Page 35 of Came the Closest

His words ping my brain and bounce right back off. In fact, I start laughing. “Trav, if this is you trying to get back at me—”

“It’s not that,” he interrupts stiffly. Then, after a pause, he adds, “But to be clear, there are a significant number of things I could get back at you for. This just isn’t one of them.”

I stare blankly at a blue jay roosted on a maple tree branch in the front yard that is going about its Monday morning like normal. Its only care is gathering worms and flitting over the lake and finding the perfect place to sunbathe.

“You won’t be gone at all,” Travis repeats, “because I need you to keep laying low. That means you don’t make appearances at rodeo events, and you absolutely do not try to fix it online. It doesn’t mean you can’t go anywhere, though. You’re not that famous.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“It does,” he continues, “mean not going anywhere in the rodeo’s eye. There, you will be recognized. Comes with a money back guarantee.”

“Travis, I can’t do that and you know it. If I’m not competing, shooting sponsorship content, and—”

“Look, Colt. Yes, guys sully their reputations one night and are back in the arena the next. But you…” He pauses. I wonder if it’s to consider his words or to check his email. “The bottom line is that you have a charmer’s persona and darn close to reckless confidence, but your sobriety sets you apart from almost everyone on the circuit. We don’t need people poking around to find out why you’re sober in the first place.”

Well, that answers the question about choosing his words or checking his email.

The words he chose are a perfect shot, too. I feel them sear right through my chest. Getting physical with a reporter during a live podcast is one thing, but dredging up my past is another. A flippant “I beat myself up in the arena, might as well keep my head on straight outside of it” worked well before when I was asked about it. And it was the partial truth.

Just not the whole one.

“So, what now? If I’m not competing, shooting content, and generally keeping up appearances, do tell, how am I supposed to keep sponsors?” Sarcasm layers my words heavily. “Someone has said, repeatedly, that no sponsors mean no money.”

“You let me handle it, that’s what,” Travis says dryly. “By some small miracle, you haven’t lost any sponsors yet. You’re not exactly hard up for cash. Cooperate, and you should be back on the circuit a couple months from now. Ignore me, and, well, reap the consequences.”

“It’s reap the rewards and suffer the consequences.”

“Semantics.”

I blow out a long breath ringed with frustration, and I narrowly resist banging my forehead against my steering wheel. “Okay, then. I’ll stay off the circuit for three months—the duration of this guardianship.”

I purposely leave out the fake engagement. The press does not get to sink their talons into that sticky situation. It’s bad enough that the court system will know.

“Now, I don’t—”

“Gotta go,” I say. “Don’t let my career crash and burn without at least letting me light the match.”

Travis is saying something about being serious, but I hang up. Indi’s shiny black Audi appears in my rearview, but I don’t get out of my truck.

For the first time since I was seventeen years old, I no longer have the one consistent thing in my life. Longer, if you count training with Tripp from age thirteen. Nearly two decades of eating, sleeping, and breathing rodeo. Of moving to the next city, running the same drills, climbing to the top of a career. And what does it amount to when it’s been stripped from me?

Nothing.

That’s what.

I wish I could talk to Tripp. But if I could, none of this would’ve happened in the first place.

A sharp tap on my passenger window startles me from my thoughts. Indi stands outside my truck, not wearing enough makeup to hide the puffiness around her red-rimmed eyes.

Reality punches me mercilessly in the gut. It’s not a reality check I want—I’m only human—but it is one that spurs me into action. Here I am, wallowing in self-pity, while Milo is about to be thrust into completely unfamiliar territory. While my sister, who has been Milo’s person since she was fourteen and he was born, waits to entrust him to my care.

Pathetic.

I briefly consider getting the word tattooed across my forehead.

“Took you long enough,” Indi says when I meet her between our vehicles.

“Good morning to you, too,” I say. My gaze flits to her car.

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