Wellington’s the closest thing to a city within thirty miles of Portree—which isn't saying much, but it does have a hospital, a few decent restaurants, and a Branding Agency, the firm I co-own with Connor. While most people are surprised to learn thatthe rodeo star has a business degree and an office job, it's the perfect arrangement.
Connor handles most of the day-to-day operations, and I come in when needed, bringing in clients who are drawn to the Taylor name and a handshake that means something.
When I arrive at Dr. Malan’s office, I remember why I don’t love being here. There’s not a whole lot to love about the smell of antiseptic and quiet judgment that clings to the air like a bad cologne. That damn clock in the corner ticks loudly every second, like it’s counting down to a disaster. And the exam table? Covered in that sheet paper that crinkles under my ass every time I so much as breathe. I'm already sweating, and it’s not from pain.
The good Doctor doesn't mince his words as he walks towards the examination bed.
“Alright, Grant,” Doctor Malan says, adjusting his glasses like he’s about to ruin my day—which, let’s be real, he usually does. “Your imaging came back.”
He taps the screen behind him, some scan I don’t pretend to understand lighting up like Christmas. I already know what he’s gonna say. I can feel it in my bones—or maybe that’s just the lightning bolt currently stabbing my shoulder every time I move it wrong.
“We’re looking at chronic inflammation around the rotator cuff. There’s degeneration, and honestly, I’m surprised you’re functioning as well as you are.”
“I’m a cowboy, Doc,” I say, gritting my teeth through a smile. “Pain’s part of the job description.”
He doesn’t laugh.
“Yes, well, you're aggravating an old injury by continuing to ride bulls,” he says bluntly, leaning back on a bench, continuing to examine my X-rays. “I’m going to recommend surgery. The earlier, the better. You’re operating at about sixty percent mobility on that arm and you’re compensating with your back—which will give you a whole new set of problems if it hasn’t already.”
“Surgery?” I scoff. “Now? We’re in the thick of the circuit Doc, and I’ve got three more qualifiers before Super Series. You want me to just drop out?”
“I want you to be able tolift your damn armin ten years without wincing like a kicked mule,” he fires back. He’s not yelling, but his tone’s hard enough to land.
I run a hand down my face.Fuck. I knew it was bad. Didn’t know it wassurgerybad.
He turns around, folds his arms, and looks at me like he’s already read the script and knows I’m gonna fight him.
“I can’t. Not now Doc.”
He sighs, deep and patient, the kind of sigh a man only gives when he's used to stubborn jackasses like me.
Eyeing me for a long moment. “Alright, then we manage what we can. Pain control, anti-inflammatories, physical therapy. And—this is important—I’m adding yoga.”
He moves to his desk and sits down as he sighs, and starts scribbling on his prescription pad.
Yoga
For a second, I just stare, waiting for the punchline.
“Yoga? As in bendy poses and humming and...breathing exercises?” I continue to stare at him in disbelief.
“Yes, Grant.Yoga.You know—stretching, breath work, balance. Contrary to cowboy belief, it does not require incense or a spiritual awakening.”
“Doc, cowboys don’t do yoga. We throw hay bales, we ride bulls, we wrestle livestock.” I shift uncomfortably “You ever see a man in Wranglers touch his toes without swearing?”
Still not blinking.The bastard’s actually serious.
So I say again, for good measure. “You want me”—I point to myself—"a bull rider, to roll into a yoga class?” I ask this nice and slow, just in case he’s confused me with one of his suburban clients who orders oat milk lattes and wears athleisure for the vibes.
Dr. Malan leans forward, arms folded now, matching my energy. “You’re a bull rider with a busted shoulder and a record of ignoring pain like it’s a lifestyle choice. Keep it up, and you’ll be a bull rider who can’t even lift his damn arm to do up his button up shirt. You’re one fall away from being permanently benched. So yes, Grant, It's yoga or surgery—and trust me, surgery's no picnic. It might result in that eventually anyway. I open my mouth to say something but he ignores me and continues. “Most people assume the pain is isolated to the shoulder, especially after repetitive strain. But often, it’s thebackthat’s the culprit. Weak or tight muscles in the upper back pull on the shoulder structure. Same thing in reverse. Your body’s one interconnected mess of overcompensation. Strengthen the back, stabilize the core, and you’ll take pressure off the shoulder.”
I grimace. “So what you’re saying is, if I work on my back, my shoulder’ll stop screaming at me?”
“I’m saying if you want to delay surgery without completely trashing your body, you need to treat thewhole system, not just the part that hurts.” He pauses, leveling me with that Doctor stare. “And yes, that includes yoga. Twice a week. Non-negotiable.”
I let out a grunt. Unable to argue. My shoulder’s been screaming louder every morning. Sleeping is a game of positions now, and even brushing my hair feels like punishment.
I glance at the window, jaw tight. Outside, Portree goes on with its day—cattle, dust, and all the things that make me feel likeme. Except right now, I feel like a broken-down workhorse waiting for a shot of glue.
