The rodeo starts off, the roping and barrels taking up the next hour as the crowd eats their supper and settles in for the main event.
Bulls.
I return to my truck and grab my gear bag.
Cars are still rolling in as the night darkens around us. A small yellow VW van pulls in by my truck on the other side of the old oak.
I shoulder my bag and head back to the chutes. Brady is stretching beside Knox and Spencer when I make it back. Their team vests and gear studded with sponsor logos make them stand out. Those of us without a team do the same, for a different reason.
We draw our bulls, and the rituals and routines start.
There’s no locker room at the smaller events, so I drop my bag by Brady’s and pull out my chaps. I run the strap through the front buckle. Kayley and the girls saved up for six months to buy me the best set they could afford. I wear them to every event.
The crowd roars as someone smashes a personal best in barrels.
A whoop rings out from by the bull chutes.
Logan.
I’m guessing the PB was his sister’s.
The rodeo twins from Ontario. One thing about rodeo is it has a magnetic pull that brings folks from all over the country to compete and work the circuit.
“Layla rock out a new time, bud?” I call out.
“She sure fucking did.” Logan holds his hand up to his sister as she trots closer on a chestnut horse, her long blonde hair flowing behind her. She winks at Brady and me. She leans overand high-fives Logan before slowing the horse to a walk. “Ready for this new lot, boys?”
Brady shakes his head.
I nod. “As we’ll ever be, Layla. Congrats on the PB.”
“Thanks, Jonesy. Good luck, hey.”
“Not luck, Montgomery, strategy and brawn.”
She laughs before pushing her horse into a lope and disappearing behind the bull yards.
Twenty minutes later, we’re strapping up and kneeling down, saying our last prayers for a safe and good ride.
Knowing I need great scores to prove myself, I say an extra one to the big guy up there that I can make it to the eight. Dismount and get the hell out before I meet the two-ton maniac I was spinning on face-to-face.
The crowd noise blurs to white noise as I climb the rails over the top of Mad Max the Third.
He’s shifty.
Shaking his head, snot flies from his muzzle already.
I slide down onto his back. He slams his head into the front of the chute. My nerves rise, sending my gut flipping. Hands hold me steady as I slam my fist into my knuckles wrapped around the bull rope.
Something floral floats over the chute.
Am I having a stroke?
Not a scent that comes with cowboys and bulls...
I tug my helmet down and double-check the grill is safely over my face. Mad Max snorts.
A soft hum comes from my left.
