POV: Colton
Two Weeks Earlier
Pain's the first thing I feel.
Blinding. Sharp. Like lightning shooting through my shoulder, erasing everything else.
I'm flat on my back. Dirt tastes gritty in my mouth. The crowd's noise is muffled, like I'm underwater.
Then it hits me.
The tornado. The rope. My hand caught in the mess. Dragged like a ragdoll while fifteen hundred pounds of fury tried to rip me apart.
"Colt! Don't move!" Jack's face floats into view, pale as a ghost. "Medics are coming."
I try to sit up. Bad move. The world tilts sideways, and copper hits my tongue.
"Stay down, you stubborn bastard." Jack's hands press me back. "You're hurt bad."
Around us, the arena falls silent. That awful hush when everyone's holding their breath, waiting to see if someone's about to die.
I turn my head. My shoulder's at a wrong angle. Everything's wrong.
"How bad?" My voice cracks.
Jack's eyes say what his mouth won't.
The medics rush in, hands everywhere, questions I can't answer, a stretcher beneath me. The sky spins as they haul me off.
Last thing I see before they load me into the ambulance? The scoreboard.
My name. My time. Eight seconds.
I survived.
And maybe, just maybe, I ended my career.
I wake up in a hospital room smelling like antiseptic and failure.
My shoulder's wrapped tight, throbbing with every beat. An IV drips into my arm. Machines beep steadily.
Jack's slumped in a chair by the window, head in his hands.
"Hey." My voice is gravel.
His head snaps up. Relief floods his face, quickly replaced by anger. "You're awake. Good. Now I can kill you myself."
I try to laugh, but it turns into a cough that makes my ribs scream. "How long was I out?"
"Six hours. Surgery to reset the shoulder. Grade three separation. Torn rotator cuff. Bruised ribs. Concussion." He rattles it off like a damn grocery list. "Doc says you're damn lucky to be alive."
"Don't feel lucky."
"You shouldn't." Jack stands, crosses to the bed, face hard. "What the hell were you thinking, Colt? Bull riding? While you're playing for the Predators? You trying to wreck everything?"
"I wasn't thinking."
"That's the problem." He runs a hand through his hair. "Coach's on his way. He's pissed."
My stomach drops. "He knows?"
"Whole world knows. It's all over social media. Video went viral in an hour. NHL superstar nearly dies riding bull. You're trending."
I close my eyes. "Hell."
"Yeah. Hell's about right."
The door slams open. Coach Reynolds storms in, face purple with rage. "Hayes. What the hell were you thinking?"
I don't have a good answer.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" He yells. "You're under contract. Nashville's investment. And you're out here playing cowboy like you're invincible!"
"Coach, I—"
"I don't want to hear it!" He slams his hand on the bedside table. Water pitcher jumps. "The GM wants your head. Owners might void your contract. You embarrassed the team, risked your career, for what? Eight seconds of glory?"
Each word hits like a punch.
Jack steps forward. "Coach, maybe we should—"
"Stay out of this, Mercer." Reynolds snaps. "And you. You knew about this, didn't you? You were there."
Jack's jaw tightens. "Yes, sir."
"Then you're both idiots." Coach turns back to me, anger cooled to bitter disappointment. "I fought for you, Hayes. When Jersey wanted to dump you, I fought to bring you to Nashville. Told them you were worth the headache."
Guilt twists my gut.
"And this is how you repay me? Nearly kill yourself at some backwoods rodeo?"
"I'm sorry." The words feel empty. "Coach, I'm sorry."
He studies me long, then pulls up a chair, suddenly looking ten years older. "What happened, Colt? Why'd you do this?"
The question hangs there.
I could tell the truth. That I'm chasing my father's ghost. That bull riding's the only thing making me feel alive. Hockey doesn't fill the hole inside.
But I don't.
"I don't know," I lie. "I was stupid. Made a mistake."
Reynolds eyes me, like he's trying to see through the lie. "Media's circling. They want a statement. Why was an NHL player riding bulls?"
Jack clears his throat. "What if he wasn't?"
We both look.
"What if it wasn't a rodeo?" Jack says calm. "What if it was a car crash?"
Reynolds narrows his eyes. "You're suggesting a lie."
"I'm suggesting control." Jack folds his arms. "Colt was driving home from family. Truck got hit. Shoulder injury from impact. No bulls. No rodeo. Just bad luck."
Silence.
"That's fraud," Reynolds says quietly.
"That's survival," Jack counters. "You said it yourself. They want his head. Contract could be voided. But if it's just an accident? Bad timing, not reckless? That's different."
Reynolds looks at me. "What do you think, Hayes?"
I should say no. Own it. Face consequences.
