Some part of me hopes that he just won't show; that I'll be awoken sometime around five with a text or possibly even a phone call apologizing for Travis not being able to make it.

I hope for that, but I don't get it. I wake up right around six, the same time I wake up nearly every day. I do make an effort to check my voicemail, just in case, but there's nothing. No one's called me since Travis did last night. So with an hour to get ready before I possibly see him again, I do the only rational thing I can think of: I get on with my routine like it's any other Friday.

I start the coffeemaker and get into a steaming hot shower, filling a mug once I'm out. I dress in clothes appropriate for work. Jeans that are threadbare at the knees, a shirt that's missing a button near the bottom. The horses don't care what I look like, and I'm not here to impress Travis. Not anymore, at least.

Just as I'm lacing up my boots, I can hear Otto braying, then the sound of a car coming up the winding dirt driveway. One glance at my phone confirms my suspicions. He's not only here, he's actually early.

I tell myself it's going to take a lot more than punctuality to make up for yesterday, but it's a decent start. Better than I expected from some hot-shot football superstar, honestly. But if he even makes it through a quarter of the day I have planned for him, I'll be absolutely floored.

I go out to greet him, and of course Otto beats me to it. He runs right up to Travis in his excited, skipping gait, and I hear the deep rumble of Travis' laugh as Otto rubs his face against the man's chest.

"Didn't really expect this kind of greeting," he says, reaching up to tentatively scratch Otto behind one of his long ears. "Especially since we've just met."

"He's never been good with the whole concept of personal space," I say, walking toward them.

Travis turns his head to face me, looking a little sheepish. "Nice… guard donkey."

"He'll probably do that every time you come here, so if it bothers you…"

It's a lame attempt to get rid of him, and I know it. I'm not surprised when Travis doesn't take the bait.

"No, it doesn't bother me at all. It's nice. Kinda reminds me of what it was like to have a dog, for the little bit of time we did."

That's an odd way to phrase that. If he'd had a dog growing up, why would he only have it for a little bit? I don't ask questions, though. He's not here so I can find him even more intriguing. He's here to work.

"If you're ready, there's a lot to get done," I tell him, and motion toward the stables. "Hope you don't mind getting dirty."

"I think I can handle it," he says, and while there's no smugness in his voice, I still can't help the slight smirk that tugs at my lips.

I'm not completely cruel, though. As we reach the door to the stables and the smell of horses catches on the breeze, I decide to give him a heads up.

"This is going to be a trial run. If you can handle today, then you can come back if you want. I know it sounds like an asshole move, but there's a lot involved in the upkeep of this place and everyone I've hired in the past has tried to cut corners. So just know that after today, whatever debt you think you owe me, whatever you're trying to make up for, it's paid."

That gives him a way to beg off if he wakes up tomorrow and doesn't feel like putting his body through this abuse again. I know he must train hard for football—I'm more aware than most of what it takes to be a professional athlete—but farm work is something else. There's no structure to it. No trainer urging you on. It's monotonous and hard and it has to get done.

And I can't rely on him—or anybody else—to do it right.

He just shrugs, though, and flashes me a little grin. His teeth aren't perfect, I notice. His bite's a little crooked. Somehow that surprises me.

"I'm used to hazing," he says. "Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it."

I pull the latch on the stable doors and open them up. It's a little musty in here, the smell of hay and horse strong, but he doesn't complain, so I just decide to give him the full spread of things I take care of every morning, as if he was being paid for his work here today.

I'm not a monster. I'll keep him fed. I'll break out the lemonade pitcher. If he sticks around all day, he might even get some beer out of the arrangement.

For now, though, I show him the spigot that runs the water in from outside. I grab him a spade and point out the compost bin where he needs to put the old hay, and the new stuff to spread into each stall after he washes them down with a hose.

Since it's not really a job that requires much babysitting, I lead the horses out to graze. Most of them go out into the main pasture and just run around wherever they want, but I have to take Apollo out separately.

"He doesn't get along with the others?" Travis asks, seeming genuinely curious.

I hold onto the lead, my other hand resting on Apollo's neck. "He's a little high-strung. Most racehorses are. They're bred and trained to compete, so they don't tolerate other horses well if they're left to their own devices."

Travis' brow creases. "Isn't that… unnatural? Wow. Okay, that sounds a little more fire and brimstone than I meant it." He laughs nervously, and I find myself laughing, too. "I just mean they're herd animals, right? They're supposed to be social?"

"So are humans," I say, my lips quirking, "and that doesn't stop some of us from doing our own thing."

For a second I wonder if he'll feel offended by that, but he just laughs again.

"Fair enough."

I take Apollo out to a more secure pasture. The other horses are still where he can see them so he doesn't feel isolated, but they're not accessible. Gloria whickers to him, just like she always does, but his ears swivel and he ignores her, putting his head down to pull up some grass.

