Page 28 of Homebound

“That’s a shame. You always knew your way around a dance floor.” He nudges my shoulder with a wink. “You got that from me.”

“Why couldn’t I have gotten my grip strength from you too?” I mutter, wanting to steer this conversation away from memories of Wyatt. Memories of us laughing, stumbling around a creaky wooden dance floor in high school, with him drunk off one wine cooler because I corrupted him early. “I can’t even manage to hold onto the fucking rope on some of these meaner bulls, Pops.”

“Hey, now.” He thumps my back. “All you need to do is get back in the gym. You’ve been muckin’ around for the past couple of months since you ended things with Boone, and I let it slide because calling that off was a big decision, but enough is enough.”

“I haven’t—”

My dad silences me with a sharp look. “You know you’ve been slacking, so don’t you dare fight me on that. You’ve lost some of your muscle definition. Yeah, you need to be lean, but you need muscle to stay on the bull. You’ve got to put on some weight.”

“I do have muscle.” I clench my fists.

“Now, darlin’,” my dad drawls, eyeing me under the brim of his hat. “I’m not saying that to piss you off, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re gonna have to work your ass off to compete in the big leagues. The cards aren’t stacked in your favor, but hell, that’s life. Fuck the damn cards. Every hand can be a winner if you play your cards right.”

My dad’s a Texas Hold’em king and could bluff his way out of jail. Don’t even think of leaving him at a blackjack table.

“Alright, what do I need to do, Pops?”

“You need someone to train you. Hold you accountable.” He nods to the bull riders perched on the fence, their boots swinging and hats tipped low. “Hit the gym with one of them fellows over there. You’ve got to work out with someone stronger to get stronger.”

The other bull riders are good, solid gentlemen, but as much as I hate to admit it, they’re also my competition. I live in a world where I can see all their stats on the scoreboard. I don’t want to spend more time with them because then I’ll end up comparing myself, and I hate comparing myself. It’s a vicious never-ending cycle that always ends with me feeling shitty.

Sometimes, I wish I were softer, content with what I have in life like Wyatt, but I’m not, and I blame society for drilling this ambition, the need for positive affirmation, into me as a kid.

Teachers in school always tell you to go go go and do more more more to be successful in life, and then they praise you when you do something right, but I don’t want to be the type of person who relies on someone else’s praise to succeed. Perpetual ambition is overrated. All it does is make me run like a hamster on a wheel. The happiest moments in my life are the slowest, the simplest.

Sipping coffee in the morning with my dad.

Calling my mom on Sunday night walks.

Strolling farmers markets with Lana.

But I can’t turn off this inherent drive to succeed that pushes me to want to be the best, and if I train with those cowboys, I’ll get jealous of the fact that they can lift more, do more, be more, without putting in the same effort as me. All because they have a Y chromosome that allows them to build muscles easier.

I dig my boot into the dirt, glancing out over the rolling hills. “Can’t you train me, Pops?”

He taps the brim of my hat. “Oh, darlin’, I love you more than life itself, but we spend enough time together during our skills sessions. You’re better off finding someone your own age. At least in the gym, but I’ll give you all the pointers you need out here in the arena.”

“Who else is there?” I grumble.

A throat clears, and without turning around, I know exactly who’s standing behind me. “I work out, so I can train with you.”

12

AGAIN

WYATT

Iwork out? Someone glue my mouth shut, please and thank you, ma’am.

“What do you mean you’ll train me?” Dakota demands.

She stares me down, brown curls whipping wildly around her sweaty face, but I’ll take the flames in her eyes over her indifference any day.

“I’ll train with you in the gym,” I say. “I’ve got to stay in shape this summer, so it’ll help me out too.”

It’ll also give me a reason to spend more time with her, since I can’t get enough of her scowls. Plus, I can’t not help her. It goes against my helper personality not to offer.

“You’ll train me?” she repeats like I’ve got no business training her—like I’m not one of the fastest right wingers in the NHL. I’m kind of offended by her shock. Maybe she needs to watch one of my games again because I’m a speed demon in the arena.