Chapter 3 – Jensen
“It was a good ride, but you’re getting too comfortable,” Dawson says from where he’s seated across from me at the long table in our hotel restaurant.
I sip my drink, heat crawling up the back of my neck at being called out like this in front of my teammates. He didn’t have to say that in front of the rest of the guys. Call me out in private, sure. But not here.
Did I really look that comfortable?
Shouldn't be surprising to me. I was comfortable. I'm comfortable on the back of the bull to the point that some days, it’s scary how lazy I feel riding.
I make my usual silly comment to get him off my back. "Your eyesight's just getting bad, old man."
Dawson’s only in his early forties, not much older than me, which means I just earned myself a generous eye roll from him.
“Guess you get to be comfortable when you’re the best,” my buddy Joel snarks from across the table.
I shrug. “Gotta train harder if you want to get to that level. Then maybe you can take the buckle from me.”
“No one’s taking that title from Jensen until he retires,” Micah adds, like it’s just an accepted fact.
The sun rises in the east, Jensen wins damn near everything that our team enters, or that I ride solo.
That’s the way it’s always been since I first mounted a bull in my early twenties, unless you count that brief period when Hayes Walker swept the circuit before retiring to become a small-town doctor.
I smirk. “Ain’t that the truth.”
The conversation swirls around me. Twin brothers Micah and Joel start fighting about points they lost on their last ride and who looked better doing it. I shut it all out.
My gaze flicks, uninvited, down the table to where Doctor Alba sits stiff as a fence post among some of the medical staff and other circuit workers we carry from city to city. Technically she’s chatting with them, but she looks like she’d rather be getting a root canal.
She’s out of her all-black scrubs and the series T-shirt she had on earlier today, but she hasn’t branched out from the color scheme. Black fitted tee, black bell-bottom jeans that cling to her wide hips like sin. And I'd know because I was watching her when she entered the restaurant an hour ago.
Her hair is down now, not cinched in that severe bun she wore during surgery or in any clips. Just down. Long, dark waves that reach past her shoulders. Pretty as hell. Softer than I expected from someone who looks like she's got nothing but sharp and bite to her.
“Hey guys, can I get a quick photo of you eating for the social media page?” June Harper, the series media manager and team photographer asks as she rounds our table.
June's been with the Broken Spurs team for the last two years but has hung around rodeos and circuits for even longer.
Craig hired her after he caught wind of the photos she'd been posting at each event and saw she had an eye for capturing our good angles, which brought in more traffic to the rodeos.
I'm thinking it's partly because of her skills that she got hired, and heavily because Craig knew she wouldn’t mind putting up with our shit and being paid terribly unlike the last photographer we had on staff.
A few of the guys and I lean in automatically. Joel lifts a chicken wing like it’s a trophy, Micah gives him bunny ears, and Rafael exhales like we’re all ruining the picture.
June snaps a photo and flashes us a thumbs up. “Thank you. I'll tag you in it so you can repost on your pages.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be getting shots of us riding too?” I tease.
She rolls her eyes. “I am, dumbass. Check out the team social media page. The only one who's active on there is Joel. Maybe you three should show some support if you want fans to keep paying to watch you cowboys ride.”
“She’s right. Merchandise isn’t moving as fast as it should be,” Noa, our team manager and brand lead, cuts into the conversation.
She points at Joel and Micah, her twin brothers.
“When you’re done eating, meet me in the hallway.
I have some new T-shirts I’m trying to push, and I need you to model them. ”
“Noa,” Micah groans, but before he can say anything more Dawson smacks the back of his head.
“Listen to your damn sister, asshole.”
I hide a laugh. Noa’s younger than Joel and Micah, but she’s been managing their riding schedule for the better part of the last decade. Practically since before she was old enough to drive to a rodeo.
Micah sighs. “Yes, Uncle Dawson.”
“And leave June alone,” Rafael growls once the women have both walked back to their end of the table.
“Oh, right—forgot Raf doesn’t like us teasing his girlfriend," Micah jokes.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“No, just the woman you’re secretly in love with,” Joel chimes, unbothered, mouth full of chicken.
“Fuck off.” Raf pushes away from the table and stalks toward the bar like someone lit a fuse.
I watch him go. “Whoa, what’s his deal?”
Micah shrugs. “You didn’t know he’s been crushing on June since they hired her? Thinks she’s gonna be his wife someday.”