"We are gonna have to work on that soon," I remind him.

He ignores me, which is about par for the course. I haven't had him for very long, but I never really expected him to bond to me. All of the racehorses I've competed with have been pretty aloof, despite how much time I spent with them.

It's honestly something I envy. But because I can't convince myself not to care, I walk back toward the stables to see how Travis is getting along. As soon as I make it past the doors, I'm treated to one hell of a sight.

He's got his shirt sleeves rolled up and he's shoveling hay out of a stall, transferring it to a wheelbarrow. Nothing about it is sexy work. The straw is dark and matted. The wheelbarrow barely holds a stall's worth. But his shirt clings to his body as he moves, and I can see his muscles bunch when he goes through the repetitive motions. My gaze drifts down, past his arms and his straining deltoids, down his back, all the way to his ass. His gluts are firm against his jeans, and I can't help but think of that video.

I can feel my cock come to life, and the urge to reach down and adjust myself is way too strong. He needs to go ahead and complain already so I can send him home; far away from me.

"You saw the feed bin when we came in, right?" I ask, my voice a little strained.

He stops, straightening with the help of the spade. "Near where the tack is hung up, right?"

I nod. "There's a coffee can in there with a line marked. Fill it up to that line and put it in each of their feeders, then run the hose to top off the water troughs, too. Meet me outside once you're done."

"You got it," he says, a baffling smile on his face.

It's almost like he's happy to have more work to do. But then, I did essentially throw down the gauntlet. Maybe he just sees it as a challenge, and I’ll definitely make it that.

* * *

Over the next couple of hours, he goes from task to task without complaining. I almost don't know what to do with myself without the standard routine, and if I'm being honest, it's making me a little anxious.

But I get everything ready for the next big project. My truck's loaded down with posts, I've got the post holer and a sledgehammer ready to go, along with a measuring tape since he won't have my eye for just how far apart they need to be. Ducking inside the house, I toss ice into a cooler and make some lemonade—the kind that comes from a tube, nothing fancy—fitting the closed pitcher and some cups into the cooler.

He finishes up around mid-morning, and I can see the sun's already getting to him. He's not wearing sunglasses today, but he's squinting and his skin is flushed and his hair is damp with sweat.

"You good to keep going?" I ask him.

"Yeah," he says, wiping sweat from his brow. "You don't have any water or anything, do you?"

"Even better."

I prop open the cooler and pour him a glass of lemonade. He looks at it like it's the best thing he's ever seen, and I watch a little shamelessly as he drains his glass.

"Is that Minute Maid?" he asks with a laugh.

"You don't get fresh-squeezed after a couple hours' work," I tell him with a dubious look.

"No, I'm not complaining. It's good. Haven't had anything from concentrate since I was a kid."

I offer the pitcher to him again, and he holds out his cup. "No lemonade, no dogs… doesn't sound like you had a whole lot of fun as a kid."

His expression changes, his smile fading into something that's just polite; cordial. "Yeah. I mean, it's not like I had a bad time growing up. But my life was pretty much football from the time I was six years old."

I don't quite know what to say to that, and I'm not sure what comes out of my mouth is the best thing. "Was that your choice, or…?"

"Mutual. My dad was always gung-ho about it, but he didn't force me into it, if that's what you're wondering. I know Jake seems to think that's what happened."

"Jake's just worried about you," I say reflexively.

It's not my job to smooth things over for these two, but I remember my friend's desperate call yesterday. And I know Jake. I know how much he's tempering his expectations. I also know how much he secretly wants it to work out.

"Yeah," Travis says, then gestures toward the truck bed. "This for the fence?"

And just like that, conversation steers away from his childhood and his relationship with Jake. I tell him about the paddock—that I want a nicer pen for the horses, that way people who are coming to the ranch looking to purchase them can get the best view possible—and we talk about what's involved in the construction as I drive us over to the site where I've already got a bit of work done.

Before I even cut the engine off, though, he hits me with a bomb.

"I don't really know any other way to ask this, so I'm just going to do it: Were you and my brother…?"

I just stare at him for a few seconds, trying not to let myself wonder about why he’s even asking. For a second I think about fessing up to the crush I had in college, just to see how he’ll react, but I think better of it.

"No, Jake and I have always just been friends," I tell him, and I immediately grab the post holer out of the back of the truck.

We don't talk much after that. Travis works with me until it gets too hot to stay out there any longer. We get a good quarter of the fence staked out, and I make him a sandwich when we get back to the house.

He never once complained. He just kept on working, doing everything I asked him to do, the hard, physical labor barely seeming to affect him. It's impressive, and I tell myself that's why I ask him to come back tomorrow.

I tell myself that, but the truth is more insidious.

The truth is I'm intrigued.