One side of my cheek pulls up, and I take in his excitement and enthusiasm. I think I used to be that way too. Now, I’m going through the motions.
“Proud of you.” I slap him on the back on my way past and walk down the darkened tunnel to the glitz and glam of the ring. There are even cheerleaders at this event. It’s all a Vegas show.
I don’t do my stretches because I don’t think they matter tonight. Everything is tight and painful.
Three steps up and I’m at the staging area, pulling my helmet on, watching my bull, Filthy McNasty—a fitting fucking name—trot aggressively down the chute. He snorts and shakes his head, tail flicking against his side like a whip. Agitated.
And for the first time in my eleven-year pro career, I feel it.
Fear.
I push it aside as I climb up onto the fence and stare down at the bull’s broad, muscled back. Two thousand pounds of pure muscle. He rattles the panels as he crashes around.
“Hop on when you’re ready,” one coach says, giving me a thumbs up.
A thumbs up.
This moment doesn’t feel like a thumbs up situation. It feels like I’m about to spend eight seconds in excruciating pain.
I nod and climb down onto the bull, pushing it all away, trying to find that quiet—that calm. I run my hand over the bull rope, letting the bumps vibrate through my hand while watching the repetition of the motion, trying to get lost in it.
But the noise from the crowd picks up, and when I look up at the jumbotron, I see the footage of me leaping on top of an unconscious Theo playing. I haven’t watched it yet, hadn’t ever planned to.
I watch the bull hit me, tossing me into the air before turning back on a clown and leaving the ring. I land on my bad shoulder, and you see me roll over onto my knees, cupping my side.
It could have been so much worse.
That flicker of fear sparks at the back of my mind again. My stomach lurches.
I think about Summer. Good luck.
Shaking my head, I gaze back down and push my glove into the rope, tightening it until it’s just right.
But it’s not right.
A sharp whistle pulls my eye up to the stands. Before Summer, I was oblivious to the crowd, now I feel like I have a radar for her. And some asshole who whistles the same way is killing my concentration.
My eye catches on a flash of white, and the world around me goes fuzzy.
Summer’s here.
She’s wearing a white linen dress and sticks out like a sore fucking thumb.
My sore fucking thumb.
I blink. I blink again. Like she might not be real. Why would she come all the way here to watch me do something she clearly doesn’t think I should do?
Kip told me he fired her, so I know it’s not work.
I stare at her, and I think she stares back. Across the dirt ring. Across the crowd. We lock eyes and get lost in each other.
She offers me a small thumbs up, one that makes my chest ache at the memory of being on the road with her. All I can do is stare back. I’m always fucking staring at her.
I want to spend the rest of my life staring at her.
Then she mouths, I love you.
My jaw clamps down and something snaps inside me. That fear hits me like a tidal wave, and I yank my hand out, reaching for the fencing to pull myself up.