Page 9

The booth bench groans as it takes on another two hundred pounds of trouble. I don't have to look up to know it's Chace. I slide toward the wall, but he doesn't leave me much room to maneuver before I'm pinned against the wood. He settles in, his arm dropping across the back of the vinyl behind my head like he owns the joint. He doesn't care that our jeans are nearly touching. He never does.

He thumps two sweating bottles onto the table and slides one toward me. He's crowding me—deliberately. That's Chace in a nutshell: he takes up every bit of oxygen in a room and expects you to thank him for the privilege of breathing what's left. Some people have to learn to be confident. Chace was born with a surplus.

I stare at the beer.

"Thanks," I mutter. Then I turn my attention back to Hazel, trying not to think about the half an inch of space between Chace’s thigh and mine.

"No sponsorship means no circuit run," I say. "Even after qualifying today. I might make Billings next week, but that's probably it."

Nobody argues with me. They know the cost. They've heard me do the math out loud enough times that they can run it themselves by now — entry fees, fuel, the trailer, Dusty's feed care on the road. It adds up fast.

I've been working toward this circuit run for basically my entire twenty-three years on this earth. They know that too.

"Okay, but can we just appreciate," Shae says, leaning forward, "that you looked Cole Maddox dead in the face and told him to go to hell? Because that was genuinely the highlight of my entire day. My entire week."

"She didn't say go to hell," Eli corrects.

"The implication was there." Shae points at him. "That man has had it coming since high school, and after what he pulled with Hazel and the ranch last year—" She shakes her head. "Someone is going to put Cole Maddox in his place one of these days, and I want a front row seat."

"Interesting take," Chace says, "from someone who knows what his tongue tastes like."

Shae's mouth drops open. “That was ONE TIME! In high school, I might add!”

The fork leaves her hand before any of us process that it's happened, and flies straight towards Chace.

He catches it — barely — and even then it clatters off his palm and hits the floor. I laugh. I can't help it; it just comes out.

"Why," Chace says, bending to pick the fork up. "Is everyone always trying to impale me?"

"You deserve it," Shae says sweetly.

"Every single time," I agree.

A girl in cutoff shorts and a crop top saunters past the booth, boot heels clicking on the scuffed floor, and I watch Chace’s gaze track her with a practiced, casual ease. It’s so automatic it’s almost insulting—like he can't help himself. I look back at the table, my jaw tightening, and deliberately force my focus to the conversation at hand.

"Anyway." I wrap both hands around my beer. "Truck camper's loaded. I'll head out Monday morning for Billings. After that—" I shrug. "Maybe next year."

The words just sit there while everyone remains silent. Maybe next year is the saddest sentence in the English language when you've been saying it for three years running.

Suddenly, Eli is looking at Hazel, and she’s staring into her drink as if it might give her the courage to find the right words. I glance at Shae, who has suddenly become fascinated by the label on her beer bottle.

And Chace? Chace is still draped across the back of the booth, his arm stretched out, his beer dangling loosely from his fingers. He’s wearing a smirk that says he’s waiting for a bomb to drop and is actively excited to watch the show. He knows exactly where this conversation is headed, and he’s clearly savoring the anticipation.

A shift ripples through the table—one I didn’t pick up on until now—a sudden, synchronized stillness that tells me they all know something I don’t.

“Eli and I have been talking,” Hazel says, her eyes finally lifting to meet mine. “About the circuit. And about Clark Ranch.”

She pauses. I wait, holding my breath until she gets to the point.

“Things are better this year. Meaningfully better. The training program is gaining traction, and we’ve picked up several high-profile boarding clients.” Hazel’s voice is steady, professional. “Having a Clark Ranch athlete on the circuit this summer would be great visibility for us. The kind you can’t buy with social media posts.”

When Hazel moved back home last summer, she was greeted by a failing legacy. She and Eli have been clawing their way back to relevance ever since, working to restore the training program to the icon it used to be.

“What are you suggesting?” I ask, keeping my voice level. I don’t want to get my hopes up. Hope is dangerous when you’re already broke.

“We want to sponsor you,” Hazel says. “Entry fees, fuel, a modest horse-care budget. It won’t be comfortable. It’ll be shoestring, and you’ll still have to figure out your own food and lodging—but you have the camper.”

I look at my brother, then at Hazel, my chest tightening. “Clark Ranch? Are you sure you can afford this? I know how much you’ve been pinching pennies to get the program off the ground. I don’t want you to suffer for my dreams.”