Page 6 of Saddle Storm

I hit ignore on reflex. “Oops,” I mutter.

Wilder: The F.U. button? Really?

Silas: Busy.

Wilder: Looks to me like you’re going to have some time on your hands.

I sigh. The scrimmage wasn’t aired—not by any network anyway. But I’ve no doubt there were plenty of fan phones recording. And social media spreads like a tropical flood—fast and unstoppable.

Wilder: Or . . . just the one hand?

I chuckle despite myself.

Wilder: Seriously, how bad?

Wish I knew, I answer silently.

Wilder: Call me later. Or I’ll bring out the big guns.

He means Ginger. Who’s recently moved in with Dad, so it’ll be the two of them.

At least it’s not Dallas. The oldest of the three of us. Somewhere along the way, he stopped being my brother and started sounding like our father. He tries to pass it off as advice. But I know criticism and expectation when I hear it. I was practically raised by athlete coaches.

Silas: I’ll call.

Another message vibrates in my sweatpants as I pull out the keys to my sports car. I pause and reach for the phone instead with my left hand.

My agent’s message is short, sharp, and to the point. It’s what I always liked about him. But this one stings. Because right about now, I need more from him.

Harvey: Surgery consult tomorrow. We’ll handle PR. Go dark online. I’ll call in the morning.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Chase asks, pulling up in his SUV. I remember when he used to ride to practice on his motorcycle. But then he had to go and get married and start driving fancy trucks like he’s getting ready to carpool soccer practice.

“I’m not leaving it in the lot. I can drive one-handed.”

“And I’m not risking the rest of you because you’re afraid anyone would want to touch that machine with a ten-foot pole.”

“It’s a Maserati.”

“It’s yellow.”

I roll my eyes and lock it before jumping in his car.

“Good choice.” He drives off. “Gary and I will put it in your garage tomorrow.”

I settle into his leather seats, not bothering with a seatbelt.

“Wanna talk?” he asks after a minute.

“Sure.” I turn to face him. “Let’s talk about how your fake fiancée humiliated you on television during a game two years ago when she handed you back your ring.”

“Jeez, man. A simple no would’ve been fine,” he mutters. Then considers my reference. “Take it you’re feeling a bit . . . exposed right now?”

I stare out the window, pinching my bottom lip. “Coach wants me to go home. To the ranch.”

He doesn’t look at me. “We takin’ a longer drive?”

“No. Not tonight. After my surgery.”