Chapter Seventeen
Royce
I know something is wrong before Jovie even looks up.
She’s sitting behind the desk in the academy clinic, one hand resting on the mouse, the other tapping lightly against the edge of the keyboard.
“That’s not the face you make when you’re about to tell me everything is fine.”
Her mouth twitches. “No, it isn’t.”
I drop into the chair across from her. I walked in here confident. I’ve been resting all week, and the acute pain has largely subsided. Yesterday, Jovie was even able to run me through several sets of pendulum swings and wall presses.
“Go ahead. Lay it on me.”
She turns the monitor toward me. “This is your MRI.”
I study the gray-and-white mess on the screen. “Looks like a bone-in rib eye to me.”
Jovie gives me a look. “That’s because you’re a bull rider, not a radiologist.” She points toward one section of the image. “This is your rotator cuff,” she says. “And this here is the tendon that’s torn.”
I squint. All I see is a bone and a band. No tear.
“How bad?”
Jovie takes a breath. “You have an acute full-thickness tear.”
Shit.
“Full-thickness?”
“Yes. It means the tear goes all the way through the tendon. It’s not a partial tear or a small strain. The tendon has been completely disrupted.”
I lean back. “So, what are we looking at?”
She studies the report. “It’s a significant tear. The exact measurement isn’t the only factor we consider, but this is the kind of injury an orthopedic specialist needs to evaluate.”
I rub a hand over my jaw. “So, surgery.”
“Possibly,” she says as she clicks through more images. “Doctors usually recommend surgery for complete tears or acute traumatic tears, especially those over three centimeters, to prevent the tendon from retracting further and the shoulder muscle from permanently degenerating.”
I rest my elbows on my knees and stare at the floor beneath my boots. “Fuck.”
She swivels back toward me.
“I was hoping for good news. It’s been feeling much better.”
“I know.” She sits back in her chair. “And I like that it’s been a little over a week and you’ve gotten some range of motion back, but that doesn’t mean the tendon has healed,” she says.
“What does it mean?”
“That surgery isn’t necessarily needed tomorrow.”
I look at her.
“With partial tears, conservative treatment can be successful for a lot of people—around eighty percent in some studies. But even then, physical therapy is usually strengthening the muscles around the injury to compensate. The torn tendon itself doesn’t technically grow back onto the bone by itself. ”
“So, I can feel better without actually being fixed?”
“Exactly.”
I let out a slow breath. “And if I don’t do surgery?”
She folds her arms. “We watch your symptoms and function closely. If you have persistent pain or weakness after three to six months of physical therapy”—she pauses—“surgery becomes the only option. Especially for someone like you.”
I already know where she’s going. “Because I’m a bull rider.”
“Because you’re young, active, and your job requires heavy lifting, forceful movement, and overhead use of your shoulder.”
I stare at the floor. “I can’t do it now.”
Jovie doesn’t argue.
“I committed to the academy for ten weeks.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I think Bryce would understand.”
“Ten weeks,” I repeat.
Surgery means recovery. Rehab. Time away from the academy. Time away from riding.
Time I don’t want to give up.
Jovie studies me for a long moment, then lets out an exasperated sigh. “Okay.”
I look up.
“You’re committed to the academy for ten weeks. We can work with that.”
My shoulders loosen.
“But,” she adds.
There it is. I knew it wasn’t gonna be that easy.
“You’re starting daily physical therapy, and you’re going to follow what I write up for you exactly. No skipping because you feel good one day. No deciding you’re healed because you can lift your arm without any pain.”
“Whatever you say.”
She gives me a pointed look. “God, you’re just as stubborn as your brother.”
I grin.
“And that grin isn’t gonna get you any further than it does him,” she snaps. “Every day. You’ll be in this clinic every single day.”
I nod.
“And in the meantime, I’m going to go ahead and set you up with a consultation with an orthopedic sports doctor I trust.”
“Thanks, Jovie. I’ll consider surgery after the summer.”
She leans back in her chair. “Consider it seriously.”
“Promise.”
The door opens, and Micah’s head pops inside.
“You ready to roll?”
I stand. “Anything else?”
Jovie’s eyes flit from Micah to me. “Yeah. Don’t do anything stupid for the next ten weeks.”
I laugh. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
The humor disappears from her face. “This is your shoulder. Your career depends on it. Don’t gamble with something you can’t replace.”
I glance back at the MRI.
A complete tear. Not a pulled muscle. Not something I can grit my teeth through and pretend doesn’t exist.
I nod. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
Jovie points at me. “Good. Because if I catch you trying to ride a bull before I clear you, I’ll personally kick your ass.”
“Threats, Jo. Really?”
“Damn right.”
I grin despite myself. Then turn and head for the door.
Ten weeks.
I’ve got work to do.
The master bedroom is the first thing we tackle.
Which makes sense, considering it’s the only furniture Bryce and Charli are taking with them.
