Page 107 of Tame Our Wild

There was so much going on in that video, and if they caught on to the one thing that could destroy our season, it’s only a matter of time before everyone else focuses on that part, too.

Our commissioner’s deep voice barks, “Harlow Hartt. I need you and Colson Payne in my suite. Now.”

FORTY-FIVE | COLSON

The arena suite is suffocating and heavy as I draw in shallow breaths. I’m more focused on the beautiful girl nervously picking dirt from below her fingernails than the brooding man before us as we all struggle to process what just happened.

Seeing dread written all over Harlow’s face through the fence after the best ride of my life was a shot that hit my chest straight on and obliterated my adrenaline. Elite ride forgotten, all I cared about in that moment was her and why she was looking at me like the world was ripped out from under her boots. I wanted to be the one to place it back.

Now I know those tears streaming down her flushed face had a purpose.

That video the rookie showed me on his phone behind the chutes is burned into my skull—a very public video that’s going viral because the two rivals everyone has followed for years have their mouths and bodies locked in lust instead of lashing out at each other like usual.

My eyes may have been plastered to the phone screen, releasing our secret to the world, but I didn’t need the video to remind me of that night after we left the bar, after I made love to her in the back of my rental. No, that memory of me thrusting Harlow against the hotel room door was already tattooed into my brain with the sweetest ink.

We were reckless.

We should’ve known that we could get caught in that hotel hallway, considering most of the riders stay at the same place near the arena, but I couldn’t bring myself to give a damn while her limbs were wrapped around me. Apparently, one of our competitors filmed us from their room through a crack in their door.

No. Not just any competitor. It was Jax Fucking Bowman because the fucker craves attention, and if he doesn’t have it, he’ll find a way to get eyes back on him.

Mark and Heather tried to snag me for an interview about the topic, along with other media professionals, but I pushed past them, eager to get to her.

But when I found Harlow, she was standing stoically next to John, her thumbs twiddling nervously in front of her.

She wouldn’t meet my eye, and besides Paisley’s death, that was the second worst experience I’ve ever had. John gave me a stern look and gestured for me to follow him. It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order. I trailed as he started wheeling toward the exit that led to the suite, which he and the other staff members had temporarily set up for the weekend to work in.

It’s like we were walking to our execution, and all I wanted to do was reach for her hands, nervously twisting in front of her. I knew nothing I could say would make her relax. And as Harlow, John, and I passed Jax in the hallway near the locker room on our way into the suite—leaning cockily against the wall—I wanted to punch that smirk off his face and feel his nose break under my knuckles.

If it weren’t for the other staff members hanging around outside the suite, I wouldn’t put it past Jax to have his ear sealed to the door. He’s already fucking sitting on top with one of the top scores of the season from all the combined events, but I was neck and neck with him. And this ride tonight put us at a goddamn tie for first going into round two tomorrow.

I’d say I’m surprised he waited this long to post that video, considering it happened weeks ago, but I know the release of this was perfectly timed. I just don’t know if he posted that video to throw me off my game or Harlow.

He’s a dick, so I’m guessing both.

“Okay.” John’s exhale is laced with aggravation. “I need one of you two to start talking and tell me what the hell was happening in that video.”

Maybe injecting some humor into this situation will help. I shift in my seat. “It was a video of Harlow and me making out. It’s pretty clear what was going on.”

Harlow’s head snaps toward me while John’s eyes roll from where he is sitting across the table from us.

“Don’t give me that shit, Payne,” he snaps. “I’m talking about the very clear commentary when she called you coach. Was that just a … in-the-moment thing,” he nearly growls through gritted teeth, “or is it true?”

My body warms, and I know without looking that Harlow’s face is probably flushed from embarrassment under the shadow of her hat. Our voices may have been low, but the video captured enough that, if you listen hard enough, you can make out some of what we said.

Her calling me coach is one of them.

Harlow’s mouth opens and closes a few times before she releases a puff of air, relenting. “After Aaron died, Colson approached me at the funeral and offered to coach me. We were already into the season, and it seemed like the best option at the time. I didn’t have any time to waste if I wanted to start catching up.”

“And how did you do that?” he asks. “Did you do virtual coaching sessions?”

“Uh—” I wet my lips. “Harlow moved in with me back in Tennessee.”

“For fuck’s sake.” John leans back in his wheelchair, knitting his arms over his sternum.

“We were worried what people would think if they found out,” Harlow rushes out. “So, we decided to keep our distance at events like nothing had changed.”

John’s leisure nod has Harlow gripping her fingers tighter in her lap. She shifts to the edge of her seat. “We were worried about how people would react. And then along the way we started getting along and—”