“Uh-huh.” Mason's gaze flicks meaningfully to where I'm unconsciously rotating my arm.
“But looks like today’s the day I finally beat your ass at bull riding,” he says, clapping a dusty hand to my back.
“Keep dreaming,” I mutter, rolling my shoulder out.
His eyes flick down to my shoulder. “That’s why you’re wincing.”
“I'm not—” I start to protest, but Mia's concerned look stops me.
“Is your shoulder worse?” she asks, her hand touching my arm gently.
“It's fine,” I insist, though the dull throb tells a different story. “Just a little stiff.”
Mason watches our exchange with interest, his gaze moving between us. “You should see his medical file,” he tells Mia. “Thick as a phone book.”
“Thanks for that,” I mutter.
Mason grins and slaps my back again. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the paramedics are on standby when I take the win.”
He turns, starts heading off, then spins back around like something just hit him. “Damn, forgot my helmet! I’ll catch you in a bit, yeah?” he shouts over the rising roar of the crowd before disappearing into the chaos.
“Why do you keep doing it?” Mia asks suddenly. “If it hurts you? If it's dangerous?”
The question catches me off guard, not because it's unexpected, but because I sense she genuinely wants to understand, not judge.
I glance around at the bustling preparation area, the other riders, the distant roar of the crowd. “Can we talk somewhere quieter?”
She nods, and I lead her to a relatively secluded spot behind the chutes, where the noise of the crowd is muffled and we can hear each other without shouting.
“Bull riding is...” I pause, searching for words that don't sound trite. “When I'm on that bull, for eight seconds, everything else disappears. All the guilt, all the 'what-ifs' about Jake, all the pressure of being a Taylor. It's just me and the animal and pure survival instinct.”
Her eyes never leave mine as I speak, absorbing every word.
“After Jake died, I couldn't function,” I continue, the admission tasting strange on my tongue, because I've never told anyone this. “I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. The only time I felt anything was when I was riding. The adrenaline... it was the only thing that cut through the numbness.”
“It was your coping mechanism,” she says softly.
“Yeah.” I nod, grateful for her understanding. “Same as swimming is for you, I think.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “What do you mean?”
“You said it yourself—water connects you to your mom. But I think it's more than that. When you're swimming, you're in control in a way you couldn't be during her accident. You're mastering the element that took her from you.”
Mia is quiet for a long moment, then nods slowly. “I never thought of it that way, but... I guess…you're right.” She steps closer, her hand coming to rest on my chest. “We're both still trying to make peace with water, aren't we? You by avoiding it, me by claiming it.”
“Looks that way,” I agree, covering her hand with mine. “Maybe we're not so different after all.”
“Maybe not.” She looks up at me and the look in her eyes does more to my insides than any passionate kiss. She pats my chest and smiles up at me. The kind of smile that says she sees me—all of me—and isn’t running. The kind that undoes a man without a single word, and stitches him back together in the same breath. “Now go ride your bull, cowboy. Show me what eight seconds of freedom looks like.”
I press my forehead to hers briefly, drawing strength from her presence. “Yes, ma'am.”
When I finish signing in, I grab my chute assignment and bull name—because yeah, that’s a thing—then step back out into the fading sunlight, scanning the crowd until I spot her.
Mia.
She’s got her camera up, practically glowing with excitement as she snaps photos of everything that moves. She’s in full travel writer mode, crouched low by the fence to catch an angle, eyes sharp behind the lens like a hawk zeroing in on its prey.
And the prey?
