Chapter 5 – Catalina
“This is fucking bullshit!”
Jensen’s loud, too deep, mildly chaotic voice ricochets through the training room at the Denver stadium, bouncing off the walls like an irritated bull looking for a fight to pick.
If I have my way, he won't get to know what that’s like tonight.
I was waiting for this. I knew he’d lose it when he saw the roster for tonight's ride and the promotional material that I had Noa update. But what I didn’t realize was he’d throw a full tantrum in front of enough witnesses to make it impossible to ignore.
The guy seems stable enough in every other area of life, but something about bull-riding flips some deranged switch in him.
The man could break his spine in half and still scream he’s “fine” and ready to get back on a bull.
And at this rate, he just might. Which is exactly why I had to step in and stop it. I had to save him from himself.
The door to the training room slams open, smacking the wall behind it so hard a bit of plaster falls to the floor. His eyes scan the room like a guided missile until they find me and lock in on their target.
“You,” he points at me before he stalks toward me. "Doc." He spits the term out like it's an insult.
I don’t even look up. I stay focused on my assessment of Micah's leg, ignoring him completely. If he wants to talk about my clinical decision, he’s going to need to lower his voice and drop the emotion.
“Doc!” he barks again, this time he's right next to me. I can practically feel the heat from his breath touching my cheek.
“Jensen... watch it,” I hear Heath, one of my physical therapist’s voice come out in a warning. I don’t need him to defend me, but it’s nice to have some witnesses.
I turn slowly, giving Jensen the calmest, iciest look in my arsenal that I've perfected from years of working side by side men who lacked boundaries and manners.
“That’s not my name,” I say calmly.
“Doctor Alba,” he grits out, like the title offends him on a spiritual level.
I smile sweetly. “How can I help you today, Mr. Grant?”
He glares at me. “A word. In Craig’s office.”
Oh, so he wants to go cry to daddy. Cute.
“Sure,” I say lightly. “I’m going to finish with this examination, then we can talk.”
I press on a few more spots along Micah’s calf, checking for tenderness. Micah looks between me and Jensen like he's sensing the obvious tension that doesn't make sense and knows I'm stalling for time.
I don't really care.
Normally I’d let one of the trainers handle this part of Micah’s assessment, but I knew Jensen would throw a fit once he saw the lineup, and I didn’t want him cornering me alone when he did. No way was I going to let him use all that big-man energy to try to change my mind.
Big hands. Big thighs. Stupidly broad shoulders. Things I unfortunately—and against my will—haven’t been able to stop noticing about him since he walked back into my life. He’s just so… big. It's almost comical how large he is.
Big with no sense. My greatest weakness that I never knew I had.
“All good,” I say, releasing Micah and stepping back from the table. I flex my fingers, trying to bring the blood back to them, when really, I'm thinking about when I can wash them next. How long has it been since I've sanitized them? Probably an hour. A new record that makes my skin itch.
“Have a nice ride tonight. Good luck.”
Touching people still makes my skin crawl.
I avoid it whenever I can. It's not about germs or viruses like you'd think.
It's the personalness of touching. The only contact that ever felt natural was inside a person—after you peel back skin, bone, muscle, and actually fix something.
Being a surgeon has always made sense. You're touching with a purpose.
You're touching organs, not people. There’s a difference.
This job feels like I’m constantly trespassing on strangers’ bodies. Breaking barriers that they didn't consent to. Thank God for Whitewood Creek and the community hospital—it forced me to relearn residency-level tolerance for people and physical contact before switching to the Iron Horn Series.
Because athletes? Ugh. They’re always sweaty, sticky, radiating heat like human furnaces. Bumping into each other in gestures that seem playful while trading sweat and disease.
Disgusting and way too comfortable seeing each other naked. I could go on, but you get the point. Athletes and touching go hand in hand.
“Thanks, Doctor Alba,” Micah says sweetly like he's figured out that might piss off his teammate.
I swear Jensen snarls at him.
I don’t wait for him to follow me. I turn and walk right out of the training room in the direction of Craig’s office for tonight’s big event.
Denver’s arena is cold and echoey, nothing like the warmth that we left behind in Austin.
Not only can I hear Jensen stomping behind me, but I can also feel him.
