With the help of Juliette, she changed without jabbing herself with pins. But once the jumpsuit was on, Emmy Lou had doubts.
“You look amazing.” Juliette stood back, arms crossed over her waist. “This is a yes. After we shorten it.” She gave Emmy a hand up onto the stool. “Travis?”
“Wow.” Travis nodded. “That’s new.” He gave her reflection a thumbs-up, pulling on a faded, sleeveless chambray shirt. “This works. It makes my arms look good, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” Being surrounded by professional athletes had totally shaken her big brother’s confidence.
“You have to admit, he’s changed,” Travis said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “Barely cracked a smile. Brock, I mean. You probably didn’t notice, though.”
She had noticed. It’s for the best. If he kept being a tool, as Travis put it, it would be a lot easier to pretend he wasn’t the same person whose laugh and smile and kisses she’d loved most. Instead of taking the bait, she turned on the stool and avoided her brother’s gaze altogether.
“Guess not, then.” There was laughter in her brother’s voice. “If it bothers you so much, I’ll try not to bring him up—”
“It does not bother me—” But her quick denial was so loud and sharp that everyone in the room paused to look her way.
“Sure. Right. No more Brock Watson talk.” He flexed for the mirror and sent her a cheeky wink. “Not from me anyway.”
* * *
Brock ran a towel over his sweat-covered face. He had a break from training today but that didn’t mean he was going to sit on his ass. The pressure was on. If he was going to get back in the game, be the peak contender he once was, he had to put in the work and time. Lucky for him, there was always something to do on the ranch.
; It had been a pretty dry spring, so there was no choice but to supplement feed for the cattle. Between loading and unloading square hay bales, hefting fifty-pound bags of range cubes, checking on the water tank levels, and making a mental inventory of what they’d need to keep the herd fed through winter, he managed to keep busy.
Once he’d run through things with the foreman, he put in an old-school workout.
His trainer, Stan Jelinik, had taught him how to use what he had available to him. It was amazing how much use a person could get out of an old tractor tire. Dead lifts were always an option. So was a farmer walk—standing in the middle of a tire and carrying it, straight-armed, around one of the pins had led to many a wager among the ranch hands. Their support and competitive spirit were the added incentive he needed to push himself to the limits. If there was no cedar to cut down or wood to chop, he’d take a sledgehammer to the damn tire. One side, then the other—occasionally he’d alternate and work his arms, shoulders, and back to the max.
Aunt Mo was at her quilting circle, so Brock took a steaming hot shower, made himself a second breakfast, and sat on the wide wraparound porch to enjoy the quiet. As much as he appreciated the housing the owners had provided, he’d rather stay here. This was home. Then again, it was a good thirty to forty-five minutes into town and another ten to twenty to the stadium. Not exactly convenient.
He set his empty plate on the wooden-plank porch and flexed his left heel, slowly stretching his calf muscle. Occasionally, his leg ached. The physical therapist he’d worked with during his rehabilitation said there was a chance it always would. Still, he had no complaints. The surgery he’d had four and a half years ago to repair his tibial plateau fracture had been a success. If it weren’t for the occasional ache and the seven-inch scar on the outside of his knee, he could almost forget the injury had happened.
But then he’d get a call from his Narcotics Anonymous sponsor, Randy, or Green Gardens Alzheimer’s clinic, and there was no denying how significantly his injury and the resulting fallout had changed his life.
And his struggle with addiction had made this last injury a son of a bitch to manage. A tear to his right ACL with minimum pain meds wasn’t easy, but he’d done it. A week of meds, then on to acupuncture and electrotherapy. The last seven months he’d carefully followed every order from his doctors and physical therapists, his trainers and nutritionists. Once Dr. Provencher released him, he’d be ready to go. The sooner the better.
Don’t let the fall break you were his father’s words.
I’m doing my best. And he was. Nothing and no one would stop him from getting back on top. He didn’t know how much longer he had on the field; no one ever did. But he wasn’t giving up. No way he’d let his team, his father, or himself down again.
He stared out over the rolling fields, the distant low of one of his black-and-white Herefords and the coo of the occasional dove giving him the peace he needed before he faced the rest of the day. He downed the rest of his protein-powder, electrolyte-infused smoothie and pushed himself out of the sturdy wooden rocking chair.
* * *
He was washing his dishes in Aunt Mo’s massive farm sink when his phone started ringing.
“Brock.” Connie, his agent, was all business. “It’s a go.”
“You’ve got so many irons in the fire, I’m not sure which one we’re talking about.” Brock stacked the dish in the drying rack, dried his hands on a hand-stitched towel, and made sure the kitchen was up to Aunt Mo’s standards.
“You are welcome.” Connie laughed. “Alpha. Their offer came in and it’s big.”
“How big?” It was one thing to pitch sports drinks or athletic gear. That was his bread and butter, the tools he used daily. So in a sense, he was qualified to be their spokesman. A men’s line? He wasn’t so sure he was the right man for the job. But as Connie liked to tell him, she knew best.
“Big-big.” And she was happy; he could hear it in her voice. “I’m emailing you what they’ve sent. Take a look at it and I’ll call you this evening?”
“Sounds good.” He nodded.