His self-deprecating response reminds me of something I’d say—chalking my skill up to luck or my hard work up to genetics. The difference is, he’s an NHL player and I’m a bartender.

“Let’s head to the bleachers and get a good seat.” Rhett claps Jasper on the back and gives me a nod, and I follow him, Jasper hanging back closer to me. I feel like I’m being escorted by bodyguards. People get out of the way when these guys walk through.

They also stop and stare. Some even say hi.

When we turn up the bleacher steps, Rhett’s head swivels, scanning for a spot. Luke is still on his shoulders, pointing somewhere. Jasper moves ahead of me, long legs taking every other step. But when he glances back and sees me falling behind, he stops on a landing and then opts to take each step. He doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s acutely aware of us all staying together. It’s busy and these country boys are protective as hell.

Only proven further by the way Rhett moves down a row and Jasper sends me in first, opening one arm wide and gesturing me through before following behind me. When we’re seated, Luke is beside me and we’re flanked by two tall men.

Worse things have happened to me in my life.

Luke immediately tells Rhett how he’s going to ride bulls when he grows up. Rhett and I exchange a look, knowing that Cade would probably keel over if this ever really happened.

“Do you know much about this team penning stuff?” I ask Jasper, tipping my chin down to the ring.

He nods. “Yeah. I’m actually not bad at it myself. We all practiced a lot as kids.”

“Really?” My brow quirks.

“You don’t grow up at Wishing Well Ranch and not learn how to pen and rope and cut and toss a lasso.”

“Well, shit.” I lean back a little, wrapping my hands around one knee. “Color me impressed, Jasper Gervais.”

He chuckles, eyes crinkling at the sides—which does nothing but remind me of Cade.

That’s where the similarities end though. Jasper is quiet, but there’s a gentleness about him. He’s introspective. There are things that weigh on him. Years behind a bar has honed my eye for people who carry invisible weight. He strikes me as . . . sad, maybe?

“Do you know anything about it?” he asks, eyes focused on the big dirt ring. There’s a pen with a bunch of cows at one end and a smaller pen nearby.

“Not a damn thing. I ride fancy jumping horses.”