Chapter 4 #2
The words crash into me as I stare at the equipment being hauled into a barn I haven’t set foot in for months.
Last I checked, it was where we stored old football equipment and the boxes of Stormhawks merch we get sent every year.
It’s all too much. Too loud. Too real. This place—my home—has been my refuge during my recovery.
And now it’s crawling with people and noise and a future I want no part of.
My jaw tightens. My mood curdles.
I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this.
Hell, I won’t do this.
A couple of hours later, the ranch is quiet again as the last truck kicks up a cloud of dust on the road out from the ranch and it’s just me, Jake, and Harper… and eighteen rodeo horses I don’t have the first clue how to look after.
I nurse my second coffee in the kitchen at the back of the house.
It’s a large open space with a long bench table on one side and modern kitchen units on the other.
Every few seconds, I stare out the open back door.
Jake’s yellow Labrador retriever, Buck, is lying half in, half out, tail wagging tentatively as he watches the horses graze beyond the fences, like he isn’t sure what to make of the new arrivals. You and me both, Buck!
Harper slides a sandwich in front of me and I nod my thanks, making quick work of the food.
Between the sandwich, the second coffee, and the two Tylenols I downed earlier, the brutal edge to my hangover has dulled.
But nothing touches the tightness in my chest, like a weight pressing down.
All I want to do is go back to bed and wallow in my failure.
I can’t give you the fullback position or any other space on the team.
Across the kitchen, Jake leans against the counter, an arm slung around Harper. Seven months into their relationship and they’re still obsessed with each other. Their happy faces are the last thing I want to see right now.
“Don’t you need to be heading back to the city now?” I ask, shooting Jake a glare.
Jake’s smile widens and he shakes his head. “Actually, we thought we’d spend the weekend here.”
I usually like that Jake divides his time between the city and the ranch.
I like that we get to hang out more, throw a ball around, talk through plays, and continue to repair our relationship after I stupidly spent too many months blaming him for not being on the field the day I got my ACL tear.
But right now, I could really use some space.
“Could you try and look less happy about this at least?”
It’s Harper who replies. “Maybe this could be a good thing.” Her voice is soft, like she’s trying not to spook a wild animal.
It’s the closest either of them has come to mentioning the giant fucking elephant in the room.
The fact that the only reason I was drinking alone in The Hay Barn last night—the only reason I was drunk enough to buy Bill’s horses, the reason my life’s currently spiraling out of control—is because my time playing for the Stormhawks is over.
I heave in a deep breath and catch the comforting scent of fresh bread. Mama must’ve put a loaf in to bake this morning before leaving for Chase’s press event. I can just imagine the joy on his face as he holds up his new number 10 jersey for the cameras.
Four years younger and somehow three steps ahead when it comes to charm and talent.
Chase got drafted to the Kansas City Trailblazers straight out of college and made it look effortless.
But I’ve seen behind the jokes. I’ve seen the hours he puts in, the way he plays like he’s got something to prove.
Technically, Chase is our cousin—Mama’s sister couldn’t cope as a single mom, and our parents took Chase in when he was two and I was six.
I still remember the shy little boy with the big Afro who barely spoke.
It didn’t take long for him to find his confidence on the ranch, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s never been anything but my little brother.
Buck barks, leaping out the back door at the rumble of a truck engine, followed by two car doors slamming.
A second later, as though my thoughts have summoned him, Chase bursts into the kitchen like a hurricane, Buck dancing around him.
My youngest brother is a fireball of energy, as usual, tall and athletic, with a smile that screams he’s one second away from causing trouble.
There’s a new confidence to him since he came home to Denver in the spring.
Like he’s right where he’s meant to be. And I was supposed to be right there with him.
My head spins. Too many thoughts. Too much pain. I need time to process the last twenty-four hours, but with this family, it ain’t gonna happen.
“You bought horses, Dyl?” Chase’s face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. “This is awesome!”
I drop my head into my hands. “Not now, Chase.”
“Come on, man.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “This is incredible. You going full cowboy?”
I bite back another groan.
“Dylan Sullivan.” Mama’s voice carries from the open doorway, cutting through the air like a referee’s whistle.
