Beau’s a top-three rider by the end of the night. There are two ahead of him, and I seriously can’t understand how or why. Beau’s mastery of the bull was, in my humble, completely inexperienced opinion, unmatched. He looked like he was born to ride. Born to control bulls.
My press pass gives me access to the whole arena, and after the event I head toward the security guards minding the doors to the locker rooms. I don’t know why, or what I want to know. Behind-the-scenes access is a part and parcel of the piece I need to write, but deep down I know that’s not what’s got me heading that way. I just want to see him. Halfway through the event, I’d wanted to pinch him, to make sure he’s real.
Most of the other athletes I’ve interviewed, the sports I’ve covered, are familiar to me. No, they’rerecognisableto me, as real people, real sports, real jobs. This is like a whole other world. It’s so primal and dangerous, so incredibly impressive. My blood is still throbbing in my veins, adrenalin coursing through me. I flash my pass at the security guards. One of them waves me inside, the other narrows his eyes slightly then nods, says something into his walkie-talkie that I don’t quite catch. Ipush through the doors into a brightly lit corridor. It smells of sweat, clay and celebration back here. I read the signs, looking for where I’m meant to be going. A rider walks out, limping a little, his body obviously stiff. He’s wearing jeans, but he’s taken off his protective vest, shirt and chaps so there’s just a white tank top covering his toned body.
‘Can I help ya, darlin’?’
I fight my first urge—to ask him not to call me darlin’. I’m clearly waging a losing battle around these parts. Besides, I know what life has done to me. Between my parents, my ballet dreams crumbling into nothing and Kirk, I’ve become borderline brittle. Cold. The fact I bristle at a simple endearment shows how much I’ve allowed cynicism and impatience to become my stock in trade. Do I regret it? Not really. Not when I consider the alternative. These things keep me safe from guys like Kirk, from people who’d otherwise take advantage of me. Trusting isn’t something I do easily. But that doesn’t mean I have to give a stiff rejoinder to a nice man trying to help.
I smile at him, as if to underscore that to both of us. ‘That’d be great, thanks. I’m looking for the locker room?’
‘You’re gonna cop an eyeful if you go in now.’
Heat flushes my cheeks, and a mental image populates my mind that I really don’t need. Beau Donovan, undressing. Chest naked. Muscular. Maybe even a little bruised up, in need of kissing better.
I clear my throat, try to focus.
‘Want me to grab someone out for you?’
I reach for my press pass, holding it like some kind of shield. ‘I’m interviewing Beau Donovan,’ I blurt out. ‘Is he around?’
He nods once. ‘You’re in luck, pretty. He’ll be down in the bull pen.’
‘The bull pen?’ I frown, mentally running through the program. ‘I thought the events were done with?’
He laughs. ‘I mean the press room, doing interviews. You should be there, shouldn’t you?’
If Beau is a natural on the back of a bull, he’s even more so when staring down the sports’ media. It’s no surprise that the circuit’s chosen him to be a bit of a de facto spokesperson. He’s eloquent, charming, funny and roguishly likeable. There are four other riders up there with him, but time and again he’s the one getting asked the questions, answering with the kind of tone he used with me. Like we’re old friends, disarming and charming as though he eats journalists for breakfast.
It’s both incredible and off-putting to watch, because it makes me realise that whatever spark and intimacy I’d felt between us last night was just an act. This guy flirts like he breathes. And for that I might have risked my whole professional reputation. I slip out of the press conference quietly, head ducked, determined to push fantasies of Beau Donovan right out of my mind.
Chapter Six
Beau
Idon’t usually mind a post-event press conference. Talking to the media’s not for everyone, but it’s never really bothered me. Seems like a good way to get people even more hooked on this sport I love. But the second Bailey James slipped into the back of the room and stood there watching me, impatience began to buzz in my veins, so loud I couldn’t focus. I wanted the damn thing to be over, so I could get her alone. Hearherquestions.Herreactions. Her first rodeo felt like something I would have liked to share with her.
Everyone’s first rodeo is a special thing. You might come into it with an idea of what it’s about, but there’s nothing like the tension you feel when you see someone on the back of a bull for the first time. The air in the arena seems to thicken with adrenalin and hope. It’s a powerful, unifying experience.
At least, it always has been for me.
But well before we’re through with questions, Bailey sneaks out of the room again, her head bent as though she’s avoiding eye contact with me. My impatience bursts like the creek beds back home after a heavy rain. Beneath the media table, I tap my boot to the floor, trying to control an urge to stand up and stride after her.
She’ll be waiting out there somewhere for me, anyways. Bailey James is nothing if not determined, and we both know she needs to talk to me to get this damn feature article written.
Strange then that she didn’t stick around here.
I’m chewing on that so much that I miss a question and have to ask the reporter—Tom Ryan, who covers a heap of these events for a cable sports channel—to repeat himself before answering. The questions keep coming, some for the other guys, a lot for me, but in the back of my mind I’m thinking about Bailey.
Afterward I scan the corridor for her, with no luck. Impatience shifts into something else. Something even more urgent. I head back to the locker room and grab my stuff, throwing a bag over my shoulder and nudging through the doors.
‘Hey, man, you comin’ downtown?’
We usually go to a bar after an event. Some of the younger guys make a night of it, even though we have to be back here again tomorrow. I used to do the same. But now I tend to go for one beer, shoot the shit for a bit, then head back to my room. But tonight the bar holds little appeal, and it’s pretty obvious why not.
‘Nah, I’ll see you tomorrow though.’ I scan the corridors for Bailey as I head out to the parking lot. A couple of fans are waiting at the gates to the private parking area. I stop to sign afew photos, have a chat, but my mind is driving me crazy with how much it keeps shifting to a certain journalist.
What the hell is it with this woman?
