“So,Beau, congratulations on today’s ride!” The reporter—blonde, mid-thirties, wearing too much perfume—leans in with her microphone. “That score puts you solidly in position for the National Championship next month. If you ride well, that’s ten national Buckles. How does it feel?”
I flash my camera-ready smile, the one that’s been plastered across magazine covers and energy drink ads. “Feels good. Real good. Been working toward this all season.” I shake my head like I can’t quite believe it. “It’s what we dream about as riders.”
“And you’ll be riding tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” The bright lights positioned around the press area are hot enough that I can feel sweat starting to gather at my hairline. “Plan on retiring and don’t mean to miss a single ride.”
The reporters laugh, eating it up. Someone in the back shouts another question, but all I can think about is Willa. This insatiable need that has been my life since I first saw her.
“What about the Omega? Who is she?”
“Next question.” I keep my smile easy, deflecting. “Let’s keep this about the ride.”
“Fair enough.” The blonde adjusts her grip on the mic. “What bull did you draw for tomorrow?”
“Diablo.”
The reaction is immediate—a collective “ooh” from the gathered press, some nervous laughter, a few low whistles.
“That’s one hell of a draw,” someone says. “No one has scored off him in, what, six events?”
“Seven.” I grin. “But it won’t be eight.”
More questions fly. More answers. I dance around the ones about Willa, not wanting to share her with anyone. The whole time, I’m performing. Playing the role of Beau McCrea, playboy cowboy, Saint of the Circuit.
But there’s something nagging at the back of my mind. A tiny itch I can’t scratch.
“One more question?—”
I shift my weight, the tightness in my chest nagging at me.
“—about your retirement plans after this season?—”
The pressure increases slightly. I roll my shoulders, trying to ease it. Probably just tension. It’s been a long day. And I have plans for my sweet girl tonight.
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about the future,” I answer on autopilot. “Got some opportunities lined up, endorsements, maybe some coaching.”
Another question. Another answer. I can feel sweat trickling down my spine beneath my shirt.
My hand goes to my chest without me meaning to, pressing against the growing ache there.
Something’s wrong.
The thought comes unbidden, and I try to push it away. Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired. Stressed. It’s been an intense few days.
“Beau, about tomorrow?—”
I need to see Willa. The thought slams into me with sudden urgency.Need to see her. Need to know she’s okay.
“—what’s your strategy for a bull like Diablo?”
“Sorry, what?” I force my attention back to the camera, to the microphone shoved in my face. The studio lights are too bright, too hot. My collar feels like it’s choking me.
“I asked about your strategy for tomorrow?” The reporter’s smile is wide and practiced, but all I can focus on is the pressure building behind my sternum and the alarm bells ringing in the back of my head.
“Uh, yeah. Strategy.” I clear my throat. “Stay on for eight seconds. That’s always the strategy.”
“One more question about the Omega?—”
