"Scared?"
"Your new bull. You said at dinner last night that your coach is moving you up a level."
I puff out my chest. "Not scared. I got this!"
Her lips twitch.
"Don't worry," I tell her. I start to put my arm around her, then realize where I'm at and pull my hand back to my hip.
She pins her blues on me.
My heart stammers. I say, "Come on, I'll walk you to the parking lot."
"Okay."
We push through the thinning crowd and get outside. I lead her toward Jagger's truck.
"What time are you done today?" he asks me.
"I don't know. Coach Jax said it might be a little longer than normal," I reply.
"Gotcha. Maybe we can play poker before we go to bed tonight?"
Willow glances at me.
I shake my head. "I doubt it, man. I got barn duty, practice, and homework. Sorry."
He groans. "I'm sick of homework. I can't wait until we never have to do it again."
"Agreed." I nod, ready to never open another textbook again. Then I declare, "I'll see you two at home."
"Later," Jagger says and then gets in the truck.
I open the passenger door for Willow.
She flashes her semi-shy grin, and my heartbeat trips over itself. She gets inside, and I shut the door and then lean through the open window. "Have fun, and wish me luck."
"Have fun, and good luck," Willow says, beaming at me.
"Get it, bro," Jagger adds.
"I got this," I state again with a wink. I tap the hood and step back.
Jagger pulls away. I unlock my 1969 Ford Bronco. It's rusted and old, but Jagger and I rebuilt the engine. I slide inside and take off down the country roads, whistling. Today, everything good's happening. Tonight, I get to spend some time with Willow, and soon, I get to ride the next-level bull.
One more step, and I'm ready to compete professionally.
I turn up the country station on the radio, sing at the top of my lungs, and inhale the fresh air, feeling unstoppable.
The old windmill, grain silos, and battered wooden fence come into view. I pull through the rusted wrought iron gates, and zoom down the driveway. I park by the other vehicles and get out.
My coach, Jax McCoy, leans against a tree with ink-filled arms. His cigarette pack peeks out of his rolled navy-blue T-shirt sleeve, just like it does every other day. He turns his head, but his leather hat brim shields his gaze. His whiskey voice roars, "About time you got here."
I glance at my watch. "I'm fifteen minutes early, so I'm not late."
"Eh," he grunts, nodding.
Jax McCoy has a lot of qualities I admire. Besides Jacob Cartwright, he's the only other male I've ever had to look up to. And they're both everything my sperm donor isn't.
