Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
IZZY
The final rider leaves the arena and all around us people stand and start to move toward the exit.
The announcer’s voice crackles over the speakers, listing the dates of the next rodeos.
Dylan and I stay in our seats, my hand wrapped in his, resting on his thigh.
Leaving marks the end of our date, and I don’t want that.
It’s like we’ve stepped out of ourselves, like this night is all there is to think about.
Like maybe this isn’t the mistake I keep telling myself it is.
Above our heads, the clouds have cleared, taking the muggy heat with it, and I shiver as I force myself to stand.
Dylan moves too, but he keeps my hand in his, fingers entwined.
Held tight. Before we leave, he turns to me, tilting my chin and lightly brushing his lips to mine.
“Thank you for tonight.” His voice is low, vibrating through my body along with the electric charge from his touch.
The need for him—for his hands on my skin, his lips, to feel him inside me—is a physical ache. An exquisite pain.
Dylan pulls me close as we follow the crowd toward the parking lot, weaving through the stragglers and those waiting to greet the competitors.
Dylan holds on to me like I’m something he wants to keep.
And that scares the hell out of me. Because when I start to trust something is forever, it’s usually when it falls apart.
Like Hooper. Like running Bill’s ranch. Like Oakwood?
It feels too soon to believe this is forever, but I’m too far gone to imagine leaving.
These thoughts make my heart stammer and my head spin as we reach a bottleneck in the crowd.
Dylan pulls his hand away, throwing his arm around me.
He moves his lips to my ear like he’s going to say something and already my body is tingling.
But before he can speak, there’s a shout, high-pitched and childlike.
Filled with the fever-pitch excitement that reminds me of Madison on Christmas morning.
Heads turn and the crowd parts to show a little boy, no older than Mad, jumping up and down, a finger pointed straight at Dylan.
“Dylan Sullivan. You’re Dylan Sullivan!” The boy’s face is bright red, his grin wide, as he breaks away from where he’s standing and all but throws himself at Dylan, barely managing to skid to a stop in front of us.
“You played tight end for the Stormhawks. You had over five thousand career receiving yards! And forty-two touchdowns.”
“Hi,” Dylan says with a smile, crouching down to greet the boy. “What’s your name, son?”
“I’m Dylan too,” he says proudly, his smile so wide I think his face might split in two.
“But I was named after my grandpa, not you. I’ve watched all your highlights on YouTube.
My favorite is the one where you caught the one-handed pass in the snow playing against the Desertraptors. That was so cool!”
Dylan laughs, warm and easy. “That was a good game.”
“Can I have your autograph, please?” he asks breathlessly, thrusting out a pen and his rodeo program.
“Sure.”
Little Dylan’s eyes pop, and I stand back, watching the interaction.
Watching this little boy have the best day of his life.
Watching Dylan smile in a way I’ve never seen before and it’s the most natural smile in the world.
An uneasy feeling twists in my gut. It’s hard not to think that this is where Dylan belongs.
In a world of football and fans. Not stuck on a ranch day after day with only me and the horses.
A man approaches us and places a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He’s tall with short, mussed hair and an open face. “Wow. Not every day you get to meet an NFL legend.” Then his eyes land on me. “Hi, I’m Harrison, Dylan’s uncle.”
“Hi. I don’t have anything to do with the NFL,” I reply.
The man laughs. “With those arms, I think you’re missing a trick.” He smiles and it’s nice, but it’s also more.
“Are you coming back this season?” Little Dylan asks.
Dylan’s smile falters for the smallest second, but he covers it quickly as he moves to stand, giving the boy a pat on the shoulder. “I won’t be on the field this season, but I’ll always be part of the Stormhawks family,” he says smoothly.
“So,” Harrison says, turning back to me. “If you’re not part of the NFL, what do you do?”
“Ranching,” I say.
“No way. I work in sales for Big Sky Feeds. I bet I could offer you a great deal on premium grain and custom-blended supplements.” He pulls out a business card from the back pocket of his jeans and slips it into my hand. “Give me a call sometime. We could talk discounts over dinner.”
I open my mouth to reply, but Dylan gets there first. He throws his arm around me. “Sorry, Harrison. This one belongs to me.”
Belongs? Deep down I know Dylan didn’t mean it that way, but my gut tightens anyway. I’ve belonged to someone before—I gave them my heart and lost myself in the process.
“Can’t blame a man for trying.” Harrison grins before disappearing with the little boy into the crowd.
