She’s right. It’s weirdly good and exactly what I needed.
I’ve never actually had beer before. But sitting here, with everything around me softened by the sunset, my new friend beside me, and something light fizzing in my chest—I get it.
A low, smoky voice crackles over the speakers, announcing the start of the event.
My stomach knots. The cup slips in my grip, slick with condensation. Lydia bumps my shoulder. When I glance at her, her usual bright smile is pulled tight at the edges.
The guys know what they’re doing. They’ve trained for this. They’ve done this before. Even knowing the risks, they’re still down there—eagerly waiting for their turn.
“Cheers to your very first rodeo,” Lydia says, raising her cup.
We clink our half-full plastic cups together with a giggle and down the rest in one go.
“May it not be your last,” she adds with a wink.
Landon’s up first. He doesn’t last more than five seconds before he’s flung off the bull like a rag doll.
Lydia grips my hand the entire time, white-knuckled and tense. When Landon scrambles out of the arena and slams his fist against the railing, I see Wesley and a few others slap his back in support.
Lydia clicks her tongue. “Damn. He didn’t qualify. He’s gonna be insucha pissy mood on the ride home. Can’t wait for that.”
Before I can answer, Emmett’s in the chute, wrapping the rope around his gloved hand before drawing a breath, and nodding.
The gate swings open and the bull explodes from the stall—black, wild, violent. Emmett’s body snaps with every twist, one hand gripped tight, the other hovering for balance. He’s tossed in brutal arcs, but somehow holds on. Each second on the clock ticks by in slow motion.
Lydia’s hand tightens in mine. This time, I squeeze back.
The buzzer blares. The stands erupt. Lydia launches out of her seat, dragging me into a hug as she jumps up and down.
“He did it!” she screams. “Oh my God, hedid it! That’s his first qualifying ride!”
By the time I look back toward the arena, Emmett has already pulled off his helmet. Wesley and Landon are hugging him, pounding his back. Emmett glances up at the stands, searching—until his eyes land on us. He winks and blows a kiss in our direction.
Butterflies burst in my chest, flapping hard all the way to my throat. I don’t even try to hide my smile.
Lydia bumps her knee against mine. “Told you. They’ve got everyone wrapped around their fingers,” she murmurs, twirling her pointer finger in the air.
I bite my cheek. No point denying it.
A few more riders take their turns—none last more than a handful of seconds. Lydia and I slip away to grab another beer before Wesley’s up. I chug half before we’re even back in our seats.
My nerves return like a punch to the gut.
Lydia tips her cup toward me, smirking when she sees how quickly I’ve drained mine. We clink again, and I throw the rest back.
Another rider nods from the chute, and the gate swings open. The bull bucks viciously, but the rider holds for eight full seconds. Still, he doesn’t qualify—his free hand smacked the bull during the chaos.
A technicality.
Seems stupid. But what do I know?
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Lydia nursing her drink, taking small sips. Over half her beer is still untouched.
She reaches out and squeezes my hand tight. I follow her gaze.
Wesley’s in the chute.
He wraps the rope around his wrist, jaw tight, shoulders squared. My stomach flips violently and that second beer churns in my throat. I clutch Lydia’s hand like a lifeline and hold my breath.
