Page 14 of Colt
“I just don’t like being cooped up like this.”
“The house back in Gold Valley is ready for you. I do think you’re probably going to need some extra help, though.”
“I’m not going to need extra help.”
“Odds are you’re going to be on crutches for at least three months.”
Crutches. For three months. That makes my stomach burn. I’ve never walked on crutches before, but I’ve seen other people do it. It looks labored and slow, and I can already feel my own impatience pushing against that. I can already feel my own irritation at the whole thing.
“You’ve never liked being patient,” my mom says.
I snort. “Wholikesto be patient? Maybe some people are better at it than others, but does anybody like waiting for what they want?”
“I think some people have a little bit more acceptance for what life is bringing to them. But you never have.” She looks sad. “It can be a good thing. I know. It’s been a good thing for you, sometimes, Colt. Because you’ve made a lot of yourself. Because that irritation and agitation that you feel has pushed you to be exceptional. I know it has.”
“Yeah. So exceptional.”
“Maybe it won’t be a bad thing. You having to sit for a little bit and just… Take what you get. Even for a moment. You’re always doing something. Always moving on to the next thing. Maybe it won’t be bad for you to sit and try to figure out exactly what else you might be able to get out of life.”
“I don’t want much of anything else out of life. I want to win.”
“There’s more to life than winning.”
It’s a very good, very mom thing to say, but my mom wouldn’t know anything about that. She’s great. She’s strong and ambitious, and she’s my inspiration in many ways, but she’s not competitive. She has a gentle spirit, and mine is a restless one. Ifear very much that I got it from my dad, and part of me hates that she has to see that on me or anyone else.
Because he just sucks so damn much.
He’s famous, sadly. Like, in a niche way. Robert Campbell – bull rider.
He was a big deal in the early 2000s. Endorsement deals with every western wear company out there. Chewing tobacco, cigarettes, beer, you name it, he had his mug plastered all over the ad.
A mug that looks an awful lot like mine.
He was part model, part bull rider, all fuckboy.
He moved through towns and women leaving wreckage in his wake.
And in my case, a bastard kid he never wanted to deal with.
It’s a weird thing, to look so much like a man you’ve barely ever spoken to. To carry a legacy in your face, your veins, especially into a venue where people do know him.
I feel obligated to keep my mouth shut about my lack of relationship with him. I don’t play up that he’s my dad – but we share a last name, and we share genes that can’t be denied.
We also share more than that. Our ambition, our sport.
I try to take that restless spirit and adddo no harmto it, at least.
At least I don’t have a kid to let down and abandon. I fuck around, but I use a condom so that I don’t have to find out. If I’m going to be a rolling stone, I need to make sure that I’m not running other people over.
I feel really strongly about that. I know what I am, but I also know not to hurt other people with it.
My dad also never won the championship. Not once.
He wasn’t as famous for winning as he was for being pretty, and I want to be famous for both. But I can’t do that if I don’t get out of here.
There’s a knock at the door, and we look up to see a doctor standing there. And so begins my physical therapy, which makes me want to punch everybody in the facility right in the face. It’s painful, and it sucks.
And that’s just getting me to walk on crutches.
