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.