“Okay. Let me grab my phone.”
Jake lifted his camera in a half-wave. “Good luck out there, man.” Then he grinned at me. “I’ll check on those boots later.”
I laughed. Finally, someone who approved of my shoes.
Brock narrowed his eyes at me and watched Jake walk away. “What did he want?”
“He liked my boots.”
Brock made a low sound in his throat and looked down at the can. “This thing’s been baking in the sun.”
“I know, sorry.” I held up my phone. “Just don’t make a face.”
I hit record. He cracked the can, took a long gulp, and forced something close to a smile.
“Got it,” I said.
He set the can on the rail and wiped his mouth with the back of his shirt. “That was horrible.”
“You couldn’t tell on camera. You looked great.”
He gave me a quick sideways glance, like he wasn’t sure if I was serious.
The PA crackled overhead. “Alright folks, it’s bronc ridin’ time! Let’s hear it for our next cowboy…”
His whole mood changed. The relaxed look in his eyes disappeared.
“I gotta go. I’m up soon.”
He turned to leave, and I almost pointed out that he’d just told me he had time, but I pushed the thought aside and reached out without thinking, catching his arm.
“Hey,” I said. “Good luck.”
He glanced at my hand, then slowly back up at me. For a second, he didn’t move. Then he tugged his hat lower.
“Thanks,” he grumbled. He pulled away and headed for the chutes.
I watched him cut through the crowd until the fitted blue shirt disappeared behind a horse and a group of cowboys. I leaned against the hot metal rail near the announcer’s booth, standing on my toes, trying to spot him.
The announcer’s voice rolled through the arena speakers. “Folks, we’re kicking things off with Brock Wilder aboard Black Sunday. Hang on to your hats, because this one's gonna buck!”
My eyes locked on the chutes, and I finally spotted him. Brock stood still while horses snorted and shifted around him, gates clanging nonstop.
Then the gate flew open with a sharp metallic bang.
The horse exploded out in a blur of black and dust. It bucked hard, twisting and kicking. Brock’s free arm whipped high as he fought to stay centered. Each jolt looked brutal.
I’d seen clips of him riding. None of them hit like this. The violence of it made my stomach tighten. Every time I thought he was about to eat dirt, he stuck.
The buzzer sounded.
He swung off, hit the ground running, and headed straight for the gate without a backward glance. Dust coated his shirt and chaps.
“Eighty-six points!” the announcer boomed. “First ride of the night, and he just set the bar!”
The crowd erupted. I cheered along with them until my throat burned.
Brock crossed the arena, eyes scanning the stands. He spotted me almost instantly. His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile, then he tipped his hat.
