“I’m just making conversation, Starlin’.”
“No, you’re being nosy.” I shifted in my seat to face him. “If you want to make conversation, we can talk about the podcast.”
That wiped the smirk right off his face. “What podcast?”
“Western Grit. They cover the circuit. They reached out and asked for you.”
“No,” he said flatly.
“You haven’t even heard the pitch.”
“Don’t need to.”
I waited. A mile of fence posts rolled by. His jaw was tight, eyes locked on the road.
“They want you on before Cheyenne,” I said. “The host is a former roper. I’d prep you, you’d have final say on everything, and I’d be there the whole time.”
“Why should I?”
“Because the statement video worked. Engagement is up, and the sponsors have calmed down, but that only buys you so much time. People need to hear you talk like a real person.”
“I’m not good at that.”
“At talking like a person?”
“At talking to strangers.”
“You’ve been talking to me for a week.”
“You’re not a stranger.” He said it fast, almost like it slipped out, then his jaw tightened. “You’re a pain in the ass. Different category.”
“Danny Ventura is the host. He usually asks about how you’re feeling going into big events, what the circuit’s been like lately. Stuff like that. It’s only thirty minutes.”
“And if he brings up the bar fight?”
“We pivot to your season. You just have to sit there and be yourself.” I paused. “Preferably the version that doesn’t tell the host to go to hell.”
He didn’t say anything else, just kept driving. The radio crackled through another burst of static while I let the silence stretch. I'd learned by now that pushing Brock too hard never worked; you had to give him room to come to you halfway.
“You really like being in charge, don’t you?”
“I like doing my job,” I replied.
“No.” He glanced over at me. “You like telling a man what to do and watching him do it.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. The truck suddenly felt ten degrees hotter. He just kept driving, that grin back on his face.
“You know,” I said, “that mouth of yours gets a lot of use for a guy who claims he doesn’t like talking.”
“I like using it just fine… when it’s worth it.”
I turned and stared out the window, refusing to look at him. The road stretched out ahead while the radio static finally turnedinto a song I didn’t know. For about thirty seconds, neither of us said a word.
“I’ll do the podcast,” he said.
I turned back quickly. “Really?”
“Someone’s gotta keep me from telling the host to go to hell.” He shrugged. “Might as well be you.”
