Wesley nods and the gate bursts open.
The bull charges into the arena, bucking like something possessed. Wesley clings to its back, one hand raised, body whipping with every violent twist.
The arena is silent except for gasps.
Until finally, the loud buzzer sounds, signaling both the end of the longest eight seconds of my life and Wesley’s qualifying ride.
Relief crashes into me like a wave and the crowd explodes as Lydia and I shoot to our feet, screaming and jumping like we’ve lost our minds.
He did it. He made it.
But when Wesley shifts to dismount, he slips. The bull is still thrashing wildly and I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle the scream rising in my throat.
He’s stuck.
Lydia grabs me, holding me tight as we watch the moment unfold in excruciatingly slow motion. Wesley finally manages to yank his arm free—but the bull spins again and we’re forced to watch helplessly as Wesley’s roughly thrown across the arena.
People rush in. Some distract the bull. Others circle around Wesley’s unmoving body.
I cry out, unable to hold it in. The paramedics sprint in with a stretcher. Lydia says something but I can’t make out her words. Everything around me is dull and muffled, drowned by the roar of my pounding heartbeat in my ears.
Is he dead?
Please don’t let him be dead.
Lydia grabs my arm, shaking me. “Let’s go.”
She pulls me through the crowd. Everyone’s quiet except for a few low murmurs. They’re so still. Staring. Waiting for a sign of life.
WemeetLandonhalfwayand he leads us through the backstage gates to the medical tent.
Inside, everything smells like antiseptic. Wesley’s stretched out on a narrow cot, the harsh overhead lights bleaching the color from his face. His chest rises and falls with slow and even breaths.
Two paramedics stand close, hovering over him, murmuring. I strain to hear them over the rush in my ears.
Emmett bursts into the tent a moment later, eyes wild, chest heaving. He moves to shove past the medics but Landon grabs his shoulder, stopping him.
When his eyes find me and Lydia, something in his face breaks. He pulls us in, one arm around each of us, his thumb moving in slow, grounding circles against my arm.
I don’t fight the tears anymore, letting them fall freely and quietly, soaking into the fabric of Emmett’s shirt.
We’re strangers.
We don’t even get along.
But that doesn’t mean I wanted him to get hurt.
The paramedics finally step back and Wesley’s face comes into view.
His dark amber eyes are open and heavy-lidded. His hat is missing, hair tousled, and he’s wearing his usual scowl as he slowly shakes his head in response to something the EMT says.
Relief hits me so hard I feel dizzy. I wipe at my cheeks with the heel of my hand, fingers tugging the hem of the ridiculous little shirt.
“He’s gonna be okay.” Emmett breathes in a sigh of relief before pressing a kiss to my temple. I try to breathe through the tightness in my chest, but the pressure doesn’t ease.
Wesley turns his head, and the movement is clumsy and slow. His eyes scan the tent, unfocused, until his gaze lands on me—then gradually drops to where Emmett’s arm is wrapped around me. The muscle in his jaw ticks.
I don’t think. I just move, stopping only when I’m within arms reach—then freeze when I realize I don’t know where he’s hurt. What I’m allowed to touch.
