He leans closer, so I can see those creases on the sides of his eyes—lines that talk of a man who smiles often. ‘Then buckle in. Ain’t nothing quite like it.’
Chapter Five
Bailey
Iwas always going to feel like a fish out of water at a rodeo, but that’s nothing new for me. For a girl who grew up dancing ballet, finding myself covering major sporting events is a whole new world. But I’m a professional and observing things is part of the job, so I tune out my own awareness of how much I feel like I don’t belong and focus instead on what I’m seeing—the elaborate flag garlands strung from the ceiling, people clapping and cheering—and what I’m smelling—the clay I can practically taste in the air, the adrenalin.
Rodeo people, for example, wear alotof denim and plaid, and they really love their cowboy hats. I’m surrounded by a sea of the same kind of person, excited and talking loudly, eating golden fries, drinking beer, laughing or tapping their boots along to the country music blaring from the speakers above. This is a huge arena, and a quick scan of the stands shows it to be almost full to capacity. Rodeo people are also very, very friendly.
Clearly I’m not the only one who perceives how much I don’t fit in here, because at least ten fellow spectators stop to ask if I need help finding my seat. I smile and shake my head in response to each offer, picking my way carefully down the steps, toward the section my editor’s arranged. I usually get a pretty good spot for watching games, and tonight’s no different. The press pass I’ve been given takes me right down into a pit near the chutes, practically level with them. There are photographers and other journalists here, but not many. I glance around, getting my bearings, then reach for my notepad and begin jotting things down. There’s something about this environment that’s electric. It’s somehow more alive and vibrant than anything I’ve covered before. The crowd seems to hum with excitement and energy, the stadium pulses with it.
The song finishes and an announcer begins to talk, his southern drawl promising a wild night. He lists the bulls, and some riders by name. When he calls out ‘the Comeback King, Beau Donovan’, the crowd goes wild, with everyone stomping in unison, so the sound is deafening. My heart picks up in time with it; I look around, trying to find him, to no avail.
A stadium this big has a dressing room, and the riders are likely all back there, preparing for their rides. I find myself wishing I’d grabbed a soda on the way in, but there’s no time now. Just as I’m weighing it up, the lights dim and the event begins. The anthem’s first, with the crowd getting to their feet as one, removing hats from heads. A sense of awe makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. When it’s over, the announcers start to introduce the riders and I notice they’ve come into the stadium. There’s a sort of uniformity to them in their denim, chaps, shirts, boots, and yet, somehow, my eyes find Beau easily. His frame is different, or maybe just more familiar to me. I spot him as though I’ve known him all my life, and even like this, withdistance making it hard to see the details of his face, my throat thickens and my insides churn. Awareness is washing over me in the same way patriotism did the stadium a moment earlier. I pull back a little, as if to hide from him. Which is a stupid instinct, because there’s no way he’s looking in my direction, no way he’s even thinking about me.
His whole focus is, as it should be, on the ride ahead.
I’ve done enough research, watched enough documentaries on the sport, to know that’s how it goes. Nonetheless, when Beau’s name is called and he lifts his hat from his head, I swear his face shifts in my direction, and a tingle runs the full length of my spine. I look away quickly.
It doesn’t matter how much research I did. The bull riding I see first-hand is more brutal and dangerous than I’d imagined, and more incredible as well. There is something so wild about seeing a man on the back of one of these beasts, being thrust and flung into the air; to see a man challenge himself against the strength of a bull, to try to tame an animal so wild and mean, that just can’t help but take your breath away.
Everything about the event is designed to capitalise on that. The songs between riders hype up the crowd, and build the excitement, so by the time we reach the halfway point, I’m almost breathless with anticipation. And, yes, fully invested in the outcome.
I make copious notes on the riders’ athleticism, strength and smarts, their courage in facing down these animals, their foolhardy determination. And also their camaraderie, for as they each prepare to enter the chute and then finish up their own rides, their competitors are right there, patting them on the back, laughing with them, commiserating, checking in. Theymight be at loggerheads in the competition, but there’s clearly a sense of community with these guys too.
At some point, I slip out. Not for a soda, in the end, but a beer. My nerves are stretched tight, my adrenalin pumping raw and uncontained through my body. I know Beau’s ride is coming up, and having seen what I’ve seen, I’m prepared to watch him getting tossed around on the back of a bull. I don’t know why the thought makes me anxious. He’s nothing to me—just an interview subject I’ve known for fewer than twenty-four hours. But I’m fidgeting like wild when I get back to my seat. There are four more riders after the break, before Beau’s name is called. I’d memorised his bull’s name—Lucky Shot—so the second he’s brought into the chute, I’m craning forward to get a good look at him. Big, dark, with horns that catch the light and almost seem to gleam.
As I watch, Lucky Shot slams his head against the steel, then rears back, shaking the gate. Clouds of dust rise from the ground, where his hooves are scraping and stamping. The bull seems fit to burst, but that doesn’t stop Beau.
He climbs up the side of the chute, his easy athleticism on display as he throws one leg over the gate and lifts his hat off his head. The crowd goes wild, roaring a huge cheer that does nothing to improve Lucky Shot’s mood. He rams forward again, rattling the chute. This time the spotlights are roaming the audience to build hype, so I see the way Beau grins, cocky as fuck, like he finds the bull’s obvious outrage hilarious.
