Page 27 of Tame Our Wild

Creases form between my brows. “Brian?”

“Yeah, him! He’s been riding well.”

“Brian is a year younger than I am. Colson, on the other hand, is considered a veteran in the PBR—”

“Yeah, because he’s old.”

A giggle tickles my throat.

Honestly, an eleven-year difference between us doesn’t feel like much since we’re both adults. I call him old because it gets on his nerves, and he gets on mine by calling me a dust bunny. He thinks I don’t know the real connotation behind it, but I do. Buckle bunnies, and I couldn’t be more different—I’m chasing the buckle for an entirely different reason.

Colson also infuriated me when he didn’t remember who I was during our second interaction ever at the kickoff event, my first year making it to the PBR.

He shook my hand, and to this day, he still doesn’t recognize me. It was easier to think he had amnesia because a part of me was hoping he would remember who I was. That he would remember the girl standing in front of him after he told her that trying to make it as a professional bull rider wasn’t worth proving a point.

I had put in so much work and finally stood in front of the man who pushed me to accomplish one of my goals.

I keep going with the nickname Old Man because I’m petty like that. And I’m still pissed the identification has never crossed his mind. Sure, I could’ve told him at any point in the last several years, but the thought of him coming to that lightbulb moment on his own sounds absolutely delicious and rewarding.

Folding one of my sleep sets, I place it in my bag on top of the others. “Exactly. So, Colson has more experience than any other rider,” I try to reassure her. “I may not like him, but I like his riding skills. We’re already into the season, and the chances of finding another coach as good as Aaron are slim. Plus, Colson’s nearing the end of his career, and if anyone finds out, it might not be a big deal.” Or so I hope.

When I messaged him on Instagram, giving in to his ridiculous plan, I made it very clear that I wanted this only to remain between us. I don’t want anyone in the league finding out that he’s coaching me.

She squints, studying me.

I swallow. “What?”

“You realize if you go, a bull won’t be the only thing he’s teaching you to ride.”

Blood floods my cheeks, heating my skin. Of course, because Mel always seems to have impeccable timing with things like this, my mother, Amelia, stops in the hallway, stilling with a laundry basket in her hands.

“Melanie Anne Hartt,” my mom scolds.

I drag a hand over my face, cursing the universe and Mel’s keen ability to say certain things at the worst timing.

“Ugh. You guys know I’m right!” Mel complains.

Mom’s eyes roll to the ceiling, and she shakes her head. “Those thoughts were already going on in my head; I didn’t need to hear you say them out loud.”

“See.” Mel gestures to our mother. “I’m not the only one thinking it.” She turns toward Mom. “So why are you okay with letting her go?”

Mom leans against the doorway, propping the laundry basket under one arm. “You girls are adults. I may not like something, but in the end, you make your own decisions.” My mom swallows. “We’ve watched your last few rides live, and I’d rather you work and train with someone who knows what they’re doing than risk going out there every time where your panic takes hold of you.” Her blue eyes glaze over as she stares at me. “Colson may not be Aaron, but he seems like he knows what he’s doing, and if working with him makes you safer out there, then I am all for it.”

I can see the gears turning in her gaze. Her thoughts are circling back to the night of my injury, as if her eyes are small screens replaying the accident two years ago. My parents used to come and watch me ride more than they do now. But when I was at the event in Jacksonville, Mel and my parents watched everything unfold on the live stream thousands of miles away. I’m sure my screaming made it seem like I was in the room with them.

Even weeks later, after my surgery, as my parents wheeled me around in a wheelchair, I knew I would be working my way back to the professional league. My parents understood that most injuries wouldn’t keep me from riding, but a part of me thinks they were hoping a shattered leg would.

They were at that appointment when the doctors told me I would make a complete recovery if I kept up with physical therapy, but riding again would be a risk. I didn’t tell them I was officially going to train and work my way back into the PBR until four months later. That’s the thing about my parents, though. They didn’t have to voice their concerns or opinions because their silence and sidelong glances spoke louder than words ever could.

I don’t think any amount of time could have made them feel comfortable about letting me get back on a bull. They always knew I was stubborn and that I was not myself unless my hardheadedness affected every part of my life. I get that from my dad.

He knows it, which is why he doesn’t say anything.

She blinks the memories away, clearing her throat. “Do we need to have a conversation about protection?”

I catch the humor seeping through her tone, lightening the heavy moment.

Playing along, a corner of my mouth lifts. “I won’t forget my protective vest, Mom. I wouldn’t be allowed to ride without it.”