“You’re smart for a baby, Theo.”
He smiles and elbows me a little harder. His dad, a world-famous bull rider from Brazil, was my mentor, until a bull took him from us. So, I’ve taken Theo under my wing, and I make it my business to see him succeed. To give him all the support his old man gave to me once upon a time.
“Ready, old man?” He removes his ear buds and comes to stand in front of me. He pulls me up and then we’re off, walking through the staging area toward the din of the crowd and the flashing lights in the ring.
I drew another good bull for tonight. A real jumper. A vicious spinner. He’ll toss me like a lawn dart or give me the ride of my life. Later Gator is just that kind of bull. I’ve ridden him before, and he hated it. But I loved my score. So, here’s hoping he hates the feel of my spurs against his ribs again tonight because after that exchange, I sure as shit don’t want Emmett Bush leaping me in the standings.
People say hello, but it’s all in my periphery. This always happens to me before I step into the ring. The world melts away, and I hear nothing else. I see nothing else. My focus is singular, and I love this feeling.
Other riders take their turns. The cheering and color from the crowd becomes a backdrop for me and what I’m about to do.
Do I know a bull can kill me? Yeah. But I don’t think about that. Half the battle in this sport is mental toughness. If I think that way, who knows what will happen. I’ve always told myself as soon as I look down at a bull and feel fear rather than anticipation, that’s when I’ll know my career is done.
So instead, I turn up the swagger. The confidence. The devil-may-care smile. It’s a mask meant for the fans and competitors just as much as it’s meant for me.
When my name is called, I shove my mouth guard in and swap my favorite brown hat for my favorite black helmet to climb up the fence while Later Gator makes his way down the chute.
My shoulder is sore, really fucking sore, but not like it was before Summer got her hands on it. She didn’t even try to stop me from getting onto a bull tonight, something I appreciate more than she even realizes.
My chin turns momentarily to the stands where she sat last night. Exact same spot. A muscle in my chest twists when my eyes linger on her, leaned forward in her seat, elbows propped on her knees, one hand on each cheek. She looks nervous. And not because she thinks I’ll get hurt. She looks like you do when your favorite hockey team is in a shootout for the win.
She looks invested.
And it makes me grin down at the vibrating two-thousand-pound bull beneath me.
Within moments, I jump down and rub at the bull rope, the rosin warms and softens as I do so that I can wrap it just the way I like.
It’s going to be a good ride. Sometimes I have this gut feeling, and I roll with that feeling, letting it seep into every bone.
Theo says something to me, but I’m not sure what. He smacks my shoulder, and I sink down, finding my center of balance. I don’t even register the pain.
Then I nod.
And the gate flies open.
The angry bull instantly drops his right shoulder into a spin. Dirt pelts my vest, and I find my balance, leaning away from the hole he creates in that turn. I definitely do not want to fall down in there.
Eight seconds feels like it lasts forever when all you want to do is stay on and keep your arm in the perfect L shape. Because of my size, my form needs to be textbook for all the angles to work in my favor. And it is—that’s sort of what I’m known for. I’m an anomaly.
I keep my chin dipped to my chest, because I know this fucker is going to veer left at some point.
And I know it’s going to hurt.
A few breaths later, it comes to fruition. He leaps in the air, twisting like the athlete he is before dropping and turning. My shoulder screams, and I focus on keeping my fingers tight on the rope and my elbow tucked tight against my ribs. It’s all I can do for now.
My body riots, but I force it into position, cursing under my breath as the bull continues his tour of destruction.
The buzzer sounds, and relief hits me.
I used to feel like I could go forever on the back of a bull bucking like this, but lately, the minute that buzzer goes, I want off. There’s this little part of me that knows the statistics are less in my favor every time I hop on a bull. Something is bound to happen after how long I’ve been at it.
No one can be this lucky.
Tonight, my hand comes free, and I leap off, landing on my feet. The rodeo clowns take over, and Later Gator chases them toward the out gate while I race to the side fence.
Standing and celebrating in the middle of the ring always seems very cinematic—until you see a couple of unsuspecting guys get run over by a bull that comes back for seconds behind their back.
Safely on the sidelines, the first place my eyes go is to where Summer was sitting. For the second night in a row, she’s on her feet, whistling like a grizzled, old sports fan. It makes me laugh. When she sees me laughing, she gives me a timid thumbs up, followed by a shy smile.
And fuck, it feels good.
Because that—right there—is not part of her job description.
13
Summer
Dad: How’d the interviews go?
Summer: Good.
Dad: That’s all I get? Did he behave himself?
Summer: He gave excellent interviews. The picture of professionalism. Unlike the way you talk about him, Kip. He’s not a dog, you know.
Dad: Are you scolding your boss?
Summer: No. I’m scolding my dad. Unless you still haven’t figured out your new employee’s name. Then I might scold my boss.
Dad: Poor, poor Geronimo.
This is not a normal level of excitement for a person who is supposed to be doing a job. Watching Rhett ride a bull is a thrill I’ve never experienced. It’s like the ultimate show of masculinity. Crazy enough to climb up on an animal that wants to kill you. Strong enough to stay on. And accomplished enough to look good doing it.
Pretty sure the throbbing between my legs means I’m a buckle bunny now.
I laugh inwardly at the thought as I dart down the stands toward the back staging area, flashing my lanyard pass at security as I go.
Excitement over his ride mixes in my gut with concern that he’s making his injury worse by continuing to ride when what he needs is medical attention. But that’s not my job.
My job is helping Rhett maintain his image. Taking care of him.
Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself, even though I’m pretty sure Kip hasn’t taken a road trip with any of the athletes he represents or spent an evening rubbing their muscular shoulders.
“Hey, Doll.” Some Ken-Barbie looking cowboy is leaned up against the wall when I round the corner.
He reaches for my arm in a way that I don’t appreciate, but I slink past—avoiding his touch—and brush him off with a forced smile and, “The name is Summer.”
The guy smiles back, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. Which is right when a leather glove wraps around my elbow followed by a deep, raspy, “Hey.”
Rhett doesn’t have to pull me hard. My body moves toward him like butter melts onto hot toast.
I turn my back on the other guy and look up at Rhett’s stubbled, rugged face. Fuck. He really is hot. I’ve been trying so hard not to admit that to myself. But every now and then, just a glimpse of him hits me in the gut.