Page 14

I hate when people ask me how I ended up as the only female medic for the Savage Eight. Like it's some fairytale where I battled dragons to win my position. Truth is, I'm just good at what I do—patching up men who make their living getting thrown from two-thousand-pound animals with anger management issues.

"Ms. Hayes, one more question!" A reporter waves his recorder in my face, and I resist the urge to swat it away. Media day is a special kind of hell I endure because it's in my contract.

"Sure." I force a smile that feels like barbed wire across my face.

"What's it like being surrounded by all that testosterone? Any... special relationships forming?" His eyebrows wiggle suggestively, and my stomach turns.

I maintain eye contact, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long. "I keep my riders alive. That's it.”

I catch Rhett watching me from across the room, that familiar smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He knows how much I hate this dog and pony show. When our eyes meet, he raises an eyebrow as if to say, "You're doing great, sweetheart." I want to flip him off, but there are too many cameras.

Another reporter edges closer. “What about your previous relationship with Rhett ‘Razor’ Calloway? You two were romantically linked for a time there.”

My spine stiffens. "Ancient history. I'm here to discuss my work, not who I may or may not have shared a bed with."

The reporter's eyes widen, clearly not expecting my bluntness. Good. I've found shock is the fastest way to shut down this line of questioning.

The reporter doesn't take the hint. "Come on, Ms. Hayes. Surely working so... intimately with these men—"

"My medical bag contains sixteen different ways to stop catastrophic bleeding," I interrupt, voice cool as winter steel. "I'm thinking about all of them right now."

That shuts him up. The PR coordinator swoops in, ushering the next batch of vultures toward Knox, who gives them his practiced Viper smile—all teeth, zero warmth.

I scan the room for an escape route when I spot Marcus leaning against the wall near the exit. His eyes track me like a predator, and something cold slides down my spine. Before I can move, he's blocking my path.

"Willow." His voice is sandpaper wrapped in silk. "Looking good today."

"Marcus." I keep my voice neutral, professional. "Excuse me."

His arm shoots out, hand pressing against the wall beside my head. "Not so fast. We need to talk."

"We have nothing to discuss."

He leans in close enough that I can smell the coffee on his breath. My heart hammers, but I keep my face impassive. Years of practice.

"You think you're so special with your Savage Eight boys," he hisses. "But I know what you really are. Just trash that got lucky."

I meet his gaze, refusing to flinch. "Move your arm or lose it."

He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That boyfriend of yours—Razor—he's causing problems. Talking to people he shouldn't. You might want to remind him what happens to people who stick their noses where they don't belong."

"Is that a threat?" My voice is steady even as adrenaline floods my system.

"It's a promise, sweetheart. Just ask Ethan what happens when you don’t mind your fucking business. Oh… wait.”

My blood turns to ice. Ethan. The name nobody says around the Savage Eight—especially not around Rhett.

"You piece of shit," I whisper, keeping my voice low enough that the nearby reporters can't hear. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Marcus's smile spreads like an oil slick. "Don't I? Funny how accidents happen in this business. One minute you're on top of the world, the next you're buried six feet under. See what happens when you don’t play your cards right?”

My vision narrows, the edges burning red. I've spent years building walls around the rage that lives in my bones, but right now, those walls are crumbling faster than a house of cards in a hurricane.

"You motherfucker." The words tear from my throat, raw and jagged. "You don't say his name. Ever."

Before my brain can catch up with my body, my hands are shoving against Marcus's chest. Hard. He stumbles back, surprise flashing across his face before it morphs into something ugly.

"There she is. The wild little bitch I've heard so much about." His voice drops to a vicious whisper. "This is why you fit in with those animals. You're just as feral."

I launch myself at him, all training and professionalism forgotten. But before I can land a hit, two sets of strong arms wrap around me, pulling me back.

"Easy, Wills." It's Jace's voice in my ear, steady as a heartbeat. His grip is gentle but firm around my waist. "Not here. Not now."

On my other side, Weston’s massive frame blocks Marcus from view. "Problem?" he asks, his voice deceptively casual, but I feel the tension vibrating through him.

Marcus adjusts his shirt collar, that smug smile never leaving his face. "No problem. Just having a friendly chat with my medic." The way he says the word makes it sound like something dirty.