But losing hockey, losing the one steady thing I have? Terrifies me more than any bull.
"I think," I say slow, "I want to keep playing. No matter what."
Coach's silence stretches, then he nods. "Alright. Car accident. You were T-boned at an intersection. Shoulder took the hit. We'll coordinate stories. Get hospital on board. Make it airtight."
Relief floods me. "Thanks, Coach."
"Don't thank me yet." His voice hardens. "You're on thin ice, Hayes. Thinnest ice of your career. One more stunt like this, and I don't care about your stats. You're done. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Six weeks to heal. Maybe eight if we're lucky. Playoffs in ten. Not enough, but what we got." He stands. "Don't make me regret this."
He leaves.
Jack exhales. "Could've gone worse."
"Could've gone better."
"You almost died, Colt. Almost lost your career. Take the win."
I stare at the ceiling, shoulder throbbing. "I can't stop, Jack. Bull riding. It's not the rush anymore. It's about him. My dad."
"Your dad's been gone five years."
"Doesn't matter. I owe him."
"You don't owe him your life." Jack's voice softens. "He wouldn't want this."
Maybe. Maybe not.
All I know: the hunger's still there. The need to prove something I can't name. And lying about my injury doesn't change that.
It just buys me time.
Present Day
I step out of the barn. Doors groan behind me. Boots sink into sun-warmed earth, still soft from last night's dew. Two weeks since the accident. Shoulder's healing. Slower than I want, but healing.
Down the driveway, a familiar rumble rolls up.
Jack's truck appears through dust, dented and sun-faded, rust stealing the color.
He hops out, boots crunching gravel, that dependable grin on his face. "Hey, Callahan. How you holding up?"
I shade my eyes from the sun. "I'm good. What brings you here?"
"Figured I'd check on you." He leans on the fender. "See if you're still in one piece."
I roll my shoulder, feel a sharp twinge. Progress. "Could be worse."
"You think you'll be back on ice soon?" His voice loses its easy tone.
My jaw tightens. "What kind of damn question is that? Of course I will."
Jack raises his hands, palms out, crooked smile. "Easy, killer. Just asking."
Sun beats down, sharp shadows on our faces. Dust hangs between us, stubborn.
I scuff my boot, avoiding his gaze. "I can't quit, Jack. Not hockey. Not the other thing."
"Bull riding," he says flat. "Doc said—"
"I don't give a damn what doc said." Harder than I mean. "I'm riding again. Put my name in for Shelbyville next month."
Jack's eyebrows shoot up. "That soon? Colt, your shoulder—"
"Will be fine." I cut him off. "Doc says I should hang up my spurs. Thinks strain might finish it. I'm riding anyway."
Something passes between us. Understanding. He's been there. Choosing risk over safe.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "I get it."
The fight eases out of me like rope sliding through callused hands. "I know you do."
We stand in the heat, two idiots who don't know when to quit.
"So," Jack breaks silence, "those women who came yesterday. The ones with the crazy mare."
I can't help but smile. "What about them?"
"Coming back?"
"Tomorrow. Nine o'clock."
His grin goes dangerous. "Both easy on the eyes?"
I laugh. "Yeah. Both. But the quiet one, Emma? She's different."
"Different how?"
"Can't put my finger on it." I think about how she looked at me. Scared but curious. Like she wanted to run and stay at the same time. "Something about her doesn't add up. Like she's hiding something."
"Maybe she's just shy."
"Maybe." But I don't buy it. "Or maybe she's running."
Jack studies me. "Planning to find out?"
"Planning to teach her about horses." I push off the fence. "What she tells me beyond that is her business."
"Uh huh." Jack's grin says he thinks otherwise. "You interested."
"Curious."
"Same thing."
Maybe it is. Maybe Emma, paint-stained fingers and guarded eyes, got under my skin faster than she should.
Or maybe I'm just tired of being alone with my ghosts.
"Come on." I grab a lead rope. "Let's saddle up Harley and Duke. Clear our heads."
"Now that," Jack says, heading for Duke's stall, "is a damn fine plan."
We work in comfortable silence, tacking up horses, checking girths and bridles. The rhythm soothes something in me.
Out here, with hay and leather and the solid weight of a horse beneath my hands, I can almost forget the lies.
The secret bull riding. The career on the edge. The coach one mistake from cutting me loose.
And tomorrow, Emma comes back.
The girl who might have as many secrets as I do.
The girl who looked at me like she saw through my bullshit.
I swing into the saddle, shoulder protesting. Jack does the same.
"Race you to the ridge?" he calls.
"You're on."
We take off at a gallop, hooves pounding, wind in our faces, everything else fading.
For eight seconds, I'm free.
And eight seconds is all I've ever needed.