I scoff a laugh. “One of life’s great mysteries. How that guy gets anything.”
“At least we agree on something.” A soft chuckle escapes her lips. The arena light catches her wavy brown hair, lightening it to a golden hue as she looks around.
I clear my throat, shifting on my feet as I fold my arms to tamp down the sudden thrum running through my body at the sight of her under the lights tonight.
She barely tolerates me. I barely let her in my space...
Nothing could ever?—
“So, who’d you draw?” She chews her bottom lip, and Christ... that does something to me it really shouldn’t.
I snap my attention to the chutes like they’re the most interesting fucking thing in sight.
An ungodly untruth if I ever heard one.
“Little Fizzer.” The words are as pained as I feel. Just my luck to draw the weakest bull of the night. A left spinner, no less. I guess getting a weak opposite is better than a hell bringer with an opposite. How am I supposed to showcase my skill on a lame-ass bull? Tonight, of all nights.
“Can you redraw?” she asks.
“Yeah, doubt it. After the stunt Knox pulled to swap out.”
“Hang on, why does he get to change, and you don’t?”
“He’s on a team. They have preference if their management steps in.”
“Oh, that’s utter shit.” She looks annoyed.
I chuckle. “I’ll live.”
Unease coils in my gut.
By next year, it probably won’t matter. The ranch will be repossessed by midsummer at this rate. The thought turns my mood sour.
“Okay, well, I’ll make sure to shoot you good, okay? Maybe it’ll help.” She smiles.
Now that coiling feeling unfurls and slips. Shit. I grind my molars against the sensation.
“You know what, don’t bother. I’d rather not be a charity case.”
Her frown tugs as fast as the annoyed look graces her face. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head as she turns on her heel. I can only stare at her back, the way her hair swings over it. Those hips swaying as she walks away from me, heading to the first chute to where Levi stands, clipboard in hand.
I don’t need charity, I need a goddamn paycheck.
Diluting my focus is the fastest way to shoot myself in the foot.
The sounds of hooves thudding over dirt snaps my attention back to reality. I readjust my hat on my head and remind myself why the hell I’m here.
To make the eight.
To earn weekend money.
To save our ranch . . .
“Alright, ladies and gents. The event we’ve all been waiting for...” The announcer draws out every word, the same way he always does. The crowd settles, the air turning dense with tension. “...Tonight’s lineup of cowboys will not only see you entertained, but the bulls—the real stars of tonight’s show—will leave you breathless.”
Yada yada yada.
Hell, he sure knows how to pour it on thick.
