Homebound

11. I Work Out

11

I WORK OUT

DAKOTA

“ G oddammit!” I spit out the dirt in my mouth, looking up to see the guys wrangling Maverick, the bull, back into the training chute. It’s hotter than hell out and these leather chaps are soaking up all the sweat.

That beast knocked me off good—the bastard.

Three seconds.

I smack my palms into the dirt. I can’t believe I barely lasted three seconds, and that was on an easier animal. It doesn’t matter who you are, it’s tough to stay on for all eight seconds, but if I can’t stay on, I won’t even score.

A bull rider’s score depends on the skill of the rider and aggressiveness of the bull, so if I want any shot of making it on the Austin Rattlers Pbr team, I need to start scoring higher on some meaner animals.

“Dakota!”

I’d recognize Patterson’s voice anywhere, but I don’t dare turn to look, not with all the other bull riders’ prying eyes on me. They’re good guys, but they like to give me shit for anything and everything.

But I toss that shit right back. Well, to the best of my abilities. I’ve never been all that quick with a comeback.

Beneath the thick, vibrant sunlight, Wyatt rushes toward me with a few loose strands of dirty-blond hair curling in his eyes. He skids to a stop in the training arena, kicking up dirt around us, and seems to scan my entire body for injuries.

“Hey. Are you okay? You good?” he says.

The words tumble from his lips in a rush, making my jaw tense. I can’t have him hovering over me in front of all the other bull riders, making me look like some damsel, even if my hands are shaking violently from that fall.

“I’m fine,” I grit out, keeping my words blunt so he can’t hear the tremble in my voice, but I think he might anyway. “What’re you doing in our training pen?”

“You sure? That looked like a bad fall.” He offers a helping hand to lift me up, but I shove off the dirt myself, dusting off my leather chaps.

I cross my arms to hide my trembling hands. “I’m fine. I’m used to falling on my ass. What’re you doing here?”

He rubs the back of his neck, and the move is so familiar, so tender, it has me wanting to tone down the sharpness in my words. Wyatt Patterson isn’t the type of man you can lash out at because he never bites back.

“I was working out at Colt’s Place, saw you fall, and just wanted to come check you out.” His green eyes pop. “I mean check on you. Not check you out.” He coughs, going red, and that makes me grin a bit.

Awkward Wyatt is too cute.

It reminds me of how he was as a kid.

“You sure you’re okay?” he tacks on.

The other riders holler from the fence, twirling their hats. I can’t have them thinking less of me. These boys will have the rumor mill churning in no time, so I step out of his grasp. “I’m all good. You can get back to your workout. ”

He must hear something in my voice because he squeezes my shoulder with his calloused hand, and I’m vaguely aware of how much rougher it feels after all the years of hockey. “Hey, you did good out there. That bull was tough, but you’ll get the next one.”

He probably means for those words to be encouraging, but it comes off slightly patronizing. At least, that’s how I take it because I know that ride was a shit show.

“Hey, Kodie!” one of the bull riders, Tyler, shouts, wiggling his dark brows. “You want to introduce us to your newest friend over there?”

“You gonna wreck him like Bowman?” Someone else whoops.

“Y’all mind your own business, or I’ll wreck you!” I call over my shoulder, ripping myself away from Wyatt’s firm grasp.

I wish I had a better comeback other than I’ll wreck you , but I always think of the best ones a week later in the shower.

A few of the riders whistle at us, but I know they’re only messing around. Bull riders are a tight-knit group. We’ve got to have each other’s backs in this dangerous world, and we’re all friends— only friends. I made that mistake once with Boone, and learned my lesson the hard way not to fuck where I shit.

Nasty visual, but it gets the point across.

Wyatt’s eyes narrow on the guys. He opens his mouth like he’s about to tell them off in my defense, but I instinctively press the tip of my index finger to his lips. “Don’t do that.”

The move startles him. “Do what?” His warm lips brush my fingers when he speaks, and I jolt back, startled by the zap of heat on my skin.

That’s never happened before.

“Don’t defend me or whatever you were about to do. I don’t need it. I can handle myself.” I lower my voice right along with my hand, flexing out the fiery imprint his lips left behind. “Not to mention, it makes me look bad in front of all the guys, so I need you to stop. ”

“Talking to you makes you look bad?” His brows pinch. “How?”

“No. Not that. You coming to my rescue makes me look bad.” I flick a hand to the cowboys dangling their boots off the fence. “Would you have rushed over to any of them if they fell off the bull?”

His mouth tightens. “No. Of course not, but they’re not you.”

“Right. That’s my point.” I poke his chest. Damn, that’s solid. “I need you to treat me like everyone else.”

His eyes bore into mine, unyielding. “I could never treat you like everyone else.”

“Well, you better start tryin’, sugar.”

A muscle twitches in his cheek, betraying his calm exterior, but before he can add anything, someone booms my name.

“Get your ass over here, darlin’!”