At home, she’s all oversized Stormhawks jerseys and overalls, pinning her gray-blonde bob out of her face.
But right now, she steps into the kitchen in loose, smart slacks, a navy blouse, and a matching blazer, looking every inch the unstoppable sports agent she is.
She’s never said, but I’m certain she has plans for all of us when we hang up our cleats, and drunk-buying horses isn’t part of it. “What have you done?”
Her expression is a mixture of exasperation and disbelief, her steel-blue eyes narrowing as she looks from me to the paddocks and the grazing horses beyond.
For a second, it’s like she’s seen a ghost. The last time horses stood on this land, she was newly widowed, doing everything she could to hold it together for three boys who had no idea how much she was hurting.
Mama’s feelings about making this place a working ranch again never crossed my mind last night. A lot of things didn’t.
Suddenly, I feel like a kid again, fumbling over my words. “I… well… last night… Bill Brooks came into the bar and well… I didn’t mean to—”
Mama cuts me off, her tone stern but not cruel. “You own eighteen horses. A ranch hand is arriving any minute. And you have no clue what you’re doing. Does that about sum it up?”
I nod, unable to argue and not a bit surprised she knows as much as I do. Probably more.
She lets out a long, measured sigh. She never could stay mad with any of us for long.
It’s just usually Jake or Chase incurring that sharp look.
She steps toward me and I feel her worry wash over me.
Mama has been by my side every day of the last twenty-two months, making sure I’ve had every available resource for my recovery, even talking her way into an ACL specialist clinic in LA with a three-year waiting list. And yet, I feel myself bristle. I know what’s coming.
“Coach called me yesterday after the meeting. I’m sorry, Dylan. I know it wasn’t what you wanted.”
I dip my head, unwilling to see the pity I know is written across her face—or worse, my brothers’ faces. “You don’t sound surprised,” I reply.
Mama’s arms wrap around me, pulling me into a hug. She’s petite, her arms barely reaching around my shoulders, but her hold is strong. “I hoped I was wrong,” she says quietly.
“As if that ever happens.”
“There’s a lot to discuss,” she says, moving to the counter and reaching for the coffee pot. “This doesn’t have to be the end of your life in football.”
My head shoots up, the words rushing out, still edged with a bitterness I don’t think will ever leave me.
“If I’m not playing football for the Stormhawks, I want nothing to do with the game.
Don’t set me up with commentating gigs or whatever else you’re thinking.
I don’t need it and I don’t want it.” I stand then.
The weight of my disappointment and the silence from Jake and Chase are too much.
If Mama’s surprised by my outburst, she doesn’t show it. “Right now, it looks like you’ve got your hands full anyway,” she says.
Jake and I used to talk about picking up where Dad left off someday, but it was just a pipe dream. Something we said after a few beers to feel close to him. I never really thought we would, and right now it’s the last thing I want.
Mama’s voice softens like she can see where my thoughts have taken me. “You might’ve signed the deal drunk, but you’re sober now, so figure it out.”
“We’ll help,” Chase says. “Won’t we, Jake?”
I glance gratefully at Chase, even if his brand of “help” won’t stretch far. Where Chase goes, chaos follows. On the football field, he shakes up plays and throws the opposing team into confusion. But off the field is a different story.
Mama shakes her head before Jake can reply. “You, Chase, are only here when you run out of food in your apartment and want feeding. Jake and Harper come and go, too. And you’ve both got the high-altitude training camp in Arizona coming up. Not to mention pre-season games starting in August.”
The reminder is a kick to the balls.
“This is Dylan’s mess,” Mama says. “He needs to be the one to clear it up. And this ranch isn’t going to run itself.”
Clear it up. She means find a buyer, and fast. She’s right, but I have no idea where to start.
Mama’s words are still ringing in my ears when something outside catches my eye. A woman is standing in one of the paddocks, her jeans and white tank top dusty, a dark blonde braid swinging down her back as she rubs the nose of one of the horses.
I frown and I’m out the door in seconds, still barefoot with my coffee in my hand.
The bright afternoon sun jabs at my hangover, causing a new throbbing to start behind my eyes.
