The bull changes direction, bucking furiously, and still Tanner hangs on.
“He’s got him,” Slade says, low, close to my ear. “Watch his hips.”
I don’t know what I’m watching for but I watch anyway. Tanner is locked in, his riding hand buried in the rope, his body moving in this controlled violent rhythm that looks exactly like what it is: someone who has done this a thousand times, who is completely and utterly in his element.
The buzzer sounds.
Tanner releases his hand and the bull launches him, one last furious lunge that sends him clear away. He tucks, turns, and lands on both feet with catlike grace.
The crowd absolutely loses its mind.
The bullfighters are already moving, cutting between him and the bull with practiced expertise, drawing the animal toward the out gate while Tanner rolls his shoulders and shakes out his riding hand.
He pulls his helmetoff.
The roar gets louder.
He’s grinning, that big, easy, born-for-this Tanner Rhodes grin. He points at the bullfighters as he walks past them, fist bumps exchanged without breaking stride.
The scoreboard lights up. Ninety-one.
The section three rows down erupts. It’s a cluster of women who have clearly come here specifically for Tanner, signs and all. He gives them a friendly wave, and his fan club loses its mind.
“Good ride,” Slade says.
I turn to look at him. “Good? That was extraordinary.”
Walker snorts. “Don’t tell Tanner that. His ego’s already a problem.”
“Hisego?” Slade arches an eyebrow. “Pot, meet kettle.”
“This whole thing is barbaric,” Derek says, not looking up from his phone. “Can’t imagine why anyone would pay to watch this.”
Cassidy’s whole body freezes. The silence that falls over our little group is absolute.
All the Rhodes boys turn to Derek with looks that could make a man shrivel into a husk. Except Derek still hasn’t bothered to look up from his phone, so he has no idea what he’s wading into.
Sadie is the one to break the silence, clearly reading the sub-zero temperature and trying to smooth things over.
“It’s a legitimate sport,” she says easily. “With a lot of skill involved.”
“Sure.” Derek finally looks up, scanning the arena with obvious contempt. “If you consider voluntarily sustaining traumatic brain injuries a skill.” He looks at Cassidy. “Remind me why we drove two hours for this?”
Cassidy says nothing.
“Well it’s my first time at a rodeo,” I offer, “and I’m having a blast. Life is a lot more fun when you keep an open mind.”
“Contrary to the drunk idiots you see around you, life is about more than fun.” Derek’s cold blue eyes settle on me. “Where are you from?”
“Newport. Rhode Island.”
It’s one of those places where if you say it, the people who know,know.
Derekknows.
His look turns assessing. “Do you know the Greenleafs?”
I give him a tight smile. Anotherif you know, you knowmoment. “They’re our neighbors.”
