The stadium announcer’s voice rolled across the stands. “We’re wrapping up the bronc riding with some of the best in the business! Keep that energy high, folks!”
This rodeo was louder than all the others we’d been to combined—thousands of voices, stomping boots, and country music blasting overhead. The stands were a wall of denim and cowboy hats, and the air smelled like popcorn, beer, and livestock, the whole place vibrating around me.
Brock stood a few feet away, leaning against the steel rails of Chute 3. He rubbed a fine powder into his leather glove, his hand moving in steady passes. The motion made the muscles in his forearms bunch and flex, veins standing out against his tanned skin. Everything about him looked built for this.
“You gettin’ what you need?” he asked, voice low.
"I am."
I held my phone steady, filming the behind-the-scenes footage. It had taken twenty minutes of arguing with a gate official and Brock flashing his contestant badge to get me back here. I wasn’t about to waste it.
"You nervous?" I asked.
"No."
"You’ve been very quiet."
He pulled the glove tighter, flexing his fingers. "I’m always quiet before a ride."
“Is that a superstition?”
“It’s just how I work.” He glanced sideways at me. “Keeps my head clear.”
I lowered my phone. "Does talking to me mess with it?"
“Not yet.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—the closest thing to a smile I’d get right now.
The smell of roasted peanuts drifted through the dusty alley, and my stomach let out a loud, embarrassing rumble. I hadn’t eaten since a granola bar and an apple at one o’clock. Down the alley, the bulls for the final event slammed against the holding pens, iron gates rattling with every hit.
I took a step closer to Brock’s chute. Dozens of animals shifted and snorted all around us, kicking up dust in spaces that felt way too small to hold them.
“Well, shit. They actually let you in the draw.”
I looked over.
Another bronc rider ambled toward us, his leather chaps swishing over his jeans as he took a bite from a massive, greasy corn dog.
My hunger vanished. Eating a deep-fried corn dog ten minutes before climbing on a bucking horse seemed like a terrible idea.
Brock didn’t move from the rails. “Dawson.”
Dawson grinned around the corn dog. “Heard you left Cody before the scores even posted. What happened?”
The muscle in Brock’s jaw started jumping. His hands went still on the rag. “Long drive.”
“Sure.” Dawson tore off another bite. His eyes slid over to me, dropped slowly to my top, then dragged back up with a smirk. “Who’s this?”
“None of your business,” Brock said.
“Brought your buckle bunny to Cheyenne. Bold move.” He tipped his hat at me. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Say another word about her,” Brock warned, pushing off the rail.
I’d spent a month learning Brock’s body language. I knew exactly what that squared-up stance meant. I stepped in frontof him before he could do something that would cost him his contract.
“I’m Sienna,” I said. “I’m his PR manager.”
