Three seconds. Four.
This time, when the bull kicks, the rider can't recover. His hand rips free of the rope, and he flies sideways through the air, hitting the ground hard on his shoulder. The bull spins toward him immediately, and my heart stops, but the bullfighters are already there, waving and shouting, drawing the animal away.
The crowd roars, and the rider rolls to his feet, clutching his shoulder as he limps toward the gate. Shit. That's going to be Trigger.
The arena falls silent as they prepare the next chute. Trigger climbs onto the rails with an ease that makes my stomach flip. From here, I can see the definition in his arms as he grips the metal, the way his shoulders roll when he settles himself. He's strong—stronger than I realized. Not bulky, but solid muscle, lean and powerful. He's not that much bigger than the rider who went before him, but there's something different in the way he moves. Something deliberate. He's not up there for the sport of it.
Sure, the charity money is on the line—Hollis said as much. But watching him now, the way he tests the rope, the way his jaw sets as he slides down onto the bull's back, I understand.Bull riding isn't something he does. It's in him. Part of him. Like breathing.
The announcer's voice crackles over the speaker, but I don't hear the words. My eyes are locked on him as he nods once, sharp and certain, and the gate explodes open.
The bull launches into the arena, and my breath catches. It's massive, bigger than the first one. It twists hard right out of the chute, but Trigger moves with it, his body anticipating the shift. His free arm stays high and controlled, not windmilling like the first rider. His hips stay centered even as the bull bucks and spins. He's locked in.
The animal drops its head and kicks viciously, but he doesn't snap forward. He leans back into it, using the momentum, and somehow manages to stay on. The bull spins left, then right, trying to throw him off balance, but he reads every movement like he's inside the animal's head.
Three seconds. Four.
He's making it almost look easy, and I know it's not. I just watched another rider get rag-dolled by a smaller bull. But he's still up there, so focused, like nothing exists except him and the animal beneath him.
Five seconds. Six. Seven.
The crowd is screaming now, on their feet. Even Hollis is yelling beside me, but I can't make a sound. My heart is in my throat, pounding so hard it hurts.
Eight seconds.
The buzzer blares, and the crowd goes wild. He's done it, set the record to beat for the night, but he doesn't let go yet. The bull is still bucking, still furious, and he waits for the right moment, the safe moment. Then he releases the rope and pushes off. When he hits the ground, he takes off running, already moving toward the rails, but the bull is faster. It pivots, rear legs kickingout, and catches Trigger square in the chest. The impact sends him sprawling backward into the dirt.
"No!" The word rips out of me before I can stop it.
The bullfighters are there instantly, bodies between him and the bull, drawing it away with shouts and waves. He's on his hands and knees in the dirt, head down, and he's not moving.
My hands grip the cool metal of the arena bars so tight they ache. Hollis is yelling something, but I can't hear him over the roaring in my ears.Get up, I think desperately.Get up.
One of the bullfighters crouches beside him, hand on his shoulder. And then, finally, he pushes himself up slowly. His hand goes to his chest, and even from here I can see him wince. But he's standing and walking toward the gate.
The crowd erupts again, louder this time, and he raises one hand to acknowledge he’s okay, but I can see the tightness in his jaw, the way he's breathing too carefully.
"He's fine," Hollis says beside me, but his voice sounds uncertain. "He's walked off worse."
I can't look away. Can't stop my hands from shaking where they grip the bars. Can't stop the flood of relief and terror and…something else—something I've been trying so hard not to feel—from crashing over me all at once.
The crowd starts to disperse as the next rider gets ready, but I can't move. My eyes track him as he disappears through a gate on the far side of the arena, one hand still pressed to his chest.
"I need to use the bathroom," I say suddenly.
Hollis glances at me. "Now?"
"Yeah, now. Unless you want me to go in the dirt like everyone else here seems comfortable with."
He snorts. "There's a building behind the main barn. Can't promise it's clean."
I'm already walking, weaving through clusters of people, my heart still hammering. I don't know what I'm doing. Don't knowwhy my feet are carrying me toward the back of the arena instead of toward any bathroom.
The area behind the chutes is darker, less crowded. A few riders mill around, and I spot him immediately, leaning against a post, his vest hanging open, breathing shallow. There's dirt streaked across his cheek, his hair a mess from the helmet. I've always known Trigger was attractive in that infuriating way that made hating him more complicated than it should be. But this is different. Maybe it's the adrenaline still coursing through me or the panic that gripped me when I thought he might not get up. Whatever it is, I can't stop staring at the way his chest rises and falls, the exposed skin at his throat where his shirt collar's torn, or the flex of his forearm as he grips the post for support. He looks wrecked and alive and utterly unaware of what watching him almost break did to me. My pulse hasn't settled when he sees me coming.
"Come to tell me how stupid that was?" he says, wincing as he attempts to stand straighter.
"Yeah, actually." I stop a few feet away, crossing my arms. "That was incredibly stupid."
