Page 5
The big circuits.
The PBR.
The Professional Bull Riders League.
It’s been my dream since I first watched my dad climb on the back of a bull. All because I wanted to be just like him. I come from a long line of bull riders, so riding isn’t just in my blood, it is my blood, and I’ve poured every ounce of my blood, sweat, and tears into this sport.
My dad grips the chute rails, his eyes darkening with the intense fear for me he tries so hard to hide. “You hang on for them eight seconds, ya hear?”
I gulp down my nerves. “I’ll try, but no one thinks I’ve got what it takes, Pops.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks. I know you’ve got what it takes.” He waves to the rustling crowd of cowboy hats. “All that noise. All those people. Tune ’em out. You’re not a flower that needs to be watered with validation, you’re a cactus, darlin’, prickly enough to thrive in a desert of doubt.”
I used to have a soft heart, but ever since Boone claimed I’d never make it in this sport, I’ve hardened. I had to, so no other insults would dent my determination. Now, shit just rolls off me.
I’m damned if I care what anyone thinks, so I nod, trying to muster every ounce of confidence I’ve got, but inside, my stomach’s twisted up. Being the only female bull rider in the Lonestar state, I’ve been faking confidence for so long that my whole life feels counterfeit.
Eight seconds.
It sounds like nothing, but on top of a raging beast, it’s an eternity.
I try to smile for him, but I can’t manage one through my nerves. “Thanks for that. I needed to hear it. Love you, Pops.”
“I love you always, but you know that. Now, you ride hard, ride loose, and ride smart. Raise hell, darlin’,” he repeats for good luck, and then kisses my cheek and struts away toward the animal stalls.
We keep it simple before I ride—no need for drawn-out goodbyes.
I climb up onto the chute rails as the flank man adjusts the leather strap around the bull’s middle. “All right, you’re up, Cutler.”
“Remember, not too tight, sugar,” I call out to him, heaving myself over the rails. “We don’t want to hurt the poor beast.”
I don’t want the strap to hurt the bull. It just needs to be tight enough that he wants to buck me off. I respect these animals, and we treat them like kings.
They’re athletes, just like me.
The arena’s alive with cheers, but I push them aside, same as always. Securing my helmet, I lower myself onto the raging bull that could easily end me. One false move, and I’m done for.
Six feet under.
No matter how many times I ride, it never gets easier. The pressure only gets worse because now I know what to expect. I’ve seen videos of broken arms, legs, hell, even deaths in these competitions, but I can’t think about that, or I’ll never compete again.
“Let’s dance, you big ol’ brute,” I mutter to the snarling bull beneath me. “I’m not letting you take this round, hear me? Hammer away.”
He grunts through his nostrils like he understands me, and maybe he does. I’d like to think these animals respect me as much as I respect them. It’s one of the reasons I don’t eat meat. I love all animals.
The gate man unlatches the metal chute, and I tighten my grip, feeling the rope bite into my palm.
“All right,” he says, and I clench my chaps around the bull’s sweaty hide. “Three… Two… One!”
The metal gate shoots open, and we’re off.
Hammer bucks like the devil himself has a hold of his balls, and I’m jerked left, then right, then left again. The behemoth is a whirlwind of muscle, snot, and fury. I’m clinging on, every fiber of my being fighting to stay perched atop this raging beast. I’m in tune with his every move, just me and the animal moving, trying to be one.
It’s horrible.
It’s thrilling.
It’s addictive.
