Axle
The hum of the crowd skates across the concrete and steel like a living thing, vibrating up through the bottom of my dusty boots as I stand in the back corridor of Cowtown Coliseum. Fort Worth is one of my favorite towns to visit. And this venue is legendary. There’s history in these walls. Sweat, grit, blood—all of it soaked into the bones of this arena. You don’t walk in here unless you’re ready to prove something.
And tonight, I’ve got everything to prove.
I roll my shoulders once, then again, working out the tension that’s been sitting between them since I drew my bull. Hade’s Ransom. Mean, rank, and smart in all the worst ways possible. The kind of bull that doesn’t just buck; he’s out to destroy the man on his back. Bull riders have been stepped on, slammed, and straight-up wrecked by him. He doesn’t just want you off of him. He wants to make you pay for climbing on him in the first place.
Exactly the kind of ride I live for.
“Axle.”
I glance over to see Royce leaning against the rail, hat tipped low, arms folded across his chest. My brother looks calm, but I know him better than that. He’s wired, just like I am. We’ve been riding together long enough that we can read each other like a book.
“You good?” he asks.
I huff out a breath. “Of course I am.”
He smirks at my arrogance, but he nods anyway. “Hell of a draw tonight.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, rolling my wrist, already feeling the phantom pull of rope and hide against my skin. “Figure he’s gonna make me pay for daring to mount him.”
Royce pushes off the rail and steps closer, his voice dropping just a hair. “You ride him clean, and you’re sittin’ real pretty for the finals. It’s you, Kyler, and Bryce.”
“I wouldn’t count yourself out yet, brother.”
He grins. “I’m not, but I’ll have to put up a big number to squeeze in. You just have to hold on.”
I nod.
The PBR World Finals.
Professional Bull Riders, Inc., or PBR, is an international professional bull riders organization, headquartered in Fort Worth, Texas. It’s the largest bull riding league in the world, sanctioning hundreds of events every year.
The finals are held at the end of May. The goal, the finish line—I’ve been chasing it all season. I’m close—damn close—but close doesn’t mean a thing if I don’t keep focused tonight and stay planted on Hade’s Ransom’s back for eight seconds.
Eight seconds. That’s all a cowboy’s dream ever comes down to.
“I know,” I say.
Royce studies me for a second, then claps a hand on my shoulder. “Then go get it.”
Simple as that.
I nod once, sharp and determined, and turn toward the chutes.
The arena is loud and bright. The lights overhead glare down, catching on dust that hovers like smoke above the dirt floor.
I love everything about bull riding—from the clang of the chute gate to the smell of earth, leather, beast, and adrenaline.It’s familiar. It’s home. I crave it like an addict craves his drug of choice.
The announcer’s voice booms overhead, hyping up the next ride, feeding the energy already buzzing through the crowd. My name rolls out over the speakers, and the reaction is instant.
Cheers. Which is a good sign.
Because Bryce Raintree is up next, and the man is a legend and the undeniable fan favorite.
I try not to let it go to my head, but I hear it. I feel it, and it fuels something deep and hot in my chest.
I swing up onto the chute gate, peering down at Hade’s Ransom. He’s massive. Dark hide stretched over coiled muscle, sides heaving, eyes sharp and angry. He slams himself against the gate, rattling the metal hard enough to make it groan under the force.