I’ve seen all the other riders do the same thing, so I don’t know why my heart is in my mouth as Beau starts preparing to get on the bull—pushing on his gloves, limbering up his body. He looks down at the animal and both of them go completely still for a moment. I hold my breath. It’s like a challenge, a meeting of theminds, or a testing of the wills. I lean forward a little, wanting to be a part of that silent communication, to understand it better.
Then he’s reaching over the chute, curving one hand around the railing, before swinging his leg down and dropping into position. The beast reacts instantly, bucking. The crowd erupts, the music gets louder, but Beau doesn’t respond. He’s completely focused now, locked in. I watch him go through more of the routines I’ve seen the other riders do, pulling on ropes then getting them in position—but somehow, this just feels different.
Every move he makes has an opposite reaction from the bull. As Beau gradually asserts his control and dominance, the bull responds by bucking and fighting, then the bull stills—like the eye of a storm.
I don’t even realise how far forward I’ve leaned until the coldness of the steel bar presses against my chest. I don’t pull back. I hold my breath, needing to see this, to see it all.
Time seems to slow right down. Beau lowers his head and his chest moves with each exhalation. A woman calls something, above the din of the crowd; the bull makes a loud snorting noise. Beau is completely still, his eyes locked straight ahead. The bull’s name is read over the loudspeaker, and a moment later Beau’s. The crowd roars and Beau nods to the operator. The chute gate slams open, banging, metal on metal, and the bull bursts out, hard and fast, clearly furious.
Dust from the ground plumes behind them; I jerk my head to the left, then leap to my feet, staring as the bull bucks and twists, Beau’s body flat against the bull’s back for a second. At one point, he jumps to face me, and I swear my eyes and the bull’s meet, his darker than night, deathlier than sin. Blood pounds in my veins as though I’m the one in the firing line, as thoughI’m the one about to be bucked. My whole body feels like it’s on tenterhooks. I wait, nails digging into my palms. My eyes flick to the clock across the stadium. Three seconds gone.
How can it have only been three seconds?
My eyes jerk back to Beau. His body is upright now, his strength undeniable. For every movement the bull makes, Beau is steady and fluid, his frame refusing to yield to the bull’s command. Four seconds. The bull jerks sideways again, so I have his rear in view, and Beau’s as well. I see the way his jeans-clad ass lifts off the bull’s back, the way his body—briefly, and for all its strength—looks to be on the losing end of this. His hand stays in the air, a confident line that conveys pure control. The bull makes a guttural noise as he stomps harder, and dust flies up. Five seconds. ‘Come on,’ I find myself whispering, as though my silent incantation can do anything. And what do I want it to do anyway? To win? To be over? For Beau to be okay?
I wrap my hands around the metal railing, craning forward, staring at him intently. I’m aware of rodeo bullfighters shifting on the perimeter of the arena, of Beau’s ass lifting off the beast again. The crowd is unnaturally silent, as though each and every one of us is holding our breath. The bull is rough and angry—much angrier than the bulls I’ve seen so far. A bull like this will get the rider a better score, so I guess that’s a good thing. Besides, there’s something about the way Beau’s in command, the way he shows his mettle. The wayheowns the bull, despite the disparity in their size and strength.
Seven seconds; almost over. I grip the railing more tightly, so my knuckles glow white, and then, with one last thunderous buck and snort, the clock tips over to eight seconds and suddenly Beau’s letting go of the rope and jumping off the bull’s back in one manoeuvre, right as the rodeo bullfighters rush in, drawingthe bull’s attention—and ire—away from Beau. He chucks his hat in the air, then his hands, in a giant celebration. The crowd celebrates right back—me included. I find myself cheering enthusiastically for a man I just met and a sport I didn’t know a thing about a matter of weeks ago.
I’m smiling from ear to ear, counting down the time until the official events are over and I can ask him what the hell that felt like. And this time, I won’t let him get away without answering.
Beau watches the rest of the rides with the other guys. It doesn’t matter that he’s older than a lot of them and clearly a bit of a star with the crowd, he also obviously considers himself to be just the same as the rest of them. They sit on the rails and watch, and I notice something about Beau I didn’t get a chance to see before, because before his own ride he was out the back, probably preparing for what was to come. I learned about the headspace of a bull rider from my research, but from almost the first moment I met Beau, I got a sense that there was more to him than just the carefree persona he exhibits so skilfully, and I see it so clearly as he watches the rest of the event.
When the bulls are pushed into the chute, he doesn’t just toss them a glance then get on with his conversation. He looks. Like, really looks. Assessing the bull, weighing it up. His hands form fists, as though he’s imagining he’s about to get on the thing, about to grab the rope and ride again. As the other younger riders pass, he leans down, says something quiet to each of them. I make a note in my book to ask him about it later, but for now I wonder if he’s not passing on some hint or tip from his observations. It makes my heart lift to think so, and I don’t know why. Only, he’s agoodguy, and I haven’t known a lot of them.Or the ones I have known I’ve been careful to keep at a distance. Just like I have to be careful with Beau.
As each rider goes through their prep, Beau watches carefully. Then, when they’re out in the arena, he’s deathly still, his entire focus on the action, his body leaning forward, just like mine did when I watched him, and felt almost as though with the sheer force of my concentration, I could keep him safe. As soon as they jump off, he’s back to himself: smiling, laughing, clapping, just one of the guys again. All relaxed easygoing charm—or the appearance of it.
