Summer Sweat (Spruce Texas)

I inspect each stall, walking past them one by one. The whole time, I sneak glances at Hoyt. His face is flushed, and his neck and arms are slick with sweat. I see the look of pride in his eyes. Or is it defiance? Does he actually welcome taking on these challenges I keep throwing at him? Maybe he’s used to the physical abuse from football, and the rewards and praise he gets for accomplishing his tasks. Maybe he can take a lot more than I give him credit for.

That still won’t stop me. “You didn’t change all the bedding in this one. Back there in the corner. See it?”

Hoyt comes right up to the stall, standing next to me. He curls his lip with frustration. “Really? That tiny lil’ bit …?”

“Yes, really,” I say, leaning toward his face. “That tiny lil’ bit.”

“The horses don’t even use the damned stalls unless they’re injured or sick, right? Why is it such a big deal if—”

“Because I said so.”

When Hoyt turns his eyes onto me, he looks like he’s trying to summon fire from his nostrils. I feel the heat of his every breath on my cheeks. I’m sure exhaustion is mounting in his very bones. I’m pretty sure no one in all of Spruce has been this hard on him his whole privileged life, and that’s exactly why I need to be: the former hotshot of Spruce High won’t learn anything otherwise if everyone keeps forgiving his handsome face and pretty-boy eyes, giving him every benefit of every doubt because of his cheekbones and charm, and letting just about anything slide on account of his football stardom—which don’t mean a lick of anything here.

Finally Hoyt swallows all his anger, his eyes hardening. “You got it, boss.” He trudges back into the stall without another word. I walk away with my chin up, leaving him to it.

The stress test won’t end any time soon for Hoyt Nowak. And I won’t let it end.

Not unless it ends with him saying he quits.

It’s around four in the afternoon when I’m leaning against the fence of the pig pen, watching over Hoyt, and I can’t leave him be. “C’mon, I showed you better than that,” I call out at him while he’s cleaning out the trough. “Even Wilbur and Charlotte think you’re slacking. See how they’re looking at you from the shade, your new best pals? You want them to eat out of a filthy trough?”

Hoyt wipes his face—forgetting his hand was covered in mud and God-knows. He clenches his teeth in disgust when he realizes it, his freshly-smudged face reddening. “I swear …”

“What was that?” I egg him on. “You got something to say?”

He balls up his fists so tightly, they start to shake.

“C’mon, Hoyt, don’t let down your pig buddies. Dirty trough means dirty food. This is how diseases are born.”

“You’re the disease.”

I heard him clearly. Still, I smirk at him. “Wanna say that to my face, rookie?”

He rises at once and marches across the mud and dirt. “Okay, Harrison. Tell me what it is. Just go ahead and tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

He comes to a stop right in front of me. His chest rises and falls with his anger. “Tell me what it is you hate so damned much about me. Did I kick your cat yesterday without knowing it? Did I fart on your pillow? Is it my hair? Do you hate my perfect hair?”

I scrunch up my face. “Say what?”

“You hate me. Actually, you despise me. I want to know why.”

I cross my arms. I’m enjoying this too much. “Hate is a very strong word and, frankly, an unhealthy emotion to practice.”

“Hate ain’t an emotion,” he growls back. “It’s an action. Every time you smirk at me, taking pleasure out of what you’re puttin’ me through. Every scowl. Every scoff. So go on and tell me. Why’re you treatin’ me like the shit that I just wiped across my face?”

“Oh, is that what that is?” I tilt my head, inspecting it. “I was wondering. Smells pretty bad.”

Then he shoves me—painting two big, muddy handprints on my chest—and I fall back against the fence.

Wow, he’s sure got a lot more strength in those arms than I realized.

And he just got physical. “Hey, now …” I warn him, slipping away from the fence to circle him.

He circles me, too, like a lion claiming territory. “I know I’m the rookie here,” he says through clenched teeth, “and I can take a lil’ roughin’ up and tough love or whatever—hell, even a bit of attitude I might understand, sure—but not this. Not how you’ve been treatin’ me today.”

“Put your hands on me again, and I’ll fold you in half,” I warn him, lifting a finger.

He swats my finger away, continuing to circle me, fury in his dark, smoldering eyes. “I deserve some damned dignity.”