Chapter 30 – Catalina
I’ve never seen an arena quite like this. But then again, I’ve never worked the semi-finals for North America’s most watched, most anticipated bull-riding series at the end of a long, brutal summer.
The place is packed tonight. There are bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, and every inch of the Charlotte stadium is crawling with people in denim and spurs.
The pre-show is already in full swing. Barrel racing.
Trick riding. A warm-up act that involves yodeling.
Country music’s biggest star right now, Cody Cameron, is set to take the stage in just a few minutes to perform his newest hit, “Mayday,” and the roar from the crowd is so loud it’s vibrating through the concrete.
It’s deafening and a contrast to the usual, clinical silence that I’m used to working in. And yet, I've already acclimated to it. I find myself craving the noise and raucous energy. Somedays it reminds me of working for the professional baseball team.
Tonight, I’ve barricaded myself in the small office they’ve labeled “Broken Spurs Team Doctor,” hiding behind paperwork, double checking everything to be sure that the athletes from our team who made it to the semis are ready to compete with no major injuries, updated treatment plans, and proper warmups.
I sit at the desk, flipping through folders, rereading medical notes, injury histories, and trainer assessments from this morning.
Joel’s chart. Micah’s. One of our racers who sprained her wrist at the start of the series.
Heath’s neat handwriting tracks progress, stiffness, pain thresholds, and any medication administered.
And like a magnet I don’t fight hard enough to resist, my attention drifts back to Jensen Grant’s file.
I shouldn’t linger here. I should do the bare minimum of what’s required of me professionally and ethically. But my fingers betray me, sliding the papers free from the folder anyway as if reading about him can bring me closer to him.
I flip to his series headshot, and my chest tightens like I’ve been punched there.
Soft brown eyes. Hair a little shorter than he wears it now.
Beard fuller, darker. He looks relaxed in the photo...
happy. It’s the man that I met when I first joined the series.
Not the one who looked hollow in Seattle while riding on the back of his bull or waving to the fans from the tiny screen I watched the replay on.
And not the one who stood rigid and wounded in my parents’ bathroom when I left him hanging and he told me no matter where I went, it wouldn’t be far enough.
Did I do that? Am I the reason the light's drained from him? The reason he rode like he was punishing himself, instead of chasing after something he loved?
The thought lands heavy and ugly.
Do I do this to people? Am I some sort of energy vampire? Is that why Davis cheated and left me for someone younger and brighter?
I took Dani’s advice. I’ve been focusing on the next immediate priorities.
Olivia's repeat surgery is scheduled. The pre-op notes are done.
Everything that needed my hands today has had them.
There's nothing left to prepare, nothing left to organize, no legitimate reason to still be sitting in this small, fluorescent-lit office instead of walking out that door and finding him before he gets on that bull.
I miss him. It's that simple. I owe him an apology. I know that. And I’ve been too much of a coward to do it.
He's out there right now thinking I'm still angry, and I'm not—I haven't been, not really since I got the photo from June of his hands and knew I still cared about him and probably always would.
But I haven't told Jensen that. I've been hiding behind Olivia's chart and tonight's pre-ride checklist and every professional obligation I could stack between us like furniture.
There’s a sharp knock at the door. I jump so hard my neck twinges. Papers scatter. I shove Jensen’s file back into the folder like it burned me, smoothing my hands over the desk, over myself, forcing composure into place like I wasn't just spying on the boy I have a crush on.
“Come in,” I chirp, far too brightly.
The door opens and I let out an audible gasp.
Jensen stands in the doorway like he stepped straight out of my thoughts and a country calendar.
Hat in his hands, fingers twisting the brim slowly.
His shoulders look tense beneath his jacket.
Tired. Not injured—thank God—but worn in a way that has nothing to do with his body and everything to do with emotions I wrecked.
“Jensen?” I clear my throat, slipping the professional mask back on even as my pulse stutters.
