“Honestly? I’m angry,” I reply.
“That makes sense.” He nods, looking at me sympathetically. “This injury has affected your ability to compete. I think anybody in your shoes would feel angry.”
“I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am. I’m constantly compared to my father, which is whatever, it’s fine. He’s a legend in our world, but I’ve worked really fucking hard to make my own name for myself outside of the Bishop legacy, only to be forced out of my season because of an injury, like he was.”
The words come out in a rush, and I’m surprised at myself for opening up. I’ve never voiced my feelings about my dad’s legacy and what that meant for me as a professional bull rider out loud. I’ve never wanted to seem ungrateful when that’s the furthest thing from the truth, but I have always,alwayswanted to be known as a legend and one of the greats because ofmeand whatI’vedone, not because of the way my father paved for me. It can be hard to be taken seriously sometimes in this world, coming from such a big name. I know my buddy, Shooter, a world champ bronc rider, understands where I’m coming from. He also comes from a legacy family, and he’s struggled with the weight of that as well. I never want people to think I’ve gotten to where I’m at because of strings my father pulled for me.
“Colt, your injury and your dad’s injuries are nothing alike,” William says softly, zero judgement in his tone. “You can come back from this. This doesn’t have to define you or your career.”
Heaving a sigh, I reply, “Logically, I know this, but my father’s injury and speculations that I’ll end up just like him have been a hot topic since I first went pro. It feels an awful lot like everyone’s predictions of me are coming true, and it’seasy to look past logic and wallow in self-pity when I’ve got nothing but time on my hands.”
It’s not until the words leave my mouth that I realize where the root of my anger comes from. I’ve been so caught up feeling sorry for myself while also being pissed at myself to really analyzewhy. I have always strived for perfection; it’s both a positive and negative trait I possess, and knowing that I can’t rush my recovery, can’t put one foot in front of the other and get back on that bull, is fucking hard. I’m angry at myself for getting bucked off that bull. I’m angry at the universe for allowing this to happen. I’m angry at everything because I can’t control this situation. I can’t fix it with the snap of my fingers.
“Injuries are very common in the rodeo world, especially with bull riders,” William states. “You know this, I know this. It’s a fact. It could’ve happened to anybody.”
The raw vulnerability I feel talking about this with anybody, let alone someone like William, who is so close to my father, is like being stripped of every layer of clothing I have, and not in a fun way.
“I’ve spent my entire career, both pro and otherwise, telling myself that I would never end up like my father. I’d convinced myself I was invincible, and then this happened, proving I was very muchnot, and it’s been a tough fucking pill to swallow.”
His eyes meet mine, face unreadable. “I can understand that, but again, you can come back from this. This doesn’t have to be a career-ending injury if you don’t let it. This situation isn’t like what happened to your dad.”
Again, logically, I know he’s right, but all of my logic seems to be clouded by anger. I don’t know how to clear it or move past it. Still, as we finish up our meal, I can’t help but feel lighter than I have since the injury. Getting those thoughtsoff my chest and having someone listen seems to help. My mom has asked me half a dozen times this week alone how I’m feeling, but I always tell her I’m fine. I don’t want to worry her any more than I already have. Not only that, but I also just kind of suck at talking about my feelings, and I don’t even know why. It’s not like I come from a home where feelings are looked down upon, but I’ve always been the fun guy. The carefree one who people go to, to have a good time and forget about their responsibilities. I’ve always kept my shit to myself because I never wanted to ruin that image.
I don’t know what it is about William, be it his age and maturity or the simple fact that he’s not one of my friends so I don’t feel the need to wear the ‘fun’ mask, but it felt okay to share that with him. And it felt good to get it off my chest.
The conversation drifts, and we get back to eating, but I can’t help but smirk as I glance up at William. “You know, for somebody who claims they don’t want to be my friend, this feels suspiciously like we’re walking into friendship territory, Doc.”
With blue eyes narrowing on me from across the table, he stuffs another fry into his mouth, but says nothing.
Yeah, he’s full of shit. We both know it.
7
William Andino
The last thing I want to do after working all day is be at the hardware store, along with every other person in Copper Lake, apparently, but when my father called me earlier and told me the toilet on the main level was malfunctioning and he was having to go all the way upstairs to use the bathroom, I knew I had no choice. I don’t love him having to climb the stairs without me there. He’s not necessarily unstable, but it’s an older house and the stairs are on the steeper side. It's why when I moved in, we moved him into the room on the main level. He’s not getting around like he used to.
It’s hard to witness your parents getting older. It’s something we all know will happen one day, but knowing it’s coming and watching it happen are two very different things. Witnessing my mother’s deterioration not that long ago is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. The cancer hit fast; one day, we were learning about her illness, and the next, we were saying goodbye. It was like the blink of an eye, and my father hasn’tbeen the same since. I truly think the death of my mother is the reason for his decline. Not necessarily because he's consciously not taking care of himself, but because his heart is broken and the one woman he's spent his whole life with is gone. Whether he realizes it, I think his light, his reason to live, has withered away without her here with him.
I can’t imagine loving someone that fiercely.
Annie and I loved each other; we spent many years loving each other, but it wasn’t this time-stands-still, my-world-is-bleak-without-you type of love. I’ve always admired my parents for the way they so clearly and effortlessly adored one another, and I’ve, on more than one occasion, wondered if that type of love even exists anymore or if it’s just one for the books.
After I grab the items I think I’ll need based on the information my father gave me over the phone, I get in line, check out, and head home. It’s been raining off and on all day, and now there’s a rainbow painted across the sky. I know as a man in his mid-forties, rainbows are silly things to find joy in, but I can’t help it. Ever since I was a kid, when my mom told me there was gold at the end of rainbows, I’ve always loved them. Glancing up toward the sky, where the showery prism shines, I’m reminded of how beautiful the natural world can be when we stop and take the time to notice.
Pulling into the driveway, I park my car in the garage beside my dad’s truck. I grab the bag off the seat before climbing out and strolling inside. The door in the garage that leads into the house opens into the laundry room, which is connected to the kitchen. My senses awaken as I toe off my shoes and step farther into the house, a savory and sweet aroma filling the kitchen.
“Hey, this smells great,” I say to my father as I empty my pockets into the dish on the counter. “What are you making?”
It’s not often my dad does it anymore, but he used to cook for us almost every night. When I was a teenager, my mom went back to work as a nurse—not because we needed the money, but because she loved it so much—and oftentimes, she would work a later shift than my father, so he would get home and start dinner so she had something hot to eat by the time she made it home too.
Growing up, I loved seeing it because, especially during that time, it was common for the women to stay home and do the cooking and cleaning while the men worked. It was refreshing to see them share those roles and do it so willingly. Never once did I hear my dad complain about my mom wanting to go back to work, or the fact that he had to pick up some of the slack she couldn’t handle by doing so. They were such a strong team, and I vividly remember always wanting to have that strong team feeling with somebody, and how it never felt quite right with Annie.
“Just some spaghetti,” he grunts as he stirs the sauce. “How was your day at the office? Anything fun happen?”
Breathing out a laugh, I say, “If by fun you mean sick babies, then yes. I’ll be back. I’m going to take a look at the toilet and see if I can’t fix it.”
“Don’t take too long,” he calls out after me. “Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”
