“Shit.” I hear Kip’s voice, but I’m hardly processing because the bull has abandoned the clown he was chasing, and now all 2000 pounds of him barrels down on a lifeless-looking Theo.
I barely register what’s happening outside the ring, which is why I hardly see it coming. Rhett runs out from the left of the screen and throws himself on Theo’s body like a shield.
Selfless and heroic and stupid.
And just in time to bear the brunt of the bull’s charge.
All I know is that I scream.
30
Rhett
Kip: I hope you’re not dead, but only because my daughter is distraught over you right now, and if you’re dead, I can’t kick your ass for hurting her.
Red lights flash and project around the bay where the ambulance pulls up to the hospital. I’ve shooed the paramedics away at every turn. My ribs are fucked. I don’t need a medical professional to tell me that.
Theo has been in and out of consciousness because he’s too fucking stupid to wear a helmet, and I’m not leaving his side.
They pull the back doors open and lift Theo’s stretcher. He’s strapped down on a hard board. Something I’m hoping is just a precaution, considering he can easily move his feet. He was awake for long enough they were able to get him to do that much.
I follow, ignoring the lancing pain in my back and feeling every year of my age about a hundred times over. It doesn’t help that I didn’t sleep a wink last night.
When I closed my eyes, all I saw was Summer. Her perfect lips. Her deep brown eyes shrink-wrapped in tears.
Fucking haunting.
But right now, I just need to know that Theo is okay. I follow into the emergency room, ignoring the skeptical glances one paramedic gives me. She knows I’m lying to them about my injury. Plus, I made a huge scene about going with Theo, so I’m probably not in their good books.
I’ll get a tour doctor to check me out later.
“You.” She points at me. “Sit there.” She points at the plastic chair just inside the door as they wheel Theo through, and this time, I listen.
I gasp when I bend to sit, dropping my head into my hands and breathing shallow, hoping the pain will subside if I don’t move.
I’m not sure how long I sit here lost in the pain of my ribs and the worry about my friend when I hear, “Rhett. Long hair. Handsome. Probably a total asshole to you?”
It’s Summer’s distraught voice, brimming with pain and anxiety and panic. As if I didn’t already feel sick enough about my dickhead behavior yesterday and making her cry—fuck, that killed me—now I have to listen to her terrified voice.
It feels like rolling in glass, a thousand cuts all over my body, to hear her so upset.
And I did that to her. Yesterday. Today.
“Rhett!”
When I see her, I heave. Pain radiates everywhere. Mascara streams down her face as she jogs down the hallway toward me, fingers wrapped around the cuffs of her sleeves.
Beautiful and devastated.
I did that.
“Oh, my God. Are you okay?” She falls to her knees in front of me, hands fluttering above my legs before she lets herself touch me. “Are you okay?”
Her eyes scan me, as though she’ll be able to see broken bones through my clothes and skin.
“I’m fine.” I hurt too much to move. A part of me thinks I should touch her. The other part knows I should salvage her from the pain of this, of watching me do this. With my dad and brothers, their emotions are locked up. I don’t know if they’re actually afraid for me or just making fun of me.
But with Summer, I can see it plain as day.
Fear.
“I saw you.” Her hands move lightly, so lightly, up my arms and over my shoulders. She sniffs as she takes me in. “I saw it happen.”
My chest caves in. After the words we exchanged last night, I don’t know what to make of this. But I know that seeing her this upset is killing me. It’s turning my stomach.
When she touches my ribs, I flinch. She lifts my shirt before I can stop her.
“Oh, God. Rhett.” Her voice cracks, and I watch a fat tear fall from her eye. It rolls off her dark lashes and splatters on her cheek.
It breaks my fucking heart.
I haven’t looked at my ribs yet, and I hadn’t planned to. I feel her nail on the skin and jump, shoving her hand away as the shirt falls back down to cover what appears to be one hell of a bruise.
“I’ll go get the doctor.”
She turns to leave, and I grab her wrist. “No.”
“No?” Her face twists in genuine confusion.
“No. I’ll see a tour doctor later. A doctor here will want to admit me and keep me from riding.”
She blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. The tip of her nose is red from crying. “You’re going to ride?”
“Probably not tomorrow. But yes, I’m going to ride. I didn’t make it this far to miss my shot at the buckle.”
She shakes her head like she can’t quite believe what she just heard. “Your ribs are probably broken. You could have internal damage.”
“I’ll be fine,” I grumble, glancing away because I can’t look at her anymore. It hurts worse than my ribs.
“Rhett, please. I know enough to know you won’t ride your best like this. It’s not safe.”
I’m agitated because she’s fucking killing me right now. And I want to relent. I do. For her, I do.
She’s not wrong. But I also hate when people tell me to stop riding. I want the last win. It’s all I have. She said things to me yesterday that stung. That resonated. That made me realize I don’t have her, not really.
So maybe I’m mad. A little wounded.
I know it isn’t fair to make her endure this when she’s already been through so much. I want to protect her from any asshole who might hurt her. And that needs to include me.
Maybe that’s why I say something I’ll come to regret.
“We slept together for a couple of weeks, Summer. Don’t tell me what to do.” I spit the angry, petty words at her and watch her lips press together.
I hate myself instantly.
She pushes to standing, pulling in a deep breath and wiping at her nose as she straightens, so full of grace and class. So fucking far out of my league. Pulling away from me like I wanted her to, even though I could be sick over it.
Regret pulses through every limb. It courses through every vein. It singes every nerve.
She nods at me and walks away.
Taking my fucking heart with her as she goes.
“Where’s Summer?” my dad asks as I enter the kitchen.
And there it is. The reason I went back to drinking coffee in my bedroom this morning. But even the view from my deck doesn’t seem that impressive anymore.
While I mull over how to answer my dad’s question, I limp over to the coffee maker for another cup, trying not to look as injured as I am but feeling like I’ve been hit by a fucking Mack truck.
Broken ribs, as confirmed by the tour docs. I stayed in the city for one more night. They discharged Theo with a severe concussion, but he rode the next night anyway. I wanted to tell him not to, and I bit my tongue so hard it bled.
I’d told Summer not to tell me what to do, so who the fuck am I to tell another guy just like me he shouldn’t ride?
He rode well, and I watched from the sidelines. I might have a few screws loose, but I know my boundaries, and the amount of pain I’m in right now doesn’t work for sitting on a bull. It puts me behind going into the World Championship, but only slides me into second. Emmett in first and Theo in third.