"Didn't look friendly," Weston says.

"That's because your girl here can't take a compliment." Marcus shrugs, playing to the curious onlookers who've started to gather. "Volatile, isn't she? Makes you wonder what else she's hiding."

“You goddamn -”

Jace puts his hand over my mouth. “Remember our little… deal, Doctor Reid.”

Marcus’s smile falters. I nod against Jace's hand, and he slowly releases me. Marcus watches the entire exchange with that smug grin that makes me want to reacquaint his face with my knee.

"Smart girl," Marcus murmurs. "Too bad Ethan wasn't as good at following orders."

Before I can react, Rhett materializes behind Marcus, his presence filling the space like a gathering storm. I haven't even seen him approach, but suddenly he's there, six-foot-two of coiled tension.

"Something you want to say to me directly, Doc?" Rhett's voice is deceptively calm, but I know that tone. It's the same one he uses right before he drops into the chute, when everything inside him goes deadly quiet.

Marcus turns slowly, his confidence faltering for just a fraction of a second when he sees Rhett towering over him. But the snake recovers quickly, plastering that fake smile back on his face.

"Razor. Just catching up with your... team medic here."

"She doesn't look like she's enjoying the conversation." Rhett steps closer, eliminating the space between them. His body language is casual, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flex at his sides. "And I distinctly heard Ethan's name come out of your mouth."

The air crackles between them. I can see Marcus calculating his next move, weighing his options against Rhett's reputation.

"Just reminiscing with your medic, Razor." Marcus turns slowly, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Old times, mutual friends."

Rhett's jaw tightens, a muscle flickering beneath his stubbled skin. "Funny, I don't recall you and Willow having mutual friends."

"No?" Marcus widens his eyes in mock surprise. "Ethan and I were quite close near the end."

The temperature in the room plummets. Weston's hand tightens on my shoulder, and I feel Jace go completely still beside me. Rhett's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes.

Levi steps up to Marcus with an angry sneer. “I don’t give a fuck that you’re the orthopedic specialist on the circuit. If you ever mention Ethan again or come near Willow, I will make that bar fight look like a fucking preschool playdate.”

Marcus smiles, unphased by Levi's threat. "Careful now. Wouldn't want another suspension from the ObrA, would we?"

I'm ready to launch myself at him again when Knox slides between us, all smooth professionalism, his media smile firmly in place.

"Dr. Reid, I believe Commissioner Wilson was looking for you." Knox's voice is friendly, but his eyes are pure ice. "Something about new safety protocols."

Marcus hesitates, clearly weighing the satisfaction of continuing this against the presence of too many witnesses.

"We'll continue this later," he says, flicking his gaze to me. "Hayes." He turns and walks away, each step deliberate.

"What the fuck was that about?" Levi demands, his voice low enough that only our circle can hear.

I shake my head. "Nothing. Just Marcus being an asshole."

Rhett's eyes haven't left me. "Willow." Just my name, but loaded with questions.

"Not here," I mutter, nodding toward the reporters who are slowly looking our way. “Tonight.”

Jace nods. “Family meeting tonight then.”

The rest of the media event drags like a bull rider with his hand stuck in the rope. Every forced smile makes my face ache, and I can't shake the chill that settled into my bones after Marcus's threats. I catch Rhett watching me throughout the afternoon, his brow furrowed in that way that means he's piecing something together.

"Last question for Ms. Hayes!" The PR coordinator chirps, mercifully bringing my torture session to an end.

A young reporter with eager eyes raises her hand. "What's the worst injury you've treated on the circuit?"

For once, an actual medical question. "Bull horn to the femoral artery. Had forty-five seconds to stop the bleeding before he bled out. He's still riding today." I don't mention it was Knox, or that I still wake up some nights with phantom blood on my hands.

I smile and walk away from the table, heading toward the room where the boys are. They are all standing there together, getting their promo pictures taken.

It brings me back to a simpler time when we were just a ragtag group of kids with Ethan as our misfit leader. No big sponsors, no big press tour, just the ten of us.

I watch the boys pose for the cameras, their media smiles a far cry from the real ones I see back at the ranch. Ten of us, once upon a time. Now nine. The hole Ethan left never really closed—just scarred over, tender to the touch.

