Page 54 of Josephine and Clay

Everything about it should feel normal.

Instead I feel off balance before I even get my glove on.

Brandon catches up with me near the chutes, beer belly pushing at his belt buckle even though the bastard can still ride better than half the field.

“You look rough,” he says by way of greeting.

I tug my vest into place. “Morning to you too.”

“I’m serious.” His eyes drag over my face. “You get any sleep?”

“Enough.”

“That bad, huh?”

I huff a laugh that doesn’t carry much humor. “Didn’t say it was bad.”

“Didn’t have to.”

He’s known me long enough to hear what I don’t say. Not many people do.

I flex my hand inside the glove, testing the fit. “I’m fine.”

Brandon gives me that look. The one that says he thinks I’m full of shit but isn’t gonna waste his breath pressing it too hard.

“Fine men don’t look like they got in a fistfight with a motel mattress and lost.”

“I won plenty.”

“Yeah?” He snorts. “Then you’re the first.”

I almost grin, but it doesn’t quite land. My head feels packed with wool, heavy and slow around the edges.

Around us, the arena keeps building toward that familiar pulse. Men hauling gear. Stock contractors barking at each other. The smell of dirt and sweat and livestock thick enough to taste.

Usually it settles me.

Not today.

Today every sound feels one click too loud.

Every movement a fraction too sharp.

I rub a hand over the back of my neck and stare out toward the stands. People are filtering in already, boots on metal bleachers, kids weaving between adults carrying nachos and giant sodas.

The noise crawls over me instead of through me.

“You can scratch,” Brandon says, quieter this time.

I look at him.

He shrugs one shoulder. “No shame in it. Off day’s an off day.”

I bark out a humorless laugh. “You trying to kill my reputation?”

“I’m trying to keep you from doing something stupid.”

“Bit late for that. I ride bulls for money.”