Chapter Five
Dusty
I was guiding the afternoon yoga class through a gentle hip opener sequence when the studio door opened.
Eight guests were spread across their mats, breathing finally steady after we'd worked through various tensions—the crushing weight of public personas, bitter betrayals in the boardroom, the specific kind of exhaustion that came from having everything and feeling nothing.
The usual knots that brought these men to The Ranch.
Vincent appeared in the doorway with Kaiden, another staff member, beside him. His expression was perfectly composed, but something in his eyes caught my attention. He gave me a nod toward the door.
“Gentlemen,” Vincent said to the class, his voice carrying that warm authority that made everyone feel taken care of, “Kaiden is going to guide you through the last portion of today's session. He's an excellent mentor and a vibrant spirit here at The Ranch.”
Kaiden stepped forward, standing tall at 6'2” with his chubby frame reflecting approachability.
His dark hair, styled in a slick pompadour, added a retro flair that complemented his animated personality.
He flashed his infectious smile, deep brown eyes radiating warmth, making everyone feel instantly at ease.
“We'll finish with some gentle twists and a longer meditation today,” he said, his voice bright and playful.
“Just continue breathing as Dusty taught you, and let your worries float away!” He gestured expressively, guiding the class with an easy charm that lifted their spirits.
I caught Vincent's eye and saw the tension in his jaw.
Whatever this was about, it was serious.
In seven years of working at The Ranch, I'd never seen him interrupt a session unless it was urgent.
The last time had been when a guest had a heart episode in the sauna.
Vincent had handled that with the same calm efficiency I saw now, though I could read the concern beneath his professional mask.
“Thank you all for a beautiful practice today,” I said to the class, grabbing my water bottle and towel. “Kaiden will take excellent care of you for the final sequence.”
The transition was seamless—Vincent had made sure of that. But as soon as we were out of the studio and the door closed behind us, Vincent's composed facade shifted.
“It's Cord,” he said as we walked quickly across the courtyard toward the medical wing. The October sun was warm on our backs, but his words sent a chill through me. “Dr. Hart called me twenty minutes ago. He's having some kind of crisis, and threatening to leave.”
I hadn't seen Cord since our session two nights ago—he'd texted yesterday to cancel, saying his shoulder was flaring up and he needed rest. I'd offered to come by, but he'd insisted he just needed to sleep it off.
Later that evening, Ramon mentioned seeing Cord heading into the Dark Room, one of the Ranch's spaces for anonymous hookups.
I'd figured that meant he was feeling better, more confident in his body again.
That's what this place was for, after all: sexual exploration without judgment.
My stomach dropped. “What happened?”
We found Dr. Hart in the hallway of the medical clinic, his calm demeanor frayed around the edges.
“He's asking for you specifically,” Hart said, and I could hear the concern threading through his professional tone.
“What happened?”
“He ran out of his pain medication. Came here demanding more, but I can't just prescribe Schedule II narcotics without proper documentation. He needs to contact his primary physician.” Hart ran a hand through his graying hair, a gesture I'd rarely seen from him.
“The thing is, his shoulder pain seems manageable.
It's the anxiety about not having the pills that's the actual issue. Classic dependency behavior.”
Through the examination room door, I could hear Cord's voice, sharp with desperation. The sound made something twist in my chest.
“He's threatening to leave?”
“Says if he can't get what he needs here, he'll go somewhere that can help him.” Hart's expression was grim. “Vincent thought you might talk him down since you've been working with him.”
I knew what “somewhere that can help him” meant. Back to Denver, back to doctors who might not ask the right questions. Back to the spiral that brought him here in the first place. The image of Cord alone in some sterile apartment, medicating himself into numbness, made my hands clench.
I took a deep breath, trying to center myself the way I taught others.
“I'll talk to him,” I said, though part of me wondered what the hell I was supposed to say.
I was good with bodies and breath, with helping people find peace through movement.
But this? This was different. This was Cord, and the thought of failing him made my chest hurt.
