Something heavy collided with Ryan’s foot, but he couldn’t move.

“O’Neil.”

Ah, crap.

He knew that voice. Don’t look, he told himself, maybe she’ll go away.

Ryan remained where he was, all six-foot-plus of him sprawled out over the living room floor, head propped up on a pillow he must’ve stolen from the couch last night.

“O’Neil!” The voice came again, a whisper bursting at the seams.

Ryan peeled one eyelid open to find a rather large shadow hovering over him with two hands placed squarely on its hips. “What,” he groaned, the sound as dry as his mouth.

“Get your ass up. Your first round’s in three hours.”

Ryan found the energy to hold up his hand, displaying three long fingers. “That means you’re one…,” he dropped his pointer finger, “…two…,” then his ring finger, “…three hours too early.”

He wagged his middle finger at the shadow. . .

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AUTHOR’S NOTE

This was a scene that I crafted several years ago that deserved a re-write. I’ve come such a long way with Ryan, and while I understand his voice now more than ever, it took me years to get here. When I go back and read my older works with him, it’s far more my voice than his. I can tell from all the poetry waxing and visual details. Ryan, for all his wit and charm, is no poet, and doesn’t pick up on the color of the lampshades, you know?

In rewriting this, I actually discovered something new about him: he’s far more auditory and kinesthetic than he is visual. Even now, I’m still learning new things about him. Funny, I wouldn’t have ever thought about this before but since I’m becoming certified as a coach, I’ve been learning about people’s different representational systems, which means my characters gotta have them, too. More on this in my next behind-the-scenes post? 🤭

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“You really don’t know the story?” Bella stared at her friend in disbelief.

After getting mouthy with their trainer, the two of them had been tasked with oiling every bridle, saddle, and girth in the tack room, but neither of them had picked up a rag. The barn pays people to do that.

Instead, Bella and Lacey had beelined for the bench on the far side of the room and made themselves at home, gossiping and idly flipping through dusty old magazines, which is how the whole conversation about Ryan O'Neil started.

Lacey had stumbled upon a picture of him on the cover of a tabloid, where he had the look that every rider wore when they had been thrown from the saddle. Only Bella knew that the celebrity rider hadn't just been dumped by his horse. It was way worse than that.

“It was like, I dunno, maybe. . .two-thousand-sixteen-ish? He was set to go to the Rio Olympics,” Bella leaned forward and pointed at the photo in the bottom corner, “That was his horse, Icarus. A goooorgeous liver chestnut."

She settled back and looked up at her friend with starry eyes, "They were. . ."

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