Chapter 2
Hadley
March 2025
“HAD-LEY . . . JONES, ladies and gents.”
The announcer’s call is drowned out by the drumming in my ears. The rope, now snug around Trigger Warning, pulls tight with my curt nod to the cowboys surrounding the chute.
The bull moves in the tight metal confines, and my leg smashes into the rail. The sounds turn to a hiss as memories flood in. Tunnel vision of Hells Bells’s enormous mass under my seat replaces my reality.
Then . . .
Pain. The taste of copper. My face biting the dirt. The snap of my arm. The never-ending downward pressure of a horn in my back. The darkness that creeps into my peripherals eventually abducting me before I can get up and get out of the path of the bull with the biggest grudge Mother Nature’s ever seen.
A cold sweat breaks over my forehead, sending my hands clammy in the Tiffany glove. The other I raise to my vest, wiping off the slick. The vest that’s currently strangling me.
It’s been two whole years since the accident, and every ride, it plays over in my mind like it’s happening in real time. Just as painful. Just as terrifying.
I hone my focus to the two thousand pounds pressing between my legs. All rage and determination. And this is our second match up. A bull I’ve strapped to before with no success.
Second chance to ride an unrideable bull.
The bull rope tightens again, and I run my gloved hand up and down the length held up by the chute cowboy. My glove warms, turning the rosin thick and sticky.
Perfect.
Sliding my gloved hand into the hand piece of the rope, strapped tight around the bull, I close my fingers over and drive my fist into knuckles shutting my digits down tight.
No coming out.
“...this cowboy has worked hard to come back from what would have kept many a man down. We want to see him moving up the ranks...” the announcer continues.
I shuffle side to side on the bull, getting my center where I need it.
“This is his first ride back after a long recovery, so let’s show him some love, Alberta!”
The crowd roars, and I sink my seat snug behind the rope.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I nod, fast.
The chute gate swings open.
I set my gaze between the bull’s horns. The roar around me disintegrates to white noise.
And we dance . . .
Almost.
Trigger jerks right, bucking. I lean back, left arm held high.
Seat planted on the raging animal, I follow him round to the right again and chance a raking spur over his flank. My body is tight on the left. A sharp pang runs down my rope arm, sendinga flush of tingles through my fingers tucked around the hand piece.
Trigger Warning dips his head, throwing his back legs up and twisting to the left.
