denim and cowboy hats the same way the Stormhawks fans wear their red jerseys. The small arena sits just beyond a wide-open gravel lot, where trucks and horse trailers are lined up and men and women are hurrying as they carry saddles and equipment back and forth. Floodlights light the wooden bleachers and country music hums through the speakers, barely cutting through the lively chatter of the crowd.
We grab popcorn and sodas before finding a couple of seats about halfway up the stands. The wooden planks creak as we take our seats just in time for the tinny-voiced announcer to introduce the first event.Izzy tosses a handful of popcorn into her mouth and nods toward the program in her lap. “I prefer this to the bigger shows. You get to see the younger kids starting out. It’s great to spot the talent in the riders and the horses.”
Her face lights up as she scans the lineup and taps her finger against one of the entries in the breakaway roping event. “Kevin Anders on Hunter—that was one of the first foals I birthed. I still remember how good it felt to see him sold to the Anders family.”
Her pride is infectious and makes me think of the ranch and the future of the horses. Before I can reply, the gates below us burst open, and a bronc explodes into the arena, his powerful muscles kicking up clouds of dust as the rider fights to stay on.There’s no saddle—just eight seconds of raw power and chaos where the cowboy tries to cling on, his body jerking with every violent buck.
I feel Izzy tense beside me, her whole body leaning forward like she’s in the arena with the cowboy. Holding her breath.
Three seconds.
Four.
Five.
The crowd roars as the rider holds, but then?—
BAM.
