Dawson blinked, then barked out a laugh. “For a bronc rider? That’s cute.” He looked at Brock. “What, she follows you around making sure you don’t punch anybody?”
“Among other things,” I said coolly. “And since we’re chatting, here’s some free advice.”
His grin wobbled.
“Trying to talk trash with a corn dog in your mouth doesn’t make you look tough. It makes you a brand liability.” I glanced at the single embroidered logo on his collar. “There's a reason Brock's sponsors pay more than McCoy's Auto Parts.”
Dawson looked down at his shirt, then back at me. He chewed the last bite of the corn dog and forced a short laugh.
"Whatever." He pointed the stick at Brock. "Try not to get hung up like you did in Sioux Falls."
"You worry about your own ride," Brock said.
Dawson tossed the stick in the dirt and walked off, muttering. I stood there, pulse racing, enjoying the rush more than I should. Then reality hit. I was supposed to de-escalate, not throw gas on the fire.
Brock was staring at me, arms crossed, failing to hide a smile. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
“Just don’t give me a reason to. And seriously, who eats deep-fried meat before a ride?”
His mouth twitched. “I don’t know, but dinner’s on me tonight. Anywhere you want.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the offer. "You don’t have to."
“You didn’t have to step in like that. Let me say thanks.”
“I’m holding you to it, then.” I glanced back toward where Dawson had gone. “What does ‘hung up’ mean, exactly?”
“Boot gets stuck in the stirrup. Can’t get free.” He paused, eyes going distant. “Happened to me last year. Took three guys to cut me loose.”
My stomach tightened. That was the last thing I needed to picture right now.
Brock stepped up onto the rails of Chute 3, boots braced on either side, looking down at Pistol Annie. The gray mare shifted and stamped beneath him.
I shoved the image aside and lifted my phone. “Let’s not talk about you getting dragged before your ride. Give me ten seconds for the feed.”
He glanced at the camera. “What do you want me to say?”
“Whatever’s going through your mind.”
He was quiet for a second. He squared his shoulders, tipped the brim of his hat into place, and looked straight into the lens.
“Brother said I’d ride her to the whistle, then land flat on my ass. Sister said I’d stick the dismount like a pro.” He paused. “Guess we’ll find out which one knows me better.”
I stopped recording, unable to hide my grin. “That’s perfect. A little cocky, a little humble... it’s you.”
He grunted and turned back to the chute.
I saved the clip, my thumb hovering over the share button. The caption was already forming in my head.Behind the chutes at Cheyenne...One of the last videos I'd post for him.
“Can I stay here?” I asked. “Until you ride?”
His hands stilled on the rigging, but he didn't look back. “Thought you'd be sick of me by now.”
"I just want to make sure you don't do anything stupid in case Dawson comes back."
The corner of his mouth lifted. “He won't. But suit yourself.”
I scanned the stands for Wren and Colt, but it was just a blinding sea of denim under the lights. Down here, the air felt thicker—nervous horses, hot dust, and that earthy rodeo smell.
