Page 4 of Lost Trust

“I’m good, fellas,” I call.

One of them laughs. “That’s what every cowboy says right before a ride in an ambulance.”

“Fuck that. Buses are expensive.”

“Yeah, well, so’s getting sidelined for an entire season because you’re recovering from surgery.”

I lift my hand in a lazy wave without looking back. “Exactly.”

Truth is, they’re probably right.

My shoulder has been talking to me for almost two years now. Started as a nagging throb, then a burn whenever I reached overhead, and then eventually settled into a constant, dull ache.

The MRI last summer showed a partial-thickness rotator cuff tear.

An inconvenience, but a manageable one. Rest. Rehab. Strengthening. But no surgery required unless it got worse.

I followed the rehab.

Mostly.

The resting part …

Well …

My life doesn’t leave much room for that. I’m either working, training, teaching, or traveling. Can’t exactly chase after that purse and a world title from the couch.

Tonight though … tonight feels different.

That bull torqued so hard that it jerked my free arm back with such force that I felt something give. Like Velcro ripping apart inside my shoulder.

I shove the memory of it to the back of my mind. Because tonight isn’t about me. It’s about my brother.

I sit on the bench in front of my locker, looking at the monitor for a few more minutes, catching my breath. The leader standings flash across the screen. My name moves up to the fourth slot. I’ll take it. With one successful round win and a bonus, I’m guaranteed a $100,000 check for the event.

I curse at the weakness in my hand as I remove the cap from a bottle of water, then make my way back up for my brother’s last ride.

I round the corner toward the bucking chutes just as his name is announced.

“Axle Trust is our last rider of this year’s finals. He’s currently locked horns with reigning champion Bryce Raintree.”

I vault onto the steel rails of the bucking chute, my boots ringing against the metal as I crouch over Axle. The roar of the crowd crashes around us—ten thousand fans on their feet, music pounding through the arena, the announcer’s voice echoing overhead—but inside this chute, it all fades away.

Right here, it’s just me and my brother and one rank, mean beast.

Axle sits low over the bull’s shoulders, his gloved hand buried deep in the bull rope, his jaw tight beneath the brim of his hat.

I glance up at the giant scoreboard—92.25.

That’s the number. If he scores a ninety-two and a quarter or better, he walks out of Fort Worth as this year’s PBR World Champion.

Anything less …

Bryce Raintree keeps the gold buckle and pockets the million-dollar bonus one last time before hanging it up for good.

The bull slams into the front gate hard enough to rattle the entire chute. His muscles bunch beneath Axle, every inch of him coiled and looking for a fight.

“Easy there, Diablo,” I mutter before looking back at my brother.