It's only been a few hours since I saw him last across the bar in Whitewood Creek, and yet it feels like too much distance. How did we go from being strangers, a man I didn't respect for continuing to ride after his surgery, to a man that I fear I might care way too much about to let go easily?
“How can I help you tonight?” I ask softly.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him with careful precision. The click echoes loud in the quiet room, sealing us away from the noise outside—the cheers, the music, the chaos.
“I needed to talk to you,” he says. “Before my ride. Please.”
I meet his eyes. He meets mine. That same unspoken current crackles between us, the one that’s always been there that says what we were doing was never just casual and we both knew it.
I gesture to the chair across from my desk, grateful for the barrier.
“Sure. Have a seat.”
He sits, and the chair immediately looks too small for him.
It takes me back to the first time he shook my hand.
The roughness in his touch. The way he’s learned how to love gently.
I've felt it when he's been inside me. It takes a lot of restraint for him to hold back with me.
And I've loved that. Because I've loved his rough. I’ve grown to appreciate it.
Frankly, I've loved all of him.
“How can I help?” I ask again, softer this time.
His gaze pins me in place but it's not angry anymore. Just sad. He swallows.
“Last night. I stood outside your sister’s house for an hour.”
My breath catches. He did? He didn't knock. I didn't know. How did he find Isla’s condo? What was he doing out there?
“I should’ve been sleeping. Should’ve been using that damn app you put on my phone to study scores, tips and stats, and prepare for tonight’s ride.” His jaw tightens. “But I just couldn’t leave you alone.”
He shakes his head.
“Fuck. I miss you.” He sighs. “Eventually I tore myself away from where I knew you were sleeping. I decided you needed space,” he continues.
“That you didn’t need me knocking, stirring shit up, making things worse.
That maybe if I gave you time, you’d realize none of what I said and did was intent on hurting you. ”
I'm quiet. I wait for him to finish.
“And then I realized,” he says quietly, “that I never properly apologized.”
He sets his hat on the desk before pushing to his feet. Then he rounds the desk, and before I can process what he's doing, he lowers himself onto one knee in front of me.
I instinctively turn my chair to face him. My fingers tighten around the armrests, gripping them like they're the only thing keeping me from reaching for him. And suddenly something shifts inside me between the racing of my heart and his warm eyes looking up at me.
I know he's not proposing. That would be ridiculous. Completely unhinged. Even for Jensen. But this is the position someone takes when they ask for forever. It's a position of vulnerability. Of surrender. Of laying your heart at someone else's feet and hoping they don’t stomp on it.
My ex-fiancé never knelt for me when he proposed. He'd stayed standing. The problem isn’t that he’d never kneeled during the proposal, it’s that he’d never bent for me at all.
And no, I don’t think kneeling is a prerequisite for love or commitment.
I don’t think proposals need traditions like asking parents for permission and exchanging rings, and I fully believe that if a woman wants to, she should be the one to propose.
But there’s something about this—the way Jensen is looking up at me like I hold something vital in my hands, his heart—that reaches somewhere deep inside me.
Somewhere aching. Somewhere I didn’t realize needed to be seen this badly.
I know now that I want a man to kneel for me when he's proposing. I don't know if that'll be Jensen, but God, I sure hope that it is.
“Catalina,” he says, his voice rough, stripped bare. Then, softer he says, “Kitty.” His eyes search my face, dark and earnest and a lot desperate. I feel the same way.
“How am I supposed to go out there and ride when my Pulse is mad at me?” His throat bobs with a swallow. “When my Pulse won't look at me the way she used to?”
I inhale softly.
“I fucked up,” he continues. “I’ve fucked up before in my life, but this—this was a bad one.
I know that. I hurt you in ways that, you’re right, I’ll never fully understand.
” His jaw tightens. “Some of it might’ve been done unconsciously.
That doesn’t excuse it. It still happened. I'll do better. I promise.”
He shakes his head once, like he hates himself for it.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Everything about his words are sincere and I know he means them. I also know he’s not the only one to blame here.
