You and Jack are loping side-by-side across the arena, the Montana dust kicking soft under your horses’ hooves. It’s late morning, the kind of warm where sweat gathers under your helmet, and the covered stands are full of a few early parents watching from the shade.

Your trainer, Carla — sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued — leans against the rail. “Okay, let’s see some rollback practice. Pairs. You and Jack — go first.”

Jack adjusts his reins, glancing over at you with that same cocky smirk he’s had since you were both fourteen. “Hope you’re ready to get shown up,” he says.

You snort. “You couldn’t out-ride me if I was in a cast.”

He laughs under his breath. The two of you ride forward in sync, horses breaking into an easy lope. Jack’s leg brushes yours once. Maybe twice.

— “Stop crowding,” you mutter.

— “Can’t help it. You draw me in.”

Before you can answer, Carla’s voice rings out from the rail: “Jack, quit makin’ heart eyes and square your damn shoulders!”

The stands erupt in a few chuckles from watching parents. Jack groans, dramatically slumping in the saddle. “I am riding properly—”

Carla cuts him off. “Not when you’re staring at her like she’s made of gold, you ain’t.”

You look straight ahead, biting back a smile. Jack clears his throat and straightens up.

“Better?” he calls.

“Barely,” Carla says. “Now stop flirtin’ and show these kids how it’s done.”

You lean in as you ride past him. “Nice heart eyes, Marston.”

He grins. “Didn’t hear you complainin’.”