His steps are heavier, angrier, his stare drilling into my back like I didn't save his life just a few months ago.
Whatever.
This morning’s flight had been painfully early. Everyone on the plane had dozed off, the cabin practically silent as we crossed state lines. I was wide awake. Performing surgeries in my head and counting down the minutes until we landed.
I was excited to visit Colorado for the first time, yes, but my body also wakes at five sharp, no stimulants required.
It's always been that way. Coffee tastes like trash and energy drinks make my hands jittery.
Something I can't afford. Besides, I don’t get to travel often.
In fact, I haven't traveled in years. So, flying over the mountain ranges was nice. Something I didn’t know I was missing out on when I was working myself to the bone in California.
One of the few perks of this new job is the travel.
I knock once on Craig's door and push it open without waiting for an answer, because I already know what I'm walking into and the sooner we get there, the sooner I can leave.
Craig looks up from his desk. Jensen's already filling half the room with whatever is happening in his body right now—jaw tight, shoulders rigid, radiating the energy of a man who's been told no and has never heard that before.
Unfortunately for me, Rory Jones is in his office.
The North American Bull Riding Associations Public Relations rep.
“Oh, Doctor Alba. Great. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. You’ve benched Jensen for tonight’s ride. Why?” Craig says.
Ah. We’re getting straight to the point.
“THANK YOU!” Jensen bellows beside me, loudly enough that I’m surprised the glass doesn’t crack. His arms are spread wide, brows pinched together in frustration, and that's when I notice just how big his wingspan is.
Did I mention he's a big guy?
I fold my hands behind my back while keeping a cool and professional tone. “I benched him because as the series doctor, I know that he’s not in physical condition to ride tonight. He needs rest and therapy before he gets back on a bull.”
“This is because she did my fucking surgery,” Jensen snaps, spreading his arms even wider. This guy missed his calling in basketball or football. I bet he’s got a great arm on him. “This is a conflict of interest!” he bellows.
I inhale, slow and controlled, because I refuse to dignify that idiocy by reacting emotionally.
“Jensen, Let’s hear her out,” Rory says softly.
I clear my throat, hoping I have at least one person on my side.
“Contrary to Jensen’s belief about our history as patient and doctor, that’s not why he’s benched.
His shoulder is weak. I reviewed the last scans he had done.
He needs rest and another round of physical therapy.
If he rides tonight, he risks serious injury and potentially getting pulled from the entire series.
He also risks needing surgery on an injury that's completely healable if he just takes some time off. This isn’t forever.
It’s a temporary solution to get one of your athletes the clinical support that he needs. ”
Jensen blinks at me. I blink back; expression carved from years of stone.
“You took something I told you in confidence after hours,” he says, voice low, wounded in a way he clearly doesn’t want Craig or Rory to notice. “If I hadn’t told you about my old shoulder injury, you would have never known. And now you’re holding it against me.”
“No, I took what your last doctor documented and made a clinical decision.
He documented the shoulder injury but buried it under enough paperwork that I couldn't find it at first. Once I knew what I was looking for, I read his notes, got the old scans, and my decision is supported by that documentation.”
Craig sighs, rubbing his temples before sinking back into his chair like he’s already over this conversation. “Doctor Alba. He’s riding.”
“Craig. It sounds like there’s a real risk here. We have to think about media coverage and his sponsors too,” Rory interjects.
“Don’t care,” he says simply.
I turn toward them slowly, glare sharp enough to cut through bone. Usually, I can pretend indifference. Usually, I can let men bluster and puff up their chests without it touching my nervous system. But this? This digs under my ribs.
What the hell am I even doing here if my expertise, the thing I bled, cried, and nearly broke myself to earn, means absolutely nothing? I look at Rory, pleading with my eyes for help. She’s shaking her head, looking down at her laptop like she’s given up the fight already.
“With all due respect, sir,” I grit out, each word squeezed between my teeth, heat crawling up my neck like a warning flare I can’t extinguish. Because I don't respect him. At all.
Don’t care. Don’t care.
They’re all bodies.
Flesh and blood.
Don’t care.
I'm starting to realize athletes care even less about their bodies than regular people do. But I took an oath, a vow. And I don’t take oaths and vows lightly.