“You don’t have to forgive me today,” he goes on. “Or tomorrow. Or next week. But I need to know if there’s somewhere inside you—some part—that might forgive me in a few weeks. And that understands I'm so sorry if I ever made you feel like your experience and strength was doubted.”
His voice cracks.
“Because I’m dying here,” he admits. “And the thought of you with another man, of you going back to your ex...” He swallows hard. “Pulse, it’s killing me to think of you with anyone but me.”
His hands lift, hovering for half a second like he’s asking permission without words, and then they settle on my knees in a squeeze. The contact sends something hot and sharp through me. Like a key locking into place. I don’t pull away. I don’t tell him to back off. I melt into him again.
“I just need a chance,” he says. “Take the space you need. I’ll give it to you. But tell me you’ll try. Tell me you won’t go back to him. Tell me you remember Tennessee, Denver, and everywhere in between.” His thumbs press into the inside of my knee lightly, like he can’t help himself.
“Tell me you’ll hang on for a bit. Let the anger simmer. Let it fade. And when it does… let me know so I can come calling on you again.” His eyes lift to mine, open and pleading.
“Maybe next time,” he adds, softer, “I take you on a real date. Even if it’s this fall. Even if it’s in the wintertime.” A shaky breath. “I just need a little hope before I get on the back of a bull that wants to kill me.”
No one has ever been this honest with me, and for all the ways that I've valued honesty, bluntness and transparency in others, I never knew how it would feel to receive it like this. No one has ever spoken to me this raw, and with so much truth.
I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
His eyes brighten instantly, just a fraction—but it’s enough to feel like sunrise. “Yes, to all that?”
I nod again. “I’m not going back to my ex. I was never going to. I didn’t go on the date with June either. I’m sorry for making you believe that. It was… it was cruel.”
He waits for me to finish. I take another deep breath.
“I know I can forgive you, Jensen, because I already have. I know you’re telling the truth.” I exhale slowly. “I just need a little more time. I need to focus on the upcoming surgery. I need to...”
I need to be okay with myself first before I'm okay with letting someone else love me again. Because if I’m not, I know I’ll repeat this pattern and I’ll be the one to hurt Jensen first next time.
His shoulders drop, relief softening him. He accepts it. He spreads his hand wide on my knee—the one painted red, just like mine was—and leans forward, pressing a kiss to the inside there gratefully. Then he looks up at me.
His hand lifts to my chin, his thumb rough as it brushes along my jaw, tilting my face toward his. We’re close enough that I can feel his breath. Close enough that I ache for him all over.
I want him to kiss me. God, I really want that. But I know it isn’t fair to want that from him. I need to fix my own shit. I need to be a woman deserving of him first.
He must see that in my eyes because he doesn’t lean in. Instead, he smiles softly.
“Okay.”
He stands, takes his hat from the desk, and turns toward the door. He pauses in the doorway. Looks back over his shoulder. And there it is—that blinding, goofy, knowing grin. The same one from the first night we ended up naked together in his Denver hotel room.
"Jensen." I hesitate, stopping him before he can leave. "It wasn’t all your fault. You were right. The punishment didn’t fit the crime.”
His brows lift a little.
“Some… or maybe a lot of my reaction was about me. And my own insecurities. I’m sorry, too."
He nods and doesn't press. Doesn't ask for any more of the details. He just takes it.
“I knew I had a good feeling about you,” he says with a cautious smile. “Good luck with the surgery in San Jose. You’re gonna make that girl feel brand new.”
Then he settles his hat back on his head and walks out for his ride. Another eight seconds of a bull trying to take his life. Another eight seconds where I’ll stand on the sidelines, worrying the entire time because I don’t want to lose him.
I stay in my office for a beat longer, breathless, realizing I might never agree with his decision to keep riding, but I'll take the eighty years I hope I get with him in the meantime... even if it means he keeps his eight seconds.