seven and three quarters and his ego was the size of Texas.
Grayson was the newest rock star on the rodeo scene, and reporters and fans had dubbed him “The next Holden Reed,” which neither of us appreciated. Even though I knew I wasn’t going to like what I saw, I pressed play.
“Grayson, is it true that you want Punisher’s next ride to be yours after Holden Reed’s career ending wreck?” A reporter asked from off screen.
“Hell yeah, I do! Reed was an old man that stayed in the saddle too long. He was washed up. I’m going to show—”
I closed out the screen. The last thing I needed right now was to hear that jackass’s opinion of me. I shouldn’t care what a kid that wasn’t even old enough to have a beer and had only gotten hair on his balls a few years ago had to say about me.
Still, as I sat in my truck listening to the crickets serenading me, I couldn’t help but face the facts. I’d found several grey hairs in my beard and my thirtieth birthday was just three months away. I’d never been a fan of birthdays, even when I was a kid.
When I was younger, I’d never liked the attention on me, and once I got older, I’d hated them because it had always felt like a countdown to the end of my career. There weren’t any cowboys competing at my level in their forties and fifties, and not many in their thirties.
I was contemplating the reality that I wasn’t going to be competing in my thirties when the screen on my phone lit up the darkened cabin of my truck and it vibrated with a new text message. I looked down and saw that it was from Luciana, the woman that I’d been seeing for the past two years. It wasn’t serious. We didn’t have any labels or commitment. She was a model, so she travelled a lot. I was on the road forty plus weeks a year. We enjoyed each other’s company when we saw each other and didn’t ask questions when we didn’t. It had basically been the perfect relationship. But just like my career, it was over.
She’d come to the hospital once to see me, but I’d asked her not to come back. She hadn’t. This was the first time I’d heard from her since then.
Luci: Call me. We need to talk.
That seemed to be a running theme in my life. Everyone wanted to talk. Unfortunately, talking was the last thing I wanted to do.
Which brought me back to wanting to drive out the way I came in. If I walked through the doors of the community center, I’d have to do the one thing I didn’t want to do. Talk.
I might be able to dodge people in Los Angeles. Doctors. Management. Friends. Luciana. But here, in Wishing Well, there was no avoiding anyone. Everyone knew everyone’s business.
My mind raced trying to figure out what my next move should be. I could go somewhere no one knew me. I had enough money that I didn’t need to worry about work for at least a couple of years, depending on how frugal I was.
I could find a cabin in the mountains somewhere. Away from everyone. I wouldn’t have to see the pitying looks on people’s faces. Or hear their words of encouragement. Sympathy and platitudes might help some people, but not me. I didn’t want to hear anything about riding not being who I was, or that this was going to open up a new chapter for me.
All my life, my identity had been the rodeo. From my first competition as a Little Wrangler at five years old, where I’d started off mutton busting, or riding sheep, it had been all I lived for. And now I’d never get on the back of a bull again. I may never get on the back of a horse again. The person I’d been was gone.
I wasn’t sure what all the stages of grief were, but I was pretty sure I’d been experiencing them. And I’d be damned if I wanted anyone to witness it. Coming home had been a bad idea. I needed to get out of here. I put my finger on the ignition button when something stopped me before I pushed it.
It was an angel. Or at least the closest thing to an angel on earth I’d ever seen.
Olivia Calhoun walked out of the double doors. Her long golden hair