“His shoulder is at major risk of tearing further. If he mounts a bull tonight, he could need surgery on it quicker than the completion of the series. Do you want your star rider out for the rest of the event?”
“Don’t care.” Craig says again and waves it off like we’re talking about a paper cut and not a muscular tear. Jensen’s in his thirties now. A bad enough injury could mean forced retirement. This isn’t something he should be brushing off.
“Everyone’s here to see him tonight. Denver's crowd is sold out. If he goes down a notch on the ranks, he'll make it up in a later ride. We're almost to the break; he can rest then.”
Rory presses her lips into a thin line but says nothing.
“Jensen, you good?” Craig asks.
“Right as rain, sir,” Jensen answers his voice chipper and smooth. A contrast to how he was minutes ago.
“See? He’s good. He’ll be fine. Don’t fuck it up tonight, Jensen.”
I can’t stand taking another breath in this room.
“Great. I’ll sign off on it then.” The words come out of my mouth clipped, practically spat from my lips. I turn sharply and walk out of his office before my temper detonates, and I show something more than I already have.
I’m halfway down the hallway, straight to the cramped office the arena gave me as lead doctor tonight, when I hear his footsteps heavy and close behind me. I swear he's wearing boots with rocks in them.
“Doctor Alba! Wait!”
I don’t stop. I walk faster. But he’s taller, bigger, and his hand ends up on my hip, stopping me in my tracks.
My skin bristles and my body locks up. Last night at the bar there'd been warmth when he touched my knee—something that melted, that I've since decided was entirely the wine.
Now there's nothing but icicles and steel.
“Don’t touch me.” The words tear out of me, sharp and cold. My whole body goes rigid. “I don’t like to be touched.”
He removes his hand immediately from my hip. His eyes search my face like he’s confirming whether I’m serious.
“I’m sorry—whoa—sorry.” Both palms lift in surrender.
“Why do you think it’s okay to touch people who don’t give you permission?” My voice rises. “You walk around touching everyone, all the time, like the rules of what’s socially acceptable don’t apply to you!”
His eyes widen, and for once he looks rattled. “You’re right. You’re right. I’m sorry. I was trying to stop you so we could talk.”
“Well, don’t. If I'm moving away from you, don't try to stop me, and don’t touch me!”
“Got it.” He takes another step backward, hands raised.
“You’re right. I apologize. And I apologize for touching you.
I'd like to blame it on being from the South where we're affectionate to strangers, hug everyone, and give cheek kisses, but that would be an excuse. I shouldn't have done that. You didn’t give me permission. I'm sorry. Really. It won’t happen again.”
I inhale through my nose, hands pressed together at my sternum, grounding myself in the warmth of my own touch. He apologized faster than I thought he would. My body finally loosens but it's still too tight. I need to get out of here and away from him.
“Look,” he says quietly, almost cautious. His hands are still in the air like I've got a gun and I’m going to shoot.
“Please put your hands down,” I say.
He lowers them slowly. “I wanted to tell you… my shoulder’s fine. False alarm. You don't need to worry about it.” He rolls his arm like he’s trying to prove something to me.
“Your shoulder’s not fine.” My voice is flat and clinical. “And we both know it now. But do whatever you want. Clearly, my decade of experience means nothing here.”
“Hold on. That’s not the case.”
I hold up a hand, stopping him. “I don’t need flattery from you. I know what I am. I understand my skills and experience.” I take a step back, then another, just to feel the space open between us. That’s better. I can breathe now.
“In fact, I need nothing from you. You’re just like every other man in this world—you think you know better, think you’re invincible, until one day you're not.”
His jaw clenches, but he stays silent. Finally, he chooses the right response.
“I wasn’t blocking you from riding tonight because of your heart.” I repeat that part again so that he hears it this time. “But soon you’ll realize I was right about both it and your shoulder. And then it’ll be too late for me to help you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Don’t say I didn’t try.”
I turn and walk away, picking up speed with each step even as my pulse hammers at the base of my neck.
Don’t care.
They’re just bodies. Flesh and blood.
Don’t care.
Don’t care.
But my usually steady, calm hands won't stop shaking.