"You know he's at Ridgewood because his dad sent him away for this, right?" I turned to Hollis. "He could get in so much trouble if he gets caught."
"Then I guess you better not tell.” Hollis faces me, something knowing in his eyes. "I think we both know something more than bull riding landed him at that school.”
I stare blankly back at him. Hearing it said out loud makes it real in a way my private suspicions never did. Of all the schools in the country that would've taken a Hale, his father chose Ridgewood. Mine. Two kids from the same small town in Kentucky, two feuding ranches. In the eight years I’d been gone, surely Mr. Hale got wind of where I was sent and why. So, why would he send his son, the boy responsible for my departure, to the school I was exiled to? You don't put your enemy's daughter and your own son under the same roof by accident. Someone wanted us here, and I’ve often wondered if that someone is the person here with me.
"It won't matter if he gets hurt." The words came out sharper than I intended, panic laced with something else creeping into my voice. "How are you guys going to explain that to the headmaster?"
"Now you sound like you care." Hollis quirks a suspicious brow.
"I don't?—"
"You know Headmaster Trejo put him on the polo team specifically because of the bull riding that landed him at Ridgewood." He turns back to the paddock. "His dad doesn't want him bull riding, but the kid is good. That's why Trejo put him on the team. He knew he'd be a natural."
"I wonder if he'll still appreciate his bull riding skills if he can't play in the match this weekend," I say, not to be snarky but to point out a very real fact. This is serious. They can't sneak their way out of this if it all goes sideways.
My eyes drift back to Trigger, the way he moves confidently, controlled, like he belongs in that gear more than he ever did in a pressed Ridgewood uniform. I imagine him on the back of a bull, imagine the raw power beneath him, the way his body would move with it. And then I imagine him thrown, trampled, and my chest tightens. I don't want to care. Don't want to feelthis pull toward someone who infuriates me, who challenges me, who looks at me like he can see right through every wall I've built. However, watching him now, knowing what he is about to do, I can't push the feelings down.
"What did he mean earlier on the ride over about his mom?" The question tumbles out, a desperate attempt to distract myself, to replace the fear with something else. "When he said ‘she didn't want me’?"
Hollis hangs his head. "That was a shit comment you made, Asha."
"It was not. That's a common phrase. Lots of people say, 'Didn't your momma teach you manners?'"
He shakes his head slowly. "Maybe so, but he doesn't have a mom."
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly tight. "I didn't know."
I'm starting to realize there's a lot I don't know about Trigger Hale. In the beginning, I didn't care. I didn't want to know. Knowing left room for understanding. My dad told me he was the enemy, and he needed to stay that way, especially after all that he took from me.
"Tonight is important. It's worth the risk. Hopefully, he doesn't get hurt. There's a lot of money on him tonight."
"So, are you going to explain it to me now?"
"Remember, Jermey Cantu?" My brow furrows as I try to place a face with the name. "The kid who climbed to the top of that oak tree in sixth grade, and the fire department had to come and get him down."
"Oh yeah… He was always in the computer lab. I'm terrible with names."
"This ride is for him. His mom had a heart attack at the beginning of summer and lost most of her cognitive and physical abilities. She has had to relearn how to talk, move her body, andthink rationally. The medical bills are now drowning the family. If Hale wins, he's donating the pot to the Cantu family."
"Why don't we set up a fundraiser at school?"
"That was the first thing Trigger tried to do, but not only was Jermey attending Ridgewood as a scholarship recipient, he's not enrolled this semester at the school, so he's technically not even a student. He's homeschooling this year so he can stay home and help with his mother's rehabilitation."
"We raise money for charities all the time. There's no reason we can't raise money for one of our own," I say, my tone piqued with irritation.
"I don't know all the details. All I know is we are here tonight because other shit fell through."
I look around the crowd with a little more care this time, and I see a few students from Ridgewood. Trigger is one of the riders and probably one of the organizers, which is why this event had to be held so late. They had to sneak out.
This time, when I look across the arena, my eyes connect with his. His face is impassive. Gone is the cocky smirk and the challenging glare we've perfected over the past two years. It almost feels like a distant memory, because in his eyes is something else. Something that reminds me of summer all those years ago, before everything fell apart, before I learned to hate him to keep from feeling anything else.
Now, instead of feeling nothing, I find myself looking into the eyes of the boy I once saved and offered friendship, the boy I once cared about before I knew caring could hurt. A whole new feeling starts to surface. Regret. He didn't take from me; my grudge is doing that all on its own.
His lips part, like he might say something, and I find myself pulling in a stuttered breath, but then the crowd erupts, and my attention is jerked toward the arena as the first rider bursts from the chute.
The bull barrels into the center of the paddock, a mass of twisting muscle and rage. The rider's arm whips above his head, his other hand locked in the rope. The bull spins hard to the left, then kicks its back legs up with brutal force. The rider's body snaps forward, his chest nearly hitting the animal's shoulders, but somehow, he pulls himself back, his core fighting to keep him centered.
The bull spins in a tight circle, faster than something that size should be able to move, and the rider's body swings wide. His grip is slipping, and I can see it in the desperate way his fingers claw at the rope, the way his whole body has shifted too far to one side.
