Page 77 of Tame Our Wild

People flood out of the arena. It’s the kind of quiet that’s stagnant after an atmosphere was booming and thriving off adrenaline and exhilaration.

The rodeo has ended, spectators scattering out of their seats and back to the fair, where the music and laughter from the rides can be faintly heard through the walls of the building. It’s a hum of anticipation that should have me eagerly flooding out the doors with them like a wave, but my feet are heavy, carrying my weight.

A part of me wanted to hit the rides and snag a funnel cake afterward. Unfortunately, that interest was replaced with a heaviness I can’t shake after my discussion with Matt. It shifted my mood and has left me feeling exhausted as I thought about all the possible answers to the questions I have.

I don’t know Colson Payne.

Not really, anyway.

From the moment I met him, I’ve slapped labels on him that I have had a hard time ignoring. But it’s nothing he hasn’t done to me. Sure, they’ve seemed to dissolve over the last several months, but it doesn’t change that they existed between us. That he was a dick to me my first year because he thought I was incapable of competing at this level, because of my gender. Riding a bull might not scare me, but truthfully, asking him why he’s treated me the way he has does.

Why did he say those things to me when I was seventeen? I looked up to him, and all he did was belittle me and make me feel like I was overreaching.

There’s this sickening, swirling sensation souring my stomach whenever those questions sit on my tongue. It should seem easy to just come out with it, but it’s like that chest-tightening feeling you get when you know there’s more to the story than just the surface-level stuff that never means shit.

Words can hurt. They can cut sharply in ways they shouldn’t be able to. And over the last several years, Colson has thrown them at me relentlessly through our time competing together. Some of them hit hard. Others were like a drug to my system, flooding into my veins and pushing me forward.

I brace my hands on the fence separating the stands from the dirt floor, looking out over the empty expanse where only a few workers are clearing the chutes and some of the athletes are lingering.

The small fairground stadium stirs so many memories of when I was in these riders’ shoes, trying to find anywhere I could compete to keep increasing the value of my name. It wasn’t that long ago that I was in this exact spot, scraping by just because I could taste my future on the tip of my tongue and craved to make it a reality.

A shoulder brushes mine, and I hate to admit how aware I am of Colson when he’s nearby.

“I miss competing in places like this,” I admit, glancing out over the space. “It was events like this one that always felt like the halfway point between having to put everything on the line but also feeling like it wasn’t the end of the world if you were knocked off balance and didn’t last those eight seconds.”

“You should go into every ride as if each one is the biggest fight of your life.” God, could Colson sound any more like a coach?

Sometimes, I think he was meant for this—to end up as a coach after his riding career is over because he is a damn good one. He’s easy to listen to—to want to impress. And for some godforsaken reason, I want to keep drawing out that brightness that reflects in his eyes. I’ve come to recognize it as the telltale sign that he is proud.

I turn my head slightly to regard him. “Have you ever thought about coaching? For real?”

His gaze meets mine. “What is it that you think I’ve been doing with you all this time? Ordering you around?”

“I mean, you did tie me to a headboard.”

Colson’s mouth curves. “I didn’t hear you protesting. Your pussy wasn’t either.”

Goosebumps burst across my skin, and suddenly I’m too hot in my flannel and jeans.

I playfully bump his shoulder with mine, swallowing down the high-pitched tone I know my voice is going to release after hearing him say that out loud. “I’m serious. You could coach after you retire. You’re a natural at it.”

His low, throaty laugh warms the blood in my veins. “Wow, I never thought I’d see the day when Harlow Hartt keeps complimenting me. That almost sounded easy for you to say.”

I hold his eyes. “Because it was.”

His irises bounce between mine, but then he looks back out over the arena. He pulls a small section of his bottom lip between his teeth. I focus too much on the movement of his mouth. “I’m not done with being a professional rider yet, Harlow. I haven’t stalled. Sure, I’ve thought about coaching—but that’s the kind of weight and responsibility I’m not sure I’d be able to handle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Aaron was standing fifteen feet away when your leg was crushed. You can’t tell me that it didn’t scar him in some way.”

My heart smashes against my ribs. Maybe it’s selfish, but I never considered how hard that would’ve been on him. If anything, it made our relationship stronger the following year when I was finally able to start training again. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but his coaching style changed. He was more alert than he was before, giving me tips on how to continue reading the flexing of the muscle below me, even after the control was no longer mine, and I was about to be thrown.

I agree with him. “I’m sure it terrified him as much as it terrified me.”

“Fuck.” Colson sighs. “You scared the shit out of everyone that night, Harlow. You scared me.” His voice drops, breaking just slightly enough for me to catch it.

I suppress a smile. “Careful, cowboy. It almost sounds like you cared about me even back then.”