I jerk my head to my father’s raspy drawl. He’s got a scowl under the brim of his black hat, which means I’m about to get a lecture, but I always appreciate his advice. With one last stern look at Wyatt, I spin on my boots and stalk off past the bull riders perched on the ledge of the fence. They all start whooping as I strut past.

“Maverick almost got ya, Kodie!”

“I was on the edge of my seat watching that one!”

“You a little sore there, girl? You sure you can handle another ride?”

They’re fooling around, so I breeze right by them. “I can always handle another ride, boys!”

Anytime someone tells me I can’t do something, all it does is make me want to prove them wrong, and prove them wrong I will. Though, I bet I’ll think of a much better comeback while I’m loofah-ing myself tonight.

The bull riders continue hollering playful jabs, but at least they don’t placate me with meaningless encouragement. I’d rather have someone be blunt but honest than lie to me just to be nice. I can’t stand when people give me empty praise like You can do this! when really, it’s me who’s going to have to get on the back of the bull.

Not them.

I stop in front of my father, bracing myself for his blunt critique. He looks me over with those deep-brown eyes that shine as intense as mine. “You know I’ll always give it to you straight, darlin’, that wasn’t good. You know it. I know it. And now, let’s talk about how we can fix it.”

My dad’s got this way of calling me out without beating me down, and it’s one of the reasons I strive to be just like him, and I want to make him proud. “I know. What do I need to do?”

He uses both hands to squeeze my shoulders and then shakes me lightly. “For starters, you still need to loosen up. You’re too tight. You should go out dancing. What happened to that? You used to love two-stepping at The General.”

Patterson was always my two-step partner, but I stopped dancing when he left because all it did was make me miss my summer boy, which made me depressed, which had me spiraling. “No. I don’t dance anymore.”

“That’s a shame. You always knew your way around a dance floor.” He nudges my shoulder with a wink. “You got that from me.”

“Why couldn’t I have gotten my grip strength from you too?” I mutter, wanting to steer this conversation away from memories of Wyatt. Memories of us laughing, stumbling around a creaky wooden dance floor in high school, with him drunk off one wine cooler because I corrupted him early. “I can’t even manage to hold onto the fucking rope on some of these meaner bulls, Pops.”

“Hey, now.” He thumps my back. “All you need to do is get back in the gym. You’ve been muckin’ around for the past couple of months since you ended things with Boone, and I let it slide because calling that off was a big decision, but enough is enough.”

“I haven’t— ”

My dad silences me with a sharp look. “You know you’ve been slacking, so don’t you dare fight me on that. You’ve lost some of your muscle definition. Yeah, you need to be lean, but you need muscle to stay on the bull. You’ve got to put on some weight.”

“I do have muscle.” I clench my fists.

“Now, darlin’,” my dad drawls, eyeing me under the brim of his hat. “I’m not saying that to piss you off, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re gonna have to work your ass off to compete in the big leagues. The cards aren’t stacked in your favor, but hell, that’s life. Fuck the damn cards. Every hand can be a winner if you play your cards right.”

My dad’s a Texas Hold’em king and could bluff his way out of jail. Don’t even think of leaving him at a blackjack table.

“Alright, what do I need to do, Pops?”

“You need someone to train you. Hold you accountable.” He nods to the bull riders perched on the fence, their boots swinging and hats tipped low. “Hit the gym with one of them fellows over there. You’ve got to work out with someone stronger to get stronger.”

The other bull riders are good, solid gentlemen, but as much as I hate to admit it, they’re also my competition. I live in a world where I can see all their stats on the scoreboard. I don’t want to spend more time with them because then I’ll end up comparing myself, and I hate comparing myself. It’s a vicious never-ending cycle that always ends with me feeling shitty.

Sometimes, I wish I were softer, content with what I have in life like Wyatt, but I’m not, and I blame society for drilling this ambition, the need for positive affirmation, into me as a kid.

Teachers in school always tell you to go go go and do more more more to be successful in life, and then they praise you when you do something right, but I don’t want to be the type of person who relies on someone else’s praise to succeed. Perpetual ambition is overrated. All it does is make me run like a hamster on a wheel. The happiest moments in my life are the slowest, the simplest.

Sipping coffee in the morning with my dad.

Calling my mom on Sunday night walks.

Strolling farmers markets with Lana.

But I can’t turn off this inherent drive to succeed that pushes me to want to be the best, and if I train with those cowboys, I’ll get jealous of the fact that they can lift more, do more, be more, without putting in the same effort as me. All because they have a Y chromosome that allows them to build muscles easier.

I dig my boot into the dirt, glancing out over the rolling hills. “Can’t you train me, Pops?”

He taps the brim of my hat. “Oh, darlin’, I love you more than life itself, but we spend enough time together during our skills sessions. You’re better off finding someone your own age. At least in the gym, but I’ll give you all the pointers you need out here in the arena.”

“Who else is there?” I grumble.

A throat clears, and without turning around, I know exactly who’s standing behind me. “I work out, so I can train with you.”