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And then I’d see Braids bouncing in her seat, still holding that sign. And my dad would lean toward Jesse, probably explaining something about the scoring, and I would swallow my panic and visualize my ride because I cannot let them down. Not again.
Walker never believed in visualization or prep work of any kind. I had to bribe him with Dr Pepper and cheese pizza to sit with me and watch films. He would say he liked to be surprised.
I would say he liked to eat sand and dodge hooves.
I’m too cerebral for that. To me, the rides have always been a problem to solve. I’ll spend hours watching footage and imagining how I would have responded in each situation.
So that’s how I spend my time until they announce my event. I’m still a handful of names down, so I find the bathroom and then make my way to the makeshift locker room for my bag. I buckle on my chaps, fingers brushing against the embroidered flames Walker talked me into getting. Then I grab my gloves, mouth guard, and helmet and return to the fence to watch the first few riders.
They’re good. Better than my memory serves, but not as good as Walker and not as good as I am. That’s not me being cocky. Well, okay, Winnie would say it is, but truthfully, I know my skills. This isn’t like me bragging about having an expensive car. I didn’t earn that. But when it comes to this? I’m one of the best around. I might be an emotional disaster with an overreactive upchuck reflex, but I know how to ride a bull and keep my seat. That’s never been the issue.
My name is next, so I hop off the fence, and with one last lingering look to Winnie, I line up outside the chute. My heart is racing, but so far, everything is staying down. Brody’s nearby, but something in my expression or maybe the green tinge tomy skin must tell him I’m a loose cannon because he only slaps my shoulder once, hard, before sauntering off into the mass of coaches, bullfighters, and riders.
I hear my name over the loudspeaker, followed by the Suttons screaming for me. I slip my mouth guard between my teeth and pull down the V of my vest. I step my boot onto the rung and haul myself into the chute, hovering above the bull I’ve pulled for tonight. His name is Percival, and he’s a fucking maniac.
Nothing like jumping right back into the deep end.
The familiar guitar riff of “Thunderstruck” plays, and the crowd instantly gets into it. I slap my vest in time with the beat before slipping my hand into the grip, face up. I carefully lower myself onto Percival, who immediately tries to rub me off, shoving my knee against the wooden chute. It doesn’t feel great, but the leather chaps do their job. The chute boss grips the back of my neck and holds me steady, passing me the rope cinched through the grip and around Percival. This rope is how I stay on the bull and my ticket off when shit goes south, so I make sure I prepare it right. I wrap the rope and rewrap the cinch around my gloved hand as securely as I can manage. I double-check the feel, opening and closing my hand around it before squeezing tightly enough to lose feeling in my fingers. Not that I’ll be holding on long.
And then it’s time.
Let’s go.
I curl myself low and tighten the one arm I’m allowed to use to hold on, and the chute pulls open.
Percival twists and bucks like he’s been stung by a thousand fucking hornets, but I’m ready for him. I’ve studied hisstyle. He’s all over the place, so I am, too. I use my free hand to counter his movements, careful to keep it high and away from any kind of contact, and keep my center of gravity. When the buzzer sounding eight seconds rings, I flip rearward off Percival’s back, midbuck, over my connected hand, and land out of the way of his hooves. It’s not the prettiest ride, and I’m positive I’ll see ways to improve when I watch the footage later, but I get the job done.
Garrett is screaming, and Winnie lets out a whistle I didn’t know she was capable of. I remove my helmet and mouth guard in time to catch Brody as he wraps me in a firm embrace.
“He would have loved that shit.”
I laugh. “He would have been bucked off in the first twist.” Being left-handed, Walker would have been completely spun out by Percival’s surprise left spins.
Brody beams. “That, too.”
I glance back at the scoreboard. With five riders left, I’m in the lead, and because I made it to eight seconds with zero deductions, I’ll be back for round two tomorrow night. Local rodeos typically only have two nights of events, which is good. More than good. I did it—I finished my ride without Walker and made it on to the leaderboard. Assuming I don’t completely fall on my ass tomorrow, I’m in position to be just as good as I was before I took a year off.
But… as good as the ride was, it wasn’t what it used to be. I don’t think it was Walker being gone or my nerves at facing an unknown future. I think it might be… growing up. I liked it, but I didn’t love it.
All I know is I will never forget the look of pure fire in Winnie’s eyes as she rode this afternoon. Like racing was the onlything that mattered in the whole wide world, and the only thing worth doing with her life.
And after tonight, I know I don’t feel the same about riding bulls.
And that’s just fine.
Twenty-FourCASE
The second night, there’s a scheduling conflict with a local Amarillo Summer Kickoff festival, so Winnie and Brody are the only ones who stick around to watch my final bull-riding event. It’s the rare night Winnie doesn’t have to watch Garrett, and I’m flattered she’s spending it with her butt in the stands watching me.
I told everyone it didn’t matter if they came tonight. It’s just a local show. I’ve ridden in a hundred others over the last decade. What’s one more? I meant it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate looking up and seeing Winnie’s encouraging smile. She’s waving that same hand-printed sign with unbridled enthusiasm, blocking the view of at least four people behind her. It’s a good look for her. No barn coat, no siblings, nothing to prove. Just Winnie being Winnie.
God, I love her.
I know I’m not supposed to. It wasn’t on the list and things are complicated, but oh fucking well. I do.
Tonight, the nerves are less of the puke-inducing varietyand more of the typical “I’m about to hop on fifteen hundred pounds of unpredictable bull.” Brody manages to get Walker’s song playing again, and this time, it spurs me on instead of gutting me. NFR or no, tonight, I’m just a guy doing something reckless to show off for the girl he secretly loves. As luck would have it, I pulled a dead ringer named King Kong. He plays by the rules, bucking enough to score us some solid style points, but not enough to cause me to bail ahead of the eight seconds. By the time I’m flinging myself off his back and safely ducking to the ground, I already know I’ve won.
Case Michaels is back.
