“Yes, ma’am.” I clear my throat.
Is there anyone not ribbing me over my old girl? I love my truck, but I know she’s a rusted-out old wreck. Too old. Tooslow. Much like I’ll be if I don’t start winning soon. Thirty is old in bull rider years.
Most cowboys start in their teens, most bucking out around mid-twenties, if they’re smart.
Apparently, Brades and me ain’t that smart.
His girlfriend peeled out last year. Sick of waiting for him to quit the rodeo. If I’ve learned anything about the most dangerous sport on earth, it’s this—you don’t quit rodeo, you leave either because you’re hurt, broke, or dead.
Kayley’s worried expression floods in.
Nope, not happening.
I have a routine. My little rituals. I have a process. No bull is going to send me out in a box. I ride for my family. That keeps me invincible.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“Right, fees paid up. Here’s your numbers, boys.” The older woman stands, pulling the old steel cabinet open. She hands out the number plates, recording our numbers in her log before wishing us luck. “’Cause with this new round of bulls, boys, you’re gonna need it.”
We wander from the office to behind the chutes. The last of the sun’s rays splinter over the rails as we walk through the yards that hold the bulls and steers for the roping events.
“Finally! Jones, Fawkner. When you’re ready.” Levi gives us the look that tells me they’ve all been waiting on us for a while.
“Sorry boss, Hadley’s rust bucket only cracks ninety clicks an hour.” Brady comes to a halt by the rest of the riders and I readjust my hat on my head, meeting Levi’s gaze.
The older man’s been in the rodeo game for about as long as I’ve been responsible for my family. In his low forties, he keeps every event running smoothly. Keeping everyone safe. Riders, chute cowboys, and bullfighters.
Speaking of, Logan Montgomery pulls up his ridiculous high neon socks under a skirt of cut up Wrangler jeans ending just above his knees. His face already painted like a literal clown, he waves, and a smile lights up his face.
I wave back.
“Jones?”
I adjust my hat on my head. “Sorry. I’m good.”
He chuckles, chewing on his gum. “I’m glad. Now, pay a-fuckin’-ttention. I can’t keep this shit show straight or you lot safe if no fucker is paying attention.”
“Yes, sir.”
He raises a brow.
We all know he hates it when we call him that. Makes him feel old.
If the shoe fits...I beam at him.
His dark eyes narrow as he slaps his clipboard into Brady’s chest and lifts his hat from his head and runs a hand through his hair. He steps toward me.
Flicking my hat from my head, he says playfully, “You’ll keep, bud. Now, down to business.”
The small crowd of cowboys all shift on their feet, their attention turning more serious as Levi reads out the bulls for the night. A few we know. Some we don’t. But the ones we do—they’re tough.
I’d expect nothing less at the start of the season. The PBR’s way of sorting the men from the boys.
Most of the guys circling Levi I know. The two most notable and the ones to beat, apart from Brades, would be Knox, the bad boy of the rodeo circuit, and Spencer Lockwood—rich boy playin’ cowboy—who’s nice to everyone and is currently fist-bumping Brady.
Both of them also belong to teams.
It’s like the universe is testing my commitment by putting every single cowboy in my circle on a team, and not me.