A hand slides onto my lower back, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

"Whoa there, gorgeous." It's Tyler Jensen, a notorious rider from the Dakota circuit. His smile is practiced, all perfect teeth and empty charm. "Didn't mean to startle you."

I step away, letting his hand fall. "No problem. Excuse me."

He blocks my path, leaning in. "How about a drink after this circus? I've got some injuries that could use your... professional attention." The way his eyes drift down my body makes it clear what kind of attention he's offering.

“Not interested. Move." I keep my voice flat, professional, but Tyler just laughs.

"Come on, sweetheart. Don't be like that." His hand reaches for my arm. "I've watched you with those Savage Eight boys. Playing hard to get is cute, but—"

I twist my arm away. "There's nothing cute about me saying no. Try comprehension skills next time instead of cologne."

Tyler's face hardens, that practiced charm slipping away like a mask. "Fucking tease. What, you only spread your legs for those eight assholes?"

"That's enough." I move to step around him, but he blocks me again, this time with his body fully in my path.

"Is it because of Calloway? Everyone knows you're his little plaything."

Something dangerous flashes through me. "Last warning. Move."

"Or what? You'll run to your bodyguards?" Tyler sneers, glancing toward the Savage Eight. "Everyone knows that's the only reason you've got this gig. Fucking your way through the roster."

The words hit like a physical blow, but I don't flinch. I've heard worse. Been through worse.

"You know what, Tyler? You're right." I smile sweetly, stepping closer to him. His eyes widen in surprise, then narrow with interest. "I do have a special... technique."

I drop my voice to a whisper, watching as he leans in eagerly. That's when I bring my knee up hard between his legs. Not a champion bull rider hard, but enough to make my point. Tyler doubles over, his face contorting in pain.

“That's my professional opinion on your injury. Acute testicular contusion. Ice for twenty minutes, elevate, and stay the fuck away from me."

Tyler's face contorts in rage as he straightens, one hand still cupping himself protectively. "You crazy bitch—"

Before he can finish, a shadow falls over us both. I don't need to turn to know who it is—the sudden tension in Tyler's face tells me everything.

"Problem?" Rhett's voice is dangerously soft, the kind of quiet that precedes something violent.

"No problem," I say quickly, feeling the boys closing ranks behind me. "Just explaining some medical terminology to Tyler."

Rhett's hand settles on my shoulder, thumb brushing the nape of my neck in a gesture that looks casual but sends electricity down my spine. "That right, Jensen?"

Tyler's eyes dart between us, calculating what move to make. Eight sets of fuming eyes stare him down as he struggles to get up. He finally straightens, though his face remains flushed with pain and humiliation. "Your girl's got a hell of a bedside manner, Calloway."

"She's not my girl," Rhett says, his voice deceptively light. "She's our medic. And you're in her space."

I feel the tension radiating from Rhett, the barely contained fury that makes him so dangerous in the arena. The other boys have formed a loose semicircle around us, casual in their postures but ready to move if needed.

"Whatever," Tyler spits, taking a step back. "Not worth it anyway. Probably damaged goods, considering the company she keeps."

Knox steps forward, his expression pleasant but his eyes glacial. "You know what's funny about cameras, Jensen? They're everywhere these days." He gestures vaguely toward the media crew still packing up their equipment.

Tyler's gaze follows Knox's gesture, his jaw clenching when he realizes how many witnesses are around. The last thing he needs is footage of him harassing me circulating through the ObrA.

"Just having a friendly conversation," Tyler mutters, taking another step back. "No harm done."

"Looks like your friendly conversation is over," Weston says, his massive frame shifting slightly to block Tyler's path back to me.

Tyler's nostrils flare, but he's not stupid enough to take on all eight of them. Not here, not with so many people watching. He forces a laugh that sounds like broken glass. "Whatever. This isn't over.”

He stalks away, limping slightly, and I release the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"You good?" Rhett asks, his hand still on my shoulder, thumb tracing small circles against my skin.

“Yeah. You guys done? I wanna head home.”

Jace smiles and nods. “Yeah, let’s load up and head back.”

