And for the first time in my entire career, I got a bit nervous knowing this little girl would be watching. I shoved the feeling down. Now wasn’t a time for nerves. "I'll be the handsome one."
Her giggle followed me back to the chutes, and I had the strangest sensation walking through that crowd—like theground had tilted two degrees and I was the only one who'd noticed.
Weston was waiting with my rope. He took one look at my face. "You're making a face I've never seen before."
I frowned. “I'm not making a face."
"It's a good face. Weird, but good."
I took the rope and started my prep. Rosin on the glove. Rope wrapped tight. Finding that center of focus where everything dropped away.
My name echoed through the coliseum: "Next up—your current national leader—Clay Blackwood!"
The roar went through my teeth. I lowered myself onto Hellfire's back, and the world narrowed to a point. The bull shifted beneath me—hot, furious, coiled to explode.
I wrapped the rope. Pulled it tight. Slid forward until I was right in the sweet spot. Looked up toward the family section one last time. Couldn't see faces—just the blur of lights and crowd. But I knew they were there. Momma. Mags. Jack. And a little girl in pink boots who'd asked me if I was a real cowboy.
I nodded. The gate blew open.
Hellfire came out spinning—a hard left that would've unseated anyone who wasn't ready. I was ready. My body moved with the fury, counterbalancing, absorbing, riding the chaos like a wave. He kicked. Twisted. Changed direction with a violence that sent fire through my riding arm. I gripped harder. Sat deeper. Found the rhythm in the madness the way I always did—that impossible sync between human will and animal power.
Four seconds. He dropped his head and kicked high, back end launching skyward. My spine compressed, absorbed, held.
Six seconds. He spun tighter. Desperate. Trying to find the angle that would send me flying.
There wasn't one. Not tonight. Tonight I was welded to his back, locked in, riding like my life depended on it.
Eight seconds. The buzzer. I held a beat past it—instinct, showmanship, pure adrenaline—then landed clean. Boots in the dirt. Hat still on.
Ninety-four point five.
The coliseum erupted.
I stood in the arena with dust settling around me and the crowd losing their minds, and I did what I always did. Tipped my hat. Grinned. Soaked it in.
Weston was the first to grab me behind the chutes, pulling me into a hug that nearly cracked my ribs. "Ninety-four five, you crazy son of a bitch! Champion, brother."
I'd done it.
The next thirty minutes blurred—press, photos, handshakes, the buckle heavy and real in my hands. I ran my thumb over the engraving and let myself feel it. But the whole time, there was a pull in my chest. A quiet tug pointing me back toward the stands.
I found Maisie on my mother's lap, and her face when she saw me was something I'd carry for a long time. The rest of the family was on their feet—Dad with his hat pressed to his chest like he'd been holding his breath, Wyatt grinning, Hunter giving me a nod that from him was the equivalent of a standing ovation. Stephanie was wiping her eyes. Sophia was yelling something I couldn't hear over the noise.
"Clay!" She launched off Momma's lap with physics-defying velocity. I caught her on instinct, settled her on my hip like I'd done it a thousand times—which I had not. Not once.
But it felt like I had.
"You did it! You rided the bull, and you didn't even fall off!"
“It’s rode, darlin’. And yeah, I did."
"Miss Louisa holded my hand and she said you were gonna be okay and youwere." She grabbed my hat and put it on. It swallowed her face. "I want to ride a bull."
"Absolutely not," Momma said.
Maisie pushed the hat up. "What if I be really, really careful?"
"Still no, sweetheart."