I choke on my drink because I knew he had a crush on her, but not the part about him wanting to marry her.
“Does June know she’s going to be his wife?”
He snorts. “No. I don’t think she’s ever even looked at him unless there’s a lens and a bull between them. She's always off in her head, snapping photos or on her phone scrolling social media pages sighing wistfully. You know, now that I think about it, I don't think Raf even has a phone.”
“Damn,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck thinking of my buddy. Unrequited love. Guess it’s not even unrequited if she doesn’t know about it.
My eyes drift to Catalina again, the one woman in this room I’m certain isn’t thinking about me the way I keep thinking about her, unless it’s professionally and with mild contempt.
Unrequited. Ha.
Doctor Alba. Right. Not Catalina.
She stands abruptly from the table, movements stiff, almost mechanical, and heads toward the restrooms. Most of the group’s already finished eating, checks paid and drifting out now, which means it won’t be that noticeable if I follow her.
And I do just that before I can tell myself why this is a bad idea.
Ever since the training room, she’s been lodged in my head like a splinter.
Out of all the doctors in the world that Craig could have hired for the series, why her?
She doesn't seem the most qualified to care for a bunch of bull-rider athletes.
She's a heart surgeon. The top one in the country. And I need answers.
I round the corner toward the restrooms, planning to wait and intercept her when she exits, but instead I nearly mow her down as I cut around the sharp brick wall.
“Ouch, what the hell—?” She turns, brown eyes wide and startled. My gaze drops to her mouth. Those pretty, full lips. They'd been covered by a surgical mask the first time I saw them.
What a fucking crime.
“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to be standing here.”
She rubs at the shoulder I knocked into. "Why… are you… so… freaking... rough?"
I take a step away from her. “Whoa now. It was an accident.”
She sighs. “Well do you always barrel around corners without checking first?”
I fold my arms over my chest. She’s shorter than I remembered. Five-three. Maybe five-four on a good day. I’m towering over her at my six-five, and for someone so small, she sure knows how to take up space with all that extra attitude she’s carrying around.
“If you’re asking whether I peek around corners like a cartoon character before rounding them, the answer is no. I don’t do that.”
She lets out a huff. "Maybe you should. You could really hurt someone with your big body."
"There you go, calling me big again. It seems like you're quite fixated on my size, Doctor Alba."
She glares at me.
I smile at her.
“What do you want?” she sighs.
“I'm just standing here. Who says I want anything?”
“Well, why are you standing here?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because you’re blocking the hallway,” she bites out. “Also, it’s weird. You've got this weird look on your face right now." She waves her hand up and down my body. "Like you're up to something. Were you following me?”
“Yes." I don't hesitate and her glare only deepens with my response. "Because I had a question for you.”
“Of course you did,” she sighs again.
I lean one shoulder against the wall, giving her a slow smile. “Why are you here?”
“I’m the Iron Horn series doctor.”
“I know that. But why quit your job as a surgeon? You were good at it.”
Her expression lifts in something close to a smirk. “Ah, look at that—so you do remember that I was the one who performed your heart surgery.”
My brows pull together. What the hell does that mean?
“Of course I do.”
“I wanted a change of scenery.” She shrugs. “That's why I joined the rodeo.”
And that tells me absolutely nothing. Or everything. Hard to tell with this one. She's closed off like a high security prison, and she doesn’t seem interested in changing that.
She squares her shoulders, trying to give off that tough woman vibe. I don't think I've ever talked to a woman as mean as her. She might have to be careful; my grandma's mean too and I love her more than life itself.
“Any other questions for me, Mr. Grant?”
I straighten because I'm not done grilling her yet. “Yeah. Come have a drink with me. Dinner’s done and we’re off the clock.”
She laughs. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re one of my athletes. That would be unprofessional. And I've already had a glass of wine.”
"You limit yourself to just one glass a night?"
"Most studies show that one glass of red a day is best for your heart’s health."
She would be thinking about what's best for her heart even when she’s relaxing and drinking. And there's a small—okay, a not so small—part of me that finds that wildly attractive.
“There’s nothing in the series rules saying I can’t have a drink with the team doctor.”
“No,” she says sharply, “but I am new, and I’m not trying to raise any eyebrows if I'm seen having a drink with you after hours.”