“I want you better,” Malan says, pulling out his prescription pad. “And yoga’s better than chasing painkillers. Try it and come back to me if you don’t feel a change in the next three weeks. I’ll even write it down if that makes it real for you.”
He scribbles.YOGA, 2x weekly.
This man just prescribed mefucking yoga.
I mutter under my breath—definitely not church-friendly language—and drag a hand down my face.
Cowboys don’t do yoga.
We don’t bend. We break. We rub dirt on it. We don’t downward dog.
But the pain... it’s getting worse. And the PBR doesn’t hand out trophies for stubbornness. If I want to stay in the game, something’s gotta give.
“Anything else, Doc?” I grumble. “Maybe a facial? A mani-pedi?”
He smirks like he’s been waiting for that. “Don’t knock it. You might surprise yourself.”
“I'll have the nurse give you a physical therapy schedule and Annie teaches the yoga class at the gym. She’s good. And don’t think you can charm your way out of it either—she teaches half the rodeo boys from Wellington already.”
I grunt, standing carefully, stiff as hell.
“Guess I’ll see you on the mat,” I mutter, grabbing the piece of paper he hands me.
He smirks. “Wear something stretchy.”
I give him a look that would’ve felled a lesser man.
“Next time, Doc,” I say as I push open the door, “try not to crush a man’s prideandhis shoulder in the same visit.”
“Just trying to keep you breathing, cowboy.” He chuckles.
He holds out a box of painkillers “And take these for the pain. But only as directed, Grant. I know how you cowboys like to push through.”
I pocket the prescription and meds with a nod. “Thanks, Doc.”
“But uhmm, if I walk in there and it’s all soccer moms and flexible retirees, I’m billing you for every ounce of shame.”
He just laughs. “Fair enough. But take it seriously, Grant. You’ve got years ahead of you still son—ifyou stop letting your pride write checks your body can’t cash.”
With those ominous words ringing in my ears, I walk out of his office.
The second the door creaks open, I mutter under my breath, “Yoga…namastemy ass.”
And of course, fate has a sense of humor, because who’s parked right outside the door on the sitting room bench with her oversized sunglasses and a notebook that’s never blank?
None other than Betty Bridge.
Queen of gossip.
Snitch of the South.
And now—eyewitness.
Her eyebrows launch skyward like I just told her I’m getting a Brazilian wax.
“Afternoon, Betty,” I mumble, tipping my hat, too late to backtrack. She’s already chewing the story like it’s fresh taffy, and I swear I can see her fingers twitching for her phone.
By lunch, half the town’s gonna know I’ve been ordered to stretch and breathe like a damn daisy in the wind.Fuck sakes.