T he ride back to the ranch is mostly silent. I stare out the window of Knox’s truck, watching the landscape blur into streaks of green and brown. He keeps shooting me glances, but I pretend not to notice. My mind's stuck on replay—Marcus's threats, Tyler's words, the ghost of Ethan hanging between us all.

"You gonna tell me what Marcus said that got you so worked up?" Knox finally asks, his voice cutting through the silence.

"At the ranch," I say, keeping my eyes on the passing fields. "With everyone."

He nods, accepting my answer for now, but his knuckles are white on the steering wheel. The rest of the drive passes in tense silence, the radio playing some country song about broken hearts and whiskey that feels too on-the-nose for comfort.

When we pull up to the ranch, the other trucks are already parked and the guys are heading inside. Knox and I head in and take our spots.

The house kitchen smells like coffee and something burnt. Levi's standing at the stove, cursing at a blackened pan of what might've been quesadillas in a previous life. The sight is so normal, so far removed from the tension of the arena, that I almost laugh.

"Don't even start," Levi warns, waving a spatula at me. "This is your fault. You distracted me with all your drama."

"My drama?" I drop my bag on the counter. "I didn't ask for any of that shit."

"Well, you certainly collected it," Knox says, moving past me to grab a beer from the fridge. He tosses one to Jace, who catches it without looking up from his phone.

The kitchen fills quickly as the others filter in. It's always been like this—the heart of our makeshift family, this sprawling ranch kitchen with its scarred oak table and mismatched chairs. The place where we've celebrated wins, nursed losses, and held each other together when everything felt like it was falling apart.

Rhett's the last one in. He grabs a beer and takes his usual spot—the chair directly across from mine. Our eyes lock for a moment before I look away.

"Alright," Jace says, taking control as he always does when things get tense. "Let's get this family meeting started. Wills, what the hell happened with Marcus?"

Eight pairs of eyes turn to me. I take a deep breath, wishing I had something stronger than the water in front of me.

"He threatened me. Threatened us." I take a long swig of water, wishing it was whiskey. "Specifically said Rhett is 'talking to people he shouldn't' and 'causing problems.'"

The kitchen goes silent. Rhett's expression doesn't change, but I see the slight tightening around his eyes.

"And then he brought up Ethan." The name lands like a grenade in the middle of our kitchen table. "Implied that what happened to him wasn't an accident."

"That motherfucker," Levi slams his fist on the table, making the bottles jump. "I'll fucking end him."

"Get in line," Weston says, his voice deadly quiet.

I look directly at Rhett. "He said to ask Ethan what happens when you don't mind your business. Said accidents happen in this business when you don’t mind your own.”

He takes a sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving mine. “He’s not wrong.”

Everybody turns to stare at him. Jace slowly picks at the label on his beer bottle. “Wanna explain?”

Rhett sighs. “After I… ran. There were whispers. Rumors of some sort of illegal betting scheme. Throwing times and scores to make connected people money.”

Rhett's voice drops low, like he's sharing a secret that could get us all killed. Maybe he is.

"I've been asking questions. Quietly. Following the money."

"Without telling us?" Knox asks, his voice tight.

"Without telling anyone," Rhett corrects, finally breaking eye contact with me to look around the table. "Safer that way."

"Bullshit," I snap, anger rising hot and fast. "That's bullshit and you know it. We're a team."

"A team that's already lost one member," Rhett counters, and the room goes silent again. "I wasn't about to risk losing anyone else."

"So what, you decided to play a lone cowboy?" I lean forward, hands flat on the table. "And now Marcus is making threats because of it. Great plan."

Jace raises a hand, ever the peacekeeper. “You did all of this before you came back?”

Rhett nods. “Yeah.”

Levi sighs and looks at Rhett. “Alright. Before we leave for the tour fill us in. We’re a team. Rule ten and nineteen; You mess with one of us, you get all of us. And If one of us is in a fight, we’re ALL in a fight. Even if we don’t know why. ”

I can’t help but smile at the eight men around the table. We’ve had ups and downs, but not once have we ever left each other's sides.

Except Rhett…

Jace nods. “Levi’s right. This is serious and affects all of us. Who’s on dinner tonight?”

"Me," Knox says, already pushing himself up from the table. "But after this conversation, I'm thinking take-out."