Dylan’s arm is still around me as he moves us out of the arena and into the parking lot. The second we’re outside, I step out of Dylan’s touch, needing space. A prickling anger needles at my skin, my body. Away from the floodlights, stars litter the sky. A perfect night.
It was a perfect night. Until just now. Thoughts rush at me, Dylan’s voice echoing in my head.
I’ll always be part of the Stormhawks family.
This one belongs to me.
And suddenly I’m furious, my anger burning as I stride across the lot.
“Izzy…” Dylan’s voice calls after me. A second later he’s by my side.
I whirl around so fast he almost knocks into me.
“I don’t belong to you.”
Dylan’s expression morphs from surprised to baffled. “That’s not what I meant.” There’s a playful smile on his lips that only fuels my irritation.
“Sure as hell sounded like it,” I snap. “You think you get to claim me like some prize?”
He runs a hand through his hair and looks at me. “That guy was hitting on you.”
“And?” I throw my hands out. “I’m a big girl, Sullivan. I can handle myself.”
“You don’t think I know that? I see it every day, Iz,” he replies. “You’re so good at taking care of yourself you’ve built sky-high walls and you’re not letting anyone in, least of all me.”
“So what are we doing here then?” I throw back, my heart pounding in my chest. A voice inside my head is screaming at me to back away, like I’m on that trailer roof in the storm, knowing I’m making a mistake.
“Right now? I have no idea.” He sighs. “I want you, Iz. And maybe I didn’t say it right back there, but I’m not going to pretend I didn’t feel something watching that guy flirt with you.”
Suddenly, everything feels too much. Too intense. So I do the only thing I know how to do. I walk away. I yank open the truck door, climb in, and slam it shut.
The drive back to the ranch is silent. Anger hangs heavy between us. The second we’re rolling to a stop in the driveway, I’m out. Striding across the dirt. Boots kicking up dust. My pulse hammering in my ears.
I don’t belong to anyone. Least of all Dylan Sullivan.
The second I’m inside the trailer, the door slammed shut behind me, I press my back against the cool metal. I grab my phone and throw myself onto the bed.
My fingers fly furiously over the screen as I tap out a message to Flic, filling it with expletives and pitchfork emojis. I’m still breathing fast as I read it back. My thumb hovers over send, but I hesitate, already hearing Flic’s mocking tone in my head.
So another man hit on you and Dylan stepped in. Did he punch the guy? Did he threaten to kill him? No! He just made it clear that the guy didn’t have a chance.
Tears prick at my eyelids. I can feel the shadows of annoyance shifting to something else and I don’t want to go there.
I know where I am with righteous indignation.
It’s practically my default setting. But the other feeling is creeping in, taking over.
I squeeze my eyes shut, allowing the first tears to fall as my mind races back over our evening.
Our perfect evening I didn’t want to end.
Then the little boy came over to us and Dylan lit up, like he was stepping into a role he belonged in.
Like football was still his world. Like it always will be.
A stone lodges in my chest. Sharp-edged and cutting.
It’s not anger I’m feeling. It’s fear. Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop seeing this ranch and this life as a distraction for Dylan.
And one day soon he’ll get bored and go back to his old life, and he and his friends will laugh about the time he played at being rancher.
Where does that leave me? And Madison?
The stone moves to my throat, blocking my airway.
No matter how much I want to deny it, Dylan is more than an itch I want scratched.
He’s more than the magnetic pull I feel around him.
And that terrifies me more than I can voice.
Because if I continue down this road, if I let him in and he proves me right, it will be Hooper all over again, and I’m not sure I have the strength to pick up the shattered pieces of myself a second time.
Maybe if this was just about me, I could go all in. But it’s not. I have to think about what’s best for Madison too. If Dylan lets her down like her dad, it will destroy whatever whispers of trust she has in men. She deserves better.
Silent tears trail down my face. Madison deserves…
She deserves… A sob catches in my throat.
She deserves someone who’ll build her a rope swing.
Someone who’ll throw her a dinner with burgers because she’s sad and it’s her favorite food.
She deserves someone who listens to her and treats her like she matters.
She deserves all the tiny moments I’ve seen between her and Dylan in the time they’ve spent together, heads bent, talking and teasing.
The way she lights up around him. The way I do.
I press my palms to my eyes. I don’t know if I can trust Dylan.
But if I don’t try—if I let fear win before I’ve taken a step—then I’ve already failed Madison. And I’ve failed myself.
I draw in a shuddering breath and push myself off the bed. I will not let fear be the reason I don’t try. With that, I throw open the trailer door and head out into the night.