Not like we can all hear him, pacing behind the chutes like we signed up for a round of Russian fucking Roulette. Only an idiot would not be scared to get up on a bull. The hideous shiver sliding through your limbs the second before the chute gate pulls, that’s how you know you’re still sane in a sport that mangles men for fun.
I filter out his extravagant syllable thrashing and take to stretching on the rails. Calves. Hammies. Squats and lunges. Anything to loosen my body, ready it to be tossed around like a weightless rag doll for eight seconds. Spencer, Brady, and Knoxare finishing up their own warm-ups. Brades makes for the first chute where his ride paws restlessly at the dirt.
Cowboys set gear up, double- and triple-checking every piece of equipment before riders go anywhere near the chutes. Knox saunters to his, laughing and chatting with the chute cowboys as he pulls his helmet from his head and runs a hand through his pitch-black hair.
God knows what the fucker finds so damn funny.
Probably a coping mechanism. The rest of us turn introspective in the moments leading up to a ride. Not Knox, he’s all obnoxious confidence and arrogant taunts to the rest of us. Never the chute guys. He has them eating out of his palm.
A slap hits my shoulder. “Ready for this, Jones?”
Levi stops beside me.
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Remember, he favors the left, so use it to your advantage if you can.” He mimics a left turn, right hand down, left up. It looks as inside out as I’m betting it’s going to feel. Damn backward shit.
Fucking Knox.
As Levi nods with a smile and leaves me, making a beeline for Maggie, I drag my gaze from their happy interaction as I send my body in a spin to the left. Practice makes perfect, or some shit. It all feels wrong. Wrong hand on the wrong side.
I get the tap to climb the rails sooner than I’m ready as Levi double-checks his paperwork and gives me a stern nod. His version ofyou got this.
I’m literally winging this one.
I mount the rail, giving the bull a once-over. Something floral moves up the rail beside me.
“I said no, Gallagher.”
“I’m not here for you, Jones.” Not bothering to look at me, she leans in and shoots the bull. Jumping down, she moves tothe head of the chute and takes a shot of the bull’s head, maybe its face, so close it must include the rails.
“What a ride!” the announcer drawls. “Next up, a longtime favorite, Hadley Jones. Give it up for this bull rider, folks. He’s been rodeoing for years. His commitment and talent has brought us many a thrilling moment. Time to hold our breaths again as our cowboy drops onto Little Fizzer.” I do just that as he continues. “Don’t be mistaken by the cute name, ladies and gentlemen, this one has a kick.”
Great. Kick and left-handed.
Fuck my luck.
I strap down, rubbing my hand on the rope until the resin is tacky. Double-checking my helmet is secure, I steady my breathing.
Something green and brown catches my attention from beyond the rails.
Maggie stands a few feet behind the chute, bottom lip tugged between her teeth, a hand gripping the strap of her camera, the other pressing to her head above her forehead.
I look down at my hand in the rope, curling my fingers over it before thudding it closed with my free hand. When I look back up, she’s gone.
I swallow past the stone that formed with her looking like that. Looking atmelike that.
Nope.
In the zone, Hadley.
I can’t afford to think of anything else but spur, round, and up... spur, round, and up.
It takes a few seconds of closing my eyes to block out the noise, the smell, and the sights threatening to overwhelm me even before the chute pulls. Brief sensations of being crushed, lances of agony slipping through my neck and chest, sweep my body. I shudder and shake my head, gritting my teeth.Channeling the revenge anger that’s gotten me through the last two years of tough moments, I shift my seat on the bull and nod to the gate cowboy.
The gate flies open.
Little Fizzer bolts from the tight space and flings left.