"Thank god," Levi mutters. "Last time Knox cooked, we all got food poisoning."

"That was one time, asshole," Knox throws back, but there's no heat in it.

The familiar banter should ease the tension, but I can't shake the weight of Marcus's threats. Or the way Rhett keeps watching me, like he's trying to see inside my head.

The doorbell rings, making us all jump.

"Expecting company?" I ask, already reaching for my bag where I keep my gun. Old habits.

"It's probably Natalie," Jace says, standing up. "The PR manager wanted to debrief after media day."

Sure enough, Natalie's crisp voice soon fills the entryway, her heels clicking purposefully against the hardwood as Jace leads her into the kitchen. I straighten up instinctively, smoothing down my shirt like I'm about to be inspected.

"Gentlemen," she says, then nods at me. "Willow."

Natalie Porter is all sharp edges and perfect angles—tailored black blazer over a silk blouse, not a hair out of place in her sleek bob. She looks like she stepped out of a corporate brochure for 'How to Intimidate Men Twice Your Size.'

"I'd say today went well," she begins, setting her tablet on the counter, "except for that little incident with Tyler Jensen." Her eyes flick to me. "Would someone care to explain?"

No one speaks. It's the kind of silence that has weight, the kind that says more than words ever could. I feel Rhett's eyes on me, waiting for me to decide how much to reveal.

"I'll take that as a no." Natalie says, tapping something on her tablet. “Do we know why he was walking with a limp afterward?"

"Acute testicular contusion," I say, repeating my earlier diagnosis. "Professional assessment."

Natalie's eyebrow arches perfectly. "And how exactly did you arrive at this medical conclusion, Willow?"

"Hands-on examination." I keep my face carefully neutral. "Very thorough."

Snorts of laughter come from around the table, quickly disguised as coughs when Natalie's gaze snaps to the boys.

"I see." Her lips press into a thin line. "While I appreciate your... professional dedication, perhaps in the future we could avoid physical confrontations during media events? Especially when cameras are present."

"She was defending herself," Rhett interjects, his voice hard. "Jensen crossed a line."

Natalie sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I understand that, Rhett. But there are other ways to handle it than violence." She looks at me with that look of professional disappointment that makes me want to crawl out of my skin. "The Savage Eight brand can't afford another scandal."

"The Savage Eight brand can't afford to let their medic get harassed either," Rhett fires back, his voice deceptively calm.

I cut in before this turns into another pissing contest. "It won't happen again, Natalie. Tyler caught me off guard."

"Good." She taps something else on her tablet. "Now, about Dr. Reid. I couldn't help but notice there was some tension there as well."

The room goes silent again. I can practically hear everyone's mental gears turning, deciding how much to tell her.

"Just a professional disagreement. Nothing to worry about and not for you or the boys to handle.”

Natalie doesn’t look amused or like she believes me, but I could care less. “Fine. Stay out of trouble. No bar fights, no professional disagreements in public, no more hands-on examinations in front of the press. I’m going back to my hotel.”

Natalie leaves with one final pointed look, the door clicking shut behind her with what feels like an exclamation point to her warning.

"Well, that was pleasant," Knox drawls, already reaching for his phone. "I'm ordering pizza. The usual for everyone?"

There's a chorus of agreement as the tension in the room shifts. Not gone, just redirected into something more manageable. This is how we operate—crisis, brief acknowledgment, then back to the routine. It's how we've survived this long.

Rhett looks at me from across the table and I nod - it’s time we had our talk.

The boys disperse after Knox places the pizza order, drifting toward their usual evening routines—Levi and Weston arguing over what to watch on TV, Knox and Jace heading out to check on the horses, Logan and Kade off to do some chores, and Colt is god knows where. The kitchen empties until it's just Rhett and me, the silence between us heavy with all the things we haven't said.

"Deck?" he asks, already standing up, grabbing two beers from the fridge.

I nod, following him through the French doors onto the wraparound porch. The sunset bleeds orange and crimson across the Oklahoma sky, painting the distant hills in fire. It's the kind of view that makes you believe in something bigger than yourself, even when everything else feels like it's falling apart.

We settle into the Adirondack chairs, our unofficial spot for conversations too big for indoor walls. I've had some of the best and worst moments here.