Everything else stays for Marina and Ryder.
Charli wants them to have a place that already feels like home instead of moving into an empty cabin with a bunch of boxes and bare walls. She’s leaving behind the big stuff too—the couches, dining table, dressers, lamps, even most of the kitchen stuff.
“Lift on three,” I say.
“Why do you always say three?” Micah asks.
“Because that’s when we lift.”
“Isn’t it wasting time though?”
I glance at him. “You want to count?”
“I want you to stop counting and just lift the damn thing.”
“Then fucking lift it.”
We lift.
The bed frame comes off the floor.
“Son of a bitch, this thing is heavy,” Micah grunts. “What’s it made of, railroad ties?”
“Probably. Charli doesn’t do anything half-assed,” I say.
“For fuck’s sake,” Cabe hisses as he strides through the door. He comes to my side and wraps his hands around the railing, easing some of the weight off of me.
“I had it,” I snap.
“Your stubborn ass is going to get us all in trouble with Jovie,” he says.
“Yeah,” Micah says, “this is exactly the kind of stupid shit Jovie just told you not to do for the next ten weeks.”
“She said not to get on a bull. She didn’t say anything about moving furniture.”
“Pretty sure she meant any stupid shit,” Cabe says.
“Jovie needs to learn the definition of doctor-patient confidentiality.”
He snorts.
We make it through the doorway without destroying anything, which feels like an accomplishment.
The mattress follows.
Then the nightstands.
Then the dresser.
By the time we get everything loaded into the backs of Bryce’s and my trucks, I’m sweating through my shirt.
Bryce looks over the truck bed, checking the straps. Then we head back inside for the bed from the guest room.
“Where’s this one going?” Cabe asks.
“Just switching it over to the master suite,” Bryce answers.
“Why?”
“Because Charli said so.”
We wrestle the frame through the doorway. It’s as heavy as the other one.
“Left,” Bryce says.
“I’m going left,” I grunt.
“Your other fucking left.”
“I have one left, asshole.”
I pivot to the right, and we somehow manage to get the bed into the master suite without taking a chunk out of the doorframe.
Bryce steps back and looks around. “Damn.”
“What?” I ask.
“Feels like yesterday I walked into this place. All full of piss and vinegar. I couldn’t wait to get the hell out.”
I chuckle. “And as far away from Charli as you could get.”
“Yeah. Until that wicked woman cast her spell on me.”
“And now you have a whole-ass new life. New career. New house. New wife.”
He looks toward the doorway, then grins.
Micah leans against the wall. “Speaking of the new wife, how was the honeymoon?”
Bryce’s grin gets wider.
“That good, huh?”
He nods. “Fucking incredible.”
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “I’ve lived this close to the resort my entire life and never stepped foot in it.”
“Me neither,” Cabe says. “Can you see us mingling with their fancy-ass guests?”
“You boys should try it sometime,” Bryce says.
“Why the hell would we?” I ask.
“Because women like it,” he says. “And sometimes, you have to leave your comfort zone to make them happy.”
“Fuck that,” Cabe says. “I’m good.”
I look at him. “You wanna be single for the rest of your life?”
“If I have to drop loads of cash at a pompous, overpriced hotel, yes,” he says. “A woman who needs that ain’t the one for me.”
Bryce laughs out loud. “Trust me, the right woman gets her hooks in you, and your country ass will be ordering room service at The Plaza in New York City if it makes her happy.”
Cabe shakes his head. “Never gonna happen.”
“Keep saying it out loud,” Bryce warns.
“What else did y’all do up there besides order room service?” I ask.
Bryce gives me a pointed look.
“Or that,” I quip.
He shrugs. “Relaxed. Ate. Slept. And got pampered,” he says.
Micah laughs. “You?”
“Yeah, me.”
Bryce points toward his shoulder. “They had red-light therapy. Salt room. Massage. Whole thing.” He rolls his shoulders, like he’s still impressed. “I swear, I felt like a million bucks when we left. Every muscle in my body was loose.”
Cabe looks at him and wags his eyebrows. “I bet it wasn’t the salt that got you loose.”
Bryce shakes his head. “Thinking I might have a red-light therapy and a salt room setup added at the academy. Be good for the instructors.”
Micah whistles. “Damn. You’re gonna spoil those cowboys.”
“Worth every penny,” he says. “If it helps keep everybody healthy.”
Cabe’s grin returns. “You mean soft.”
Bryce flips him off.
We carry the last piece of furniture into the master suite.
Then Bryce gestures toward the guest room. “That’s gonna be Ryder’s room. Charli measured everything and had Jovie’s dad draw up a design for a set of custom log-framed bunk beds,” Bryce says. “Materials should be here in a couple of days.”
We walk to the front of the cabin and he points to a drawing lying across the kitchen island. I study it.
“You building it yourself?” I ask.
“I’m gonna pay Jovie’s dad and brother to.”
“We can do it.”