Then he points at me. “You’ve got another one that’s about to blow up.”
He points toward the arena again. “You’ve got Shelby Storm. The three of you together? That’s what people need to see.”
Shawn starts pacing. “Training footage. Interviews. Lifestyle content. Student interaction.” The excitement in his voice keeps building. “We showcase the facilities.” He points at the mountains. “We showcase the location.”
Bryce looks at me.
I look at him.
Honestly? It’s not a bad idea.
The academy is incredible, and people should see it.
“We showcase it everywhere. On screens between events at every rodeo across the country—from Fort Worth to small arenas in every Podunk town. Run commercials during televised PBR events and cover stories in every Western and rodeo magazine on the shelves.”
“Keep talking,” Bryce says.
“We bring in a professional photographer, a videographer, and a drone crew before the end of the summer.”
Bryce nods.
“And they spend two days creating enough promotional content for the next year.”
I whistle.
Royce appears behind us, having finished his session. He peels off his sweat-soaked T-shirt and pours the contents of a water bottle over his head. “What’s happening?”
Shawn points at him. “Perfect.”
Royce looks confused. “What?”
“You’re in.”
“I’m in what?”
“The promo campaign. Women will see all that”—he waves a hand at Royce’s drenched chest—“and trip over their husbands to get their kids enrolled.”
Royce nods. “The camera and the ladies do love me.”
I laugh.
“You. Axle. Royce. Shelby. Those are the faces of Raintree-Storm,” Shawn declares.
Bryce crosses his arms.
“It’s not the worst idea,” I say.
If a few cameras help more young riders find their way here, then that’s worth standing in front of a lens for a couple of days.
Shawn looks at Bryce. “Can I set it up?”
Bryce nods. “Do it.”
Jovie
Seth and I are walking along the gravel path after lunch when the peaceful afternoon launches into chaos.
We’re halfway between the dining hall and the clinic, discussing one of the students recovering from a shoulder strain, when a group of kids comes sprinting down the path toward us.
