My hand tightens on Hadley’s shoulder without thinking, my attention narrowing down to that one moment, that one point where everything could go exactly right…
or very wrong.
The gate snaps open.
And I realize, all at once, that no matter how steady he looks out there…
this isn’t something I can ever pretend is safe.
The first hit steals the breath out of me.
The bull explodes out of the chute with a force that doesn’t look real, muscle and weight and power crashing into motion all at once, and for a second I forget how to breathe. My fingers tighten on Hadley’s shoulder without thinking, grounding myself as much as I am her. She looks up at me and says, "mom your hurting my shoulders." I lighten my grip as much as I can in this moment.
He stays on.
That should be the focus.
It isn’t.
All I can see is how fast it happens, how violent the movement is, how there’s no space between control and disaster. One second he’s centered, balanced, moving with it, and the next the bull twists hard enough that it feels like everything shifts under him.
“Mom,” Hadley whispers, not scared, just in awe, like she’s watching something incredible instead of something that could go wrong in a heartbeat.
“I see him,” I say, even though I haven’t looked away once.
I can’t.
My pulse is loud in my ears, matching the rhythm of the ride in a way that makes it hard to separate what I’m feeling from what I’m seeing.
Every movement he makes, every adjustment, every second he holds on feels like it matters too much.
Because it does.
The bull spins, kicks, slams back down, and the crowd reacts with every shift, voices rising and falling like they’re part of it. I don’t hear any of it clearly. It all blurs together, background noise to the one thing I can’t stop watching.
Him.
He looks in control.
That’s what makes it worse.
Because control here isn’t safety. It’s just the illusion of it, something that can disappear in a second if the timing’s off or the bull changes direction or one muscle doesn’t respond the way it’s supposed to.
And I don’t know how to sit here and pretend that’s okay.
I don’t know how to watch this and not think about what happens if he doesn’t land right.
If he gets thrown.
If he doesn’t get up.
The thought hits hard enough that I pull in a sharp breath, forcing it back down before it turns into something Hadley might notice.
He can’t get hurt.
Not like this.
Not when she’s watching.