Already, the ranch feels different. It’s in the slow amble of the horses in the paddocks and the sound of their soft whinnies.
For a gut-wrenching moment, it’s like I’ve stepped back in time twenty years.
I’m a kid again, racing outside to help Dad top up the hay, hoping he’ll give me that proud smile it felt like he saved just for us boys.
Out of nowhere, the grief punches through.
Raw in a way I haven’t felt in years. It’s the last thing I need right now, and so I focus on the woman standing in one of my paddocks, rubbing the neck of a chestnut mare.
“Hey!” I shout, closing the distance between us. “What the hell are you doing?”
The woman doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stutter an apology like I half expect. Instead, her shoulders pull back with an easy confidence. She turns around and recognition slams into me. Those feline green eyes, all fire and challenge, lock onto mine.
It’s her. The woman whose rusted compact I bumped yesterday. The one I left stranded in traffic, two hundred bucks lighter and zero apologies given.
But that memory gets knocked aside by another. The bar. That kiss. Hot and furious. The way she tore away like she was half a second from either slapping me or dragging me into a dark corner for more. And now she’s on my ranch like she owns the place.
Irritation flares. “You,” I bite out.
“Me,” she says, like we’re picking up a conversation instead of hurtling toward another fight.
“If you’re after that money you threw back at me last night, you can talk to my lawyer.” My voice is sharp and defensive.
She rolls her eyes. “Relax, big guy. I’m not here about my car.”
“Then why are you here, blondie?”
“I’m Izzy Brooks? Bill sent me.”
My brows slam together. “Sent you? For what?”
A smirk twitches on her lips, but there’s steel under it. “I’m his granddaughter,” she replies. “And his lead ranch hand. I was part of the deal you and Bill made at the bar last night.”
Brooks… the ranch hand Bill threw into the deal. Izzy Brooks. Stupid of me to assume the ranch hand I’d hired would be a man…
“Six weeks,” I mutter, mostly to myself. Trying to catch up. Trying not to sound like I have no clue what the hell I agreed to.
She nods. “That’s what Bill told me. But I’ve got other offers, so if you’ve got this all handled, I’ll be on my way.” She starts to turn.
“Wait,” I call out, unable to disguise the panic in my voice. “Sorry. Can we start again?” I stick out my hand. “Dylan Sullivan.”
Izzy tugs off a suede work glove, steps closer, and takes my hand. Her grip is strong, her hand warm. In stark comparison, her expression is cool as she takes in my bare feet and rumpled tee.
“I know who you are,” she says, releasing my hand like it burns. “Just like I know you’re no rancher.”
My temper flares. “My dad was a rancher, OK? I grew up raising horses. I’m not a complete idiot.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I hate them. I don’t want these damn horses. So why am I pretending any different?
Izzy lets out a short, mocking laugh. “Sure. And I used to braid my doll’s hair. Doesn’t make me a hairdresser.”
Pressure builds in my chest. “Listen—”
“No, you listen,” she cuts in. “These horses, they’re some of the best rodeo stock in Colorado. If you screw it up, you’re not just failing yourself—you’re failing them. You can’t just play at being a rancher.”
She turns away without waiting for a response, her words hitting harder than I’d like. I watch her go and can’t help but notice the way her jeans fit like they were made for her. I curse under my breath and turn toward the house. And that’s when I see the long silver trailer parked beside the barn.
“What the hell is that?” I call out.
Izzy doesn’t even look up. “My home. How else did you expect me to run your ranch? From the city?”
Oh, hell no. I storm inside to an empty kitchen, the others having quickly vacated, and head straight to my room, needing time alone. Needing sleep. Needing this day to be over.
Thoughts of Izzy follow a step behind. That look in her eye, like she knows I’m full of shit. She’s a smart-mouthed reminder of how much I’ve fucked up. My teeth grind just thinking about her and that infuriating smirk. Judging by the glare she just threw my way, the feeling is more than mutual.
You can’t just play at being a rancher.
Well, fine. If I can’t play football, I don’t want to play at anything—especially not pretending I give a damn about ranching. Let someone else play cowboy. I’m done.