“We have a lot to talk about.”

I nod in agreement. “We sure do.”

Rhett passes me a beer, our fingers brushing. Even that fleeting contact sends electricity up my arm. Damn my body for still responding to him after everything.

"Ladies first," he says, settling back in his chair, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. All casual confidence, like we're about to discuss the weather instead of the mess between us.

I take a long pull from my beer, buying myself time. The deck creaks beneath us as I shift in my seat. “You left me when I needed you the most. And I… made some not great choices trying to escape my feelings.”

Rhett's jaw tightens, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun bleeds into the landscape. "I know."

Just two words, but they land like bricks. I wait for more—for excuses, for deflection, for the charm he uses to wiggle out of tight spots. It doesn't come.

"That's it? 'I know'?" I grip my beer bottle so tight I'm afraid it might shatter. "It's been two years, Rhett. Two fucking years. You disappeared after Ethan died. After we buried him. You weren't there when they tried to dissolve the team. You weren't there when Knox nearly died in Denver. You weren't there when I—"

I cut myself off, the words too raw to voice. The scar across my abdomen throbs with phantom pain.

Rhett finally looks at me, his eyes dark. “Tell me what happened. Everybody keeps beating around the bush. Tell me, Willow.”

I take another long swig of beer, the cold liquid doing nothing to ease the burning in my chest. My fingers absently trace the outline of my scar through my shirt—a habit I've never been able to break.

"After you left, everything fell apart." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Knox took a bull horn to the femoral in Denver. Nearly bled out right there in the dirt while I was trying to hold his artery together with my bare hands."

Rhett's expression doesn't change, but I see his knuckles whiten around his beer bottle.

"The sponsors were pulling out. The ObrA was threatening to revoke our team status. Other teams were circling like a vulture, trying to poach the boys one by one." I shake my head, remembering those dark days. "And I was a fucking mess, Rhett. Not sleeping. Not eating. Just...”

“Who was he.” It’s a statement, not a question from Rhett.

Fucking Colt…

“Another rider. We went on a few dates. He wanted more. I said no. He didn’t like that so he taught me a lesson.”

Rhett's entire body goes rigid. "A lesson." His voice is so quiet it's almost lost in the evening breeze, but I hear the violence in it.

"Cornered me in the medical trailer after a ride in Oklahoma City." I keep my voice clinical, detached, like I'm giving a medical report instead of reliving the worst night of my life. "Got rough when I told him to back off. When I fought back, he pulled a knife."

I lift my shirt just enough to show the jagged scar that runs from my hip to just below my ribs. "Missed anything vital, but I lost a lot of blood before Weston found me."

Rhett's face transforms, something primal taking over his features. He sets his beer down with deliberate care, like he's afraid of what his hands might do if he doesn't control them.

"Name." Just one word, but enough to send a chill down anybody’s back.

“The boys took care of it.”

Rhett stands abruptly, pacing the deck like a caged animal. The last rays of sunlight catch the angles of his face, hardening them into something dangerous.

"Took care of it, how?" His voice is frighteningly calm, controlled in a way that tells me exactly how close he is to the edge.

"Jeff Harrison." I finally say the name, watching Rhett's reaction carefully. "He's not riding anymore."

Recognition flashes in Rhett's eyes. "The guy who 'accidentally' fell from the hotel balcony in Tulsa." He stops pacing, turning to face me fully. "Broke both legs. Career-ending."

I don't confirm or deny, just take another sip of my beer. What happened in Tulsa stays in Tulsa.

“Fuck." Rhett runs a hand through his hair, his breathing ragged. "I should've been here. I should've—"

"But you weren't." The words come out sharper than I intended. "You were gone, chasing whatever ghost you needed to chase."

He sinks back into his chair, elbows on his knees, head bowed. For a moment, he looks broken in a way I've never seen before—not even after Ethan. When he finally looks up, his eyes are raw with something that cuts straight through my carefully constructed walls.

“I was fucked up, Wills. Ethan was the father I never had. I… ran like a scared little boy, trying to numb every feeling I had. Including loving you.”

I stare at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. The words I've been waiting to hear for two years, and they still hurt like a fresh wound.

