Page 13 of Eight Second Hearts

No mention of his accomplishments or that he’s a multi-million dollar cowboy. Hell, that announcement almost seemed. . . bitter. I frown over at the announcer box, wondering what the hell is up with that.

The chute opens and Ramiro’s Mustang immediately leaps into the year. Ramiro’s spurs are perfectly aligned in the “marking out” position, and he doesn’t move until the horse’s hooves touch the ground. It’s fucking perfect form, even to my untrained eyes. I take a few great photos of him, and when the timer alarm goes off signaling the end of his ride, he springs off with the same expert movements. I haven’t seen a more perfect ride yet, not compared to the six other cowboys before him. He should easily claim first place.

I look toward the scoreboard with the rest of the crowd. Ramiro is still on the dirt, looking up at the scoreboard, too, panting hard. The numbers flicker and then it flashes with the numbers seventy-three. The arena collectively boos.

“What the fuck?” I say under my breath. That was easily a near perfect ride, but that score put him in third place instead of first where he belongs.

I flip through the pictures in my phone, notating just how perfect his form was again. There’s no way he deserved that low of a score. Not with form like that.

When the event completes, I follow the rest of the press down to the contestant area and make my way over to where Ramiro, Beau, and Tripp hover near the prize tables. In the end, Ramiro had claimed third like they’d placed him, which means he’s leaving with far less than he should have taken.

“Hey,” I say as I walk up. “You guys did good.”

Tripp scowls and turns away despite him having scored first place and the largest prize pot.

Ramiro in contrast smiles at me despite the circumstances. “Thank you, Indie. Always nice to hear you enjoyed the show,” he says.

“I’ve got a show you would enjoy,” Beau teases with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “It’s written on my knuckles.”

Somehow, I don’t think he means the ones that say, “luck,” on them. Cheeky bastard. I swear he never stops flirting. Part of me likes that about him. He’s always having fun. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him not smiling.

I level my eyes on Ramiro instead of responding to the clown, taking in the small envelope in his hands with only a few hundred dollars.

“So, how does it feel knowing you got a low score you didn’t deserve?” I ask. I don’t bother dancing around the subject. That would be disrespectful.

“The judges decided I placed third,” he shrugs.

“And yet, even to my untrained eyes, I could tell you did the best job out there,” I argue. “You should have gotten first.”

He tilts his head, his eyes trailing over my face. Of all the contestants, Ramiro is the only Hispanic one. It’s not uncommon to find Hispanic cowboys, but in some of these larger events, it’s more uncommon than I’d have thought. Here, he’s as rare as a Chinese American reporter is. Which. . . it shouldn’t be like that. There should be more. In my limited research, I’d found a good handful of prolific Latin cowboys. So why aren’t they being represented properly?

“Should have is a very different thing than did,” he replies.

I pull out my pen, prepared to write down his answer. “How do you feel about the prejudice apparent in your sport?” I ask. “About being given a score you clearly didn’t deserve?”

His expression tightens. The topic annoys him so much, he forgets that he’s not supposed to do interviews, that he shouldn’t talk to me. Instead, he looks me in the eyes, and says words that I know I’ll be writing in an article after this.

“It’s just a part of the game for someone like me, Indie. I just ride.”

Chapter 10

Indie

The next two days, I’m not able to get any traction with the three men at all. The other reporters clamor for their attention ineffectively, so I choose to hold back instead of being front and center. There’s no reason to fight for attention when they’re already very aware of me. If anything, it helps me see more by standing a bit back from the crowd, like the fact that Tripp seems to be getting less sleep than normal. Dark circles mar his pretty face, but I don’t blame him. My nights of shitty sleep have done the same to me, and I imagine being beaten up by a bull is far more brutal than just a hard mattress.

I end up writing an article about the unfair judging of Ramiro Mondragon and the clearly biased score. I’d gone back and researched his other events and found a pattern for certain rodeos, so my theory is that there’s systemic racism in the rodeo circuit. Frank, of course, refuses the article. It didn’t surprise me to get the text message telling me to stick to getting the Crimson Three interview rather than worrying about make believe bias, but it does piss me off.

No matter where I go in this world, people disappoint me.

I’d been successful at avoiding Kim and Zander, making sure I’m never in the same area as them, but eventually my luck runs out. I’m in line for a super unhealthy rodeo corndog—sometimes, I can’t resist—when the Regina George of journalists finds me.

“You ain’t gone home yet. Pity,” she says from behind me.

I sigh before I even turn around, knowing I’m not going to enjoy whatever it is that she feels like she has to say to me.

“Pity, indeed,” I mock and roll my eyes. What I wouldn’t give for her to just disappear.

“You ain’t gonna get that story, Stringer. Not looking like that,” she continues. I turn and look at her over my shoulder and realize that we’re not alone. Behind her, his hat pulled down low to hide most of his face, is Tripp Savage himself. As I look, he tilts up his head and mees my eyes.

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