Page 9 of Lost Trust

I pull off my leather vest, unsnap the buttons of my denim shirt, and tug my T-shirt over my head with my right arm.

The left protests enough that I have to grit my teeth.

Jovie notices as she steps closer and assists, all business now. “Where’s it hurt the most?”

“Front.” I point near the top of my shoulder.

She brings her hand up and presses the tips of her fingers lightly, and pain shoots down my arm.

“Ow,” I bite out.

“How about here?” She moves her fingers farther back.

I hiss.

She nods like she expected that, and then she steps back. “Lift your arm for me.”

I get it maybe halfway before it feels like someone jams an ice pick into the joint.

She catches my wrist and gently lowers my arm. “When?”

“Last ride,” I say.

“What happened?”

“The big bull was mean to me.”

“Royce,” she says, exasperated.

She’s had to put up with cocky, stubborn cowboys for days on end, and I can tell her bullshit meter has reached its limit.

“We were in sync, and then he decided to jerk to the left mid-spin, and my free arm torqued hard enough that I felt something tear,” I admit.

She exhales slowly. “I don’t like this.”

“I know,” I say as I clumsily try to pull my shirt back on. “It’s just sore because it’s fresh. It’ll loosen up.”

She pins me with a stern look. The one she uses on all injured riders who lie straight to her face. Then she moves to help me redress myself.

“The MRI showed a partial-thickness tear eleven months ago,” she reminds me. “You were already compensating. And now you can’t actively elevate your arm.”

“I know the drill. I’ll do the stretches,” I promise.

“You may have turned that partial tear into a full-thickness tear, Royce.”

The words hang between us.

Fuck.

I hate surgery.

More importantly … I hate recovery. Six months. Maybe longer. A fucking eternity in professional rodeo.

“I’ll get it checked.”

“Oh great. When?” she asks sweetly.

“Soon.”