It’s downright hypnotic. Soothing.
“That boy thinks he’s God’s gift to this sport,” the woman beside me says. Her statement has me sitting up a little taller, pinching my shoulder blades together, and tipping my chin up. Am I Rhett’s number one fan? No. But after spending a week with the guy, after seeing how hard he’s taking this whole thing—how vulnerable he was at the kitchen table that morning—my protective streak is fired up and ready to burn.
I bite my tongue and turn my body away. If these were my last moments alive, I’d rather spend them enjoying the thrill of watching Rhett ride than mouthing off to some snarky super fan.
I watch in rapt fascination as he secures his hand against the bull, the opposite one braced against the fence. For a beat, his eyes close and his body goes eerily still.
Then he nods.
And they fly.
The gate crashes open, and his bull goes nuts. I thought the other one bucked hard, but this one is truly terrifying. The way its body suspends in mid-air as it twists. The way saliva flies from its mouth and its eyes roll back as it unexpectedly changes direction.
It has me audibly gasping and pressing a hand against my chest to push away the ball of tension building there.
Rhett is poetry in motion. He doesn’t fight the bull, it’s like he becomes an extension of it. One hand up high, body swaying naturally, never losing balance.
I check the clock, and somehow this ride feels much longer. It feels like he’s going to get killed before the buzzer sounds.
The colors on the patches adorning his vest blur together as I watch him, the sound of the crowd and the announcer blending into white noise. I lean forward, swallowing on a dry throat, eyes darting between Rhett’s toned body and the clock, sucked into the ride.
And when the buzzer finally sounds, all the noise and movement come rushing back in, everything in hyper focus as Rhett yanks at his hand.
It’s not coming loose, he’s struggling, and suddenly I’m up on my feet, watching with bated breath.
A cowboy on a horse gallops up beside him, and they reach for one another. With one solid tug, his hand comes free and the bull surges ahead as the cowboy sets Rhett back down on solid ground.
The announcer’s voice crackles through the speakers. “A whopping 93 points for Rhett Eaton tonight, folks. That’s going to be a tough score to beat and all but guarantees we’ll see him back here tomorrow night.”
The crowd cheers, but it’s not nearly as loud it was for Theo. In fact, it’s borderline quiet. Rhett stands in the middle of the ring, his shoulders drooping and his chin tipping down to his chest. His hand held protectively against his torso. He stares down at the toes of his boots, an almost-smile touching his lips, and I swear my heart breaks for him in that moment.
Over a decade of putting his life on the line to entertain these people, and this is what he gets?
So, I guess that’s why I put two fingers in my mouth and pull out the most useless skill I’ve ever learned. One I’ve mastered.
I whistle so loud that you can hear it over everything. I whistle so loud that Rhett’s head snaps up in my direction. And when he sees me in the crowd, grinning back at him, the sad look on his face washes away.
Replaced by one of surprise.
Our eyes lock, and for one moment, we trace each other’s features. Then, almost like that moment never happened, he shakes his head, chuckles under his breath, and limps out of the ring, the fringes on his chaps swinging as he goes.
I gather my things to go meet him back in the staging area. I want to high-five him. Or give him a thumbs up. Or do some other equally professional celebration with him.
But not before I bend down to the woman beside me who just told me he thinks he’s God’s gift to this sport and say, “Maybe he is.”