Vincent put a hand on my shoulder, warm and grounding. “Just be yourself, Dusty. You've connected with him in ways none of us have managed.”
I pushed through the examination room door and found Cord pacing like a caged mountain cat.
The late afternoon light slanted through the blinds, casting bars of shadow across his face.
His good hand clutched his phone so tight his knuckles were white, and energy radiated off him in waves.
Not withdrawal, but pure anxiety. He looked younger somehow, like the weight of everything was crushing him.
“Cord.”
He spun toward me, and for a moment, his mask dropped. Relief flashed across his face, raw and desperate, before embarrassment took over. “You didn't need to come. This is just a medication issue.”
“Like hell it is.” I closed the door, creating a barrier between us and the hallway. The click of the latch felt final. “When did you take your last dose?”
“Last night.” He licked his lips, eyes frantic though he tried to speak calmly.
“I thought I'd packed my refill before I left Denver, but I didn't. It's not here.” He wouldn't meet my eyes, the way his jaw clenched like he was holding words back.
“Look, I just need enough to get through the weekend until I can call my doctor on Monday.”
“It's Tuesday, Cord.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. I watched his shoulders sag, saw the moment his defenses crumbled. For a heartbeat, I saw past the athlete's armor to the frightened man underneath—lost, hurting, and alone.
“When we talked, you agreed to cut down on these, remember?” I'd told him to call me instead, like I was some miracle worker whose dick could get him through the tough times.
Silence stretched between us. I could map the tension in his body, the way his weight shifted from foot to foot, how his good hand clenched and unclenched, the micro-expressions that flickered across his face like he was having an entire argument with himself.
Outside, I could hear the distant laughter of guests enjoying afternoon activities.
The Ranch continued its rhythm while we stood frozen in this moment.
“I need them,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. Each word seemed to cost him something. “Not because the pain is unbearable, but because when I don't have them, all I can think about is everything that's falling apart. The pills make it... quieter. In my head.”
The raw honesty of it took my breath away. This wasn't about physical pain. This was about silencing the voice that told him he was worthless without football, that coming out had ruined everything, that he'd never be whole again.
“You're more present without them,” I said, taking a step closer. “And I've seen how strong you are when you let yourself feel things. The medication doesn't fix anything. It just delays having to feel it.”
His laugh was bitter. “So what, you think I should just face all of this stone-cold sober? Deal with the fact that my career might be over, that I came out for nothing, that I might have thrown away everything I worked for?”
“I think you're scared.” I stepped closer, close enough to see the way his pupils were dilated, the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “And I think you're using pain as an excuse to avoid dealing with what really hurts.”
“Don't.” His voice turned sharp, defensive. “Don't psychoanalyze me. I came here to fuck, not for an intervention.”
“Then why are you panicking about leaving?”
The question hung between us. His breathing was getting shallow, rapid. I recognized the signs from years of watching people's bodies betray their calm facades. His chest was rising and falling too quickly, and I could see the panic building in his eyes.
“Because...” He stopped, swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was small and lost. “Because I don't know how to be anywhere else right now.”
There it was. The truth, raw as an open wound. He wasn't just afraid of the pain. He was afraid of facing who he was without football, without the identity he'd built his entire life around.
“Sit down,” I told him, keeping my voice gentle but firm. “We're going to breathe through this together.”
“I don't need—”
“Your body thinks you're in danger, but you're not. You're safe here. You're safe with me.” I kept my voice steady, the same tone I used to guide someone through a difficult pose. “Sit down and let me help you.”
Something in my voice must have reached him. His legs gave out, and he slumped onto the examination table, head in his hands. I could see his shoulders shaking, and it took everything in me not to pull him into my arms.
“Four counts in,” I said, moving to stand in front of him. “Hold for four. Out for six. Can you do that with me?”
His first few breaths were ragged, fighting the rhythm. But I kept my voice steady, counting out the beats, and his breathing began to match mine. I watched the color return to his face, saw his hands slowly stop shaking.
“Better?”
He nodded, still not looking at me. “I hate this. Feeling like I can't control my own body.”