Chapter 35
Hadley
The crowd in the enormous entertainment center of Edmonton has the walls shaking. “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC reverberates through the indoor stadium. The biggest event of the circuit and the year, the crowd is already unhinged, and we haven’t pulled the first gate yet.
As we prep in the team locker room, the announcer’s muffled words almost blend into the thundering noise overhead.
Almost.
Knox straps his ankles before sliding his socks over, his boots next. Me, I’ve been ready, pacing for over an hour. Only now do I drop to the bench as Levi gives me a ‘sit your ass down’ look. He’s not officially part of our team, but he may as well be.
Knox is fixated on his task. He winds the tape around the other ankle, ripping it off before flattening the end down. “Gallagher comin’?”
“Doubt it,” I manage, ripping my hat off, and running a hand through my hair. A wave of dizziness washes over me.
I’m as unsettled as I’ve ever been.
Between Maggie and the ranch’s fate looming over me, my insides resemble an EF-5 tornado. Knox and I are the top two ranking riders this year, vying for the championship. So his calmcomradery is not what I was expecting when he sat down beside me.
“Well, sure it’s for the best, Jonesy.”
Jonesy.
Huh.
He almost smiles as he shoves on his boots and plucks up his hat from the hook above where we sit. Grabbing up his rope and glove, he slaps my shoulder with a nod to my forearm in the cast. “May the best man win.”
“Yeah, good luck.” The words are weak, strained, and I’m anywhere but in this conversation right now. Flipping my hat to the bench, I shove my head in my hands. My leg bounces. A tight knot forms in my chest.
“Right, gentlemen. Pep talk time!” Mike, the team coach, hollers.
I force my ass up off the bench and swipe up my hat. My team shirt with all its logos littered around the sleeves and pocket is tighter over my muscles. I’ve spent the last few days honing my fitness for my best chance possible tonight.
I’ve never been a gym guy, but the benefits of pumping iron with a broken heart are many. My biceps strain the shirt. Legs like cannons...
Okay, that’s a gross exaggeration, but they’re bigger, I guess.
We make a circle in the center of the locker room, each of us standing round, spurs strapped on, joints taped within an inch of mobility, and hats firmly on our heads as Mike studies the men before him.
“Tonight, someone goes home with the buckle. The rest of you go home knowing you’ve worked your tail off to be here. Do not forget, for even a second, how much dedication and hard work and hurt it took to make it to this elite level. The bulls may be tough, gentlemen, but you are tougher.”
Fist bumps shoot around the group, tangled with the whoops and ‘fuck yeahs’ that the elated team rallies for.
Knox throws me a half smile and nods.
Geez, he’s either playing me or the dead-on-the-inside-cowboy got resuscitated.
“Go Bravos!” Mike shouts.
The team yells it back, punching the space over their hearts twice with a side fist. Knox does it half-heartedly. Figures, the lone wolf he is. Me, I’m lost to my misery, teetering on the edge of losing it all. So the revelry doesn’t take.
We file from the locker room to the booming rock beat and into the shadows of the darkened corridors where we’re told to wait.
The announcer starts up. “And now, the time has finally come. The night we have all been tracking toward all year. I give you...”
We file out into the area, chaps flapping, hats tipped down, hands swinging by our sides. “Your 2025 PBR Championship cowboys!”
Flares shoot up around the arena fence. And as the music cuts back in, flames engulf the surface of the dirt arena, lighting up giant letters.