"You don't get to say that now." My voice catches, betraying me. "You don't get to walk back in here and talk about love when you left me bleeding out emotionally."

Rhett's face twists with pain, but I can't stop now. Two years of hurt and anger pour out of me like a broken dam.

"I would have followed you anywhere, Rhett. To hell and back. But you never even asked. You just... disappeared. No calls, no texts. Nothing but rumors that you were riding in underground circuits in Mexico, getting the shit beaten out of you night after night."

"I was," he admits, his voice rough. "Trying to feel something other than the fucking hole in my chest. But it's true. I loved you then. I love you now."

I stand up, needing to move, to put distance between us before I do something stupid like forgive him. The deck boards creak under my boots as I walk to the railing, gripping the weathered wood until splinters dig into my palms.

"You left me," I say again, because it's the only truth that matters. "You don't just get to waltz back in and pick up where we left off."

Behind me, I hear the creak of his chair as Rhett stands, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he approaches. He doesn't touch me, just stands close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"I know." His voice is low, rough with emotion. "I'm not asking for that."

I turn to face him, keeping my grip on the railing behind me. "Then what are you asking for?"

The fading sunlight catches in his eyes, turning them to liquid amber. For a moment, he looks like the boy I fell in love with years ago—before the fame, before the championships, before loss carved its way into our souls.

"A chance," he says simply. “To learn who you are now. To show you I’m not the same man from two years ago. But if you don’t think I deserve that chance, then I will respect that. I’ll move outta the ranch and go my separate ways with the team after this season.”

His words hang in the evening air between us, heavy with possibility and fear. The idea of Rhett leaving again makes something twist painfully in my chest, despite everything. I can't go through that a second time.

"You're not moving out," I finally say, my voice steadier than I feel. "This is your home too. And the boys need you."

Rhett doesn't move, his eyes searching mine. "And what about you, Wills? What do you need?"

The question hits me like a physical blow. What do I need? For years, I've focused on what everyone else needs—bandaging wounds, holding the team together, surviving. I've built walls so high around my own desires that I'm not sure I remember how to name them anymore.

"I need..." My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. "I need time…”

Rhett nods slowly, his expression careful. "Time, I can give. I've got nowhere else to be, babe"

The simple honesty in his voice chips away at my defenses. For two years I've rehearsed this conversation in my head—all the cutting things I'd say, how I'd make him feel every ounce of pain he caused me. But now that he's standing in front of me…

“I need time. And space. And to understand why you're really back." I run a hand through my hair, frustrated with how my body still reacts to his nearness. "And don't call me babe."

A hint of that familiar smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Fair enough."

We stand in silence for a moment, the space between us charged with everything we've said and all we haven't. The sound of tires on gravel breaks the tension, pizza delivery.

"We should go in," I say, pushing away from the railing. "Before the boys eat everything."

Rhett nods, but doesn't move to follow me right away. "Willow." His voice stops me at the door. "I meant what I said. I'm not the same man who left. I'll prove it to you. I’m gonna woe the fuck outta you.”

I can't help but laugh at that, a sharp, unexpected sound that cuts through the tension. "Woe me? Is that what this is?"

"Damn right." That familiar cocky grin spreads across his face, the one that used to make my knees weak. Still does, if I'm honest with myself, which I'm absolutely not being right now. "I'm gonna court you proper, Willow Hayes."

"Court me?" I can't help the laugh that bubbles up. "What is this, 1895?"

He takes a step closer, and I force myself not to back away. "Mock all you want. I'm playing the long game here."

"There is no game, Rhett."

"Not a game," he corrects, his voice dropping lower. "A promise."

Something warm unfurls in my chest, but I push it down hard. I've been here before. The intensity in his gaze makes my chest tight.

The French doors bang open before I can respond, Levi's head popping out. "Pizza's here! And if you two are done with your little heart-to-heart, the rest of us would like to eat sometime this century."

Rhett laughs as he tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. "Saved by the bell. But this conversation isn't over, sweetheart."

I step back, putting distance between us. "Don't call me that either."

His smile turns softer, more genuine. "What should I call you then?"

"Willow. Just Willow." I brush past him toward the door, ignoring the electricity that sparks where our shoulders touch. "For now."