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I was right here, doing this, and as Disco Breakout heaved again, I spurred so hard my legs were almost off his sides. There was air between my thighs and his hair. I had this, and I dared the judges to try to say this wasn't one hell of a ride.
But the lights didn't come. The buzzer didn't sound. I knew I'd ridden a good eight seconds, so when Disco Breakout turned again, I looked up to see the clock stopped and flashing in red. Fuck that. Fuck them. I was still here, and I'd make it damned clear I could hold on this long.
"You're done!" the man in white yelled up at me.
But I was counting in my head. Just a few more bucks. Just a bit longer, because if the clock broke, I didn't want to get off early. I didn't want some technicality being the thing that killed my chances. I didn't want to be sent packing like a minor footnote in PBR history.
I wanted it all, so only when I was sure I'd been up here eight seconds did I dare to reach down and pull the tail of my rope. The part in my hand slipped. The wrap around the back came off so easily thanks to how Dad had wrapped it, and then Disco Breakout kicked again.
Just as my rope came free, he sent me up - with power. For a moment I flew, seeing nothing but the bright lights overhead and the darkness behind them. The problem was that after going up, I had to come down, and when I hit the dirt, it was hard.
The air rushed from my lungs. My arm screamed in pain as my body crushed it. I did my best to ignore all of that as I scrambled to my feet. The tape held. The dirt sucked at my feet. My chaps flapped around my legs as I ran, glancing back to see where the bull was.
But the man in green had caught his attention. I knew I should worry about him, but not today. Right now, I needed out, and I had a whole lot of people waiting to make sure I could. Running to the side, I found the first open chute and rushed into it, lurching halfway up the backside just as Emilio Alves caught my vest and pulled me enough so my feet were out of reach.
"Ei, ei," he said, pointing back to the scoreboard. "Clock stopped."
"What the fuck?" I demanded.
So Emilio rambled off something in Portuguese I couldn't understand. A second later, Gustavo leaned around him, gesturing to the arena again.
"He said it looked like a slap."
"No!" I insisted as my bull finally decided to take his leave of the arena. "They're not giving me a score?"
Without waiting for his answer, I jumped back down and headed onto the dirt for my rope. "What the hell?" I yelled at the bullpen.
"It's a no score," the man in blue told me, sounding like he didn't care at all.
So I snatched my rope out of the dirt. "That's bullshit!" Feeling my anger taking over, I turned back to the chutes and yelled it even louder. "That's fucking bullshit!"
And on the far side, I saw Ty lean over and slap at a big red button on one of the posts. Immediately, a buzzer began to sound, and Cletus chose that moment to speak up.
"Oh-ho, looks like someone's hit the challenge button for our little cowgirl. You think you deserve a score, Cody?"
"I made sure I stayed on for eight!" I yelled back at him, but my words were lost to the music playing around us meant to keep the fans entertained.
Cletus paused, pressing at his ear. "Judges stopped the clock for a slap, so they're reviewing it now."
"Damn straight," I grumbled, heading back towards the exit gate.
But I wasn't leaving this arena until they gave me a score. If the PBR was going to chase me off, then I wouldn't make it easy. I refused to go quietly! Anthony had told me to be a sensation, and this seemed to be my chance.
Overhead, the big screen showed my ride, and the announcer was breaking it down while the judges did their review. The tape moved forward, then back, playing slowly both ways as they tried to identify this disqualifying touch they wished I'd had.
But I hadn't slapped the bull with my free hand. Nope, I was sure of it. Mostly because that would've hurt like hell, and while riding hadn't exactly been amazing for my elbow, I hadn't made it any worse.
When they reached the point where I'd flopped forward, the video paused. Yeah, I was down, and from this angle, it looked like my arm could've been on the bull, but the screen switched to another camera's shot. There, my arm was straight out, not even close to the bull.
That video was moved forward and backward around the moment in question, and when nothing proved I'd touched the bull, the judges went to a third. This showed everything head-on at that moment, and as they slowly moved forward frame by frame, it was clear my hand was not touching the bull - or even close.
"And that's a full score for Cody Jennings!" the announcer declared.
I turned to see the leaderboard shift, moving me all the way up to first place. That was nice, but the number sitting beside it? The score I'd earned for that ride? 80.25
"What the fuck?" I demanded, screaming at the top of my lungs. "Eighty? That's what you think I deserve?" And I threw my rope at the exit gate as hard as I could.
Inside the bullpen, the judge pointed at me in warning. This time, however, I recognized his face. It was Harold, the man who'd been with Donald Merrill.
