Page 23 of Eight Second Hearts

Something happened on the second day of the rodeo. I’d left early because of the inadvertent start of the rumor mill among the journalists, but when I’d shown up the next day, it was to find Tripp’s score far lower than any he’d received all season. A seventy-one? Why? When I’d gone looking into it, he’d apparently been off his game. “Damn near clumsy,” one of the fans said when I’d asked. Whatever had affected him on day two though, isn’t obvious by day four. He’s back on top, performing as you’d expect a legacy should and as grumpy as ever when I ask him about it. Apparently, no matter how much I try to appeal to their friendly sides, I’m still not getting that interview.

Not yet at least.

I spend day four watching the men and women compete for their top awards, genuinely starting to enjoy myself. It’s become such a normal event to be a part of now that it almost feels like I belong here. Almost. I still get side eyes from anyone I approach, and the rumors have started to fly. I catch snippets of them as I stand in the press box.

“I heard her dad was a drug lord?—”

“You think she had anything to do with it?”

“I bet that’s why she came back from the wars. . .”

And those aren’t even the worst of them. I choose to ignore the more blatantly racist comments for my sanity. This place, these people, aren’t always so accepting of different, and I’m the only Chinese woman in this arena most of the time. I’m not looking for trouble and I certainly don’t want to fan the flames of conspiracy.

They’re not completely wrong anyway.

The truth is, I’m lucky to have gotten the job I did. I’ve seen smaller things destroy careers, and mine was speeding toward a grave before Frank decided to hire me. This may not be my forte—hell, this may never even be a choice—but at least I’m still in the industry I love. At least I still get to write, even if it’s about three frustrating cowboys in the rodeo circuits.

“Let’s go down to the cowboy with a big opportunity right here,” the announcer begins, and I focus back on the red dirt. “This bull that sits beneath Tripp Savage coming from his hometown of Steele, Wyoming has been to the PBR World Finals multiple times. The bounty on the back of this bull is a whopping five thousand dollars. If he rides this bull, he’ll be five thousand dollars richer. Let me tell you a little something about this bull right here. He was born and raised on Fairview Acres, in the same place the legendary Tripp Savage hails from. Riding this bull, well, it’ll be a bit like coming home.”

The gate opens and a large black bull comes barreling out of it, Tripp Savage holding on tightly. Gone is the clumsiness from day two. In that man’s place is one who was born and raised for this sport, who carries it in his blood, and it’s a glorious sight. He knows what he’s doing. He knows how to do it well. And I know this score will be in the nineties.

The timer counts down. Three. . . two. . . one. . . the alarm sounds and I watch as he springs off the bull as graceful as afucking ballerina again, landing on his feet before rushing away, leaving Beau and the other rodeo clowns to handle the bull. He walks slowly back toward the fencing, and as is his signature move, he doesn’t turn back to look at his score. It doesn’t matter.

We all watch it for him.

“Ninety-three!” the announcer yells. “That’ll put him in first place! What a comeback this week, but not every cowboy can be at the top of his game every day. This just proves that. Ladies and gentlemen, Tripp Savage is back!”

The crowd cheers, but I focus my camera on Tripp where he slowly walks toward us and the gates, his head down. He looks up as he gets closer, his eyes on me, and I snap a picture of what looks like the most haunted man in the world. I slowly lower my arms, staring at him, and for the first time, he doesn’t look away. The moment is tense, heavy almost, as we stare eye to eye like this is a battle neither one of us wants to fight.

Only once he reaches the fence does he look away, exiting the dirt and disappearing.

What. . . that actual fuck?

I have no idea what that was, but I barely have time to think about it before the bull riding round ends, leaving Tripp at number one, and we get into bareback bronc riding.

The first few bronc riders are good, but they’re not Ramiro Mondragon good. I watch them go through their rides, by now recognizing the skill and the movements common in the cowboys who ride these horses.

“And here he is, the cowboy with twenty years under his belt and multiple awards, Ramiro Mondragon is a legend in his own right. He rides these broncs like he was born on the back of one, and we like that here in Tucson. The horse he’s on today hails from Montana and has a fifty percent ride rate and this Mustang is known for throwing his riders before the eight seconds is up. Here at theLa Fiesta de los Vaqueros, Mondragon representshis people well.” The announcer launches into a stream of Spanish I can’t understand and I focus on the dirt.

The gate opens and the Mustang sprints out, bucking immediately and springing into the air. I watch as Ramiro executes his starting position flawlessly, before going with the horse and holding on tight. Grace isn’t something I would have normally attributed to this sport, but in Ramiro’s movements, I can see it. The horse leaps into the air, over and over again, twisting this way and that, trying it’s best to throw the man off its back. The timer blares, signifying that he completed a qualified ride, and Ramiro goes to dismount. . .

. . . only for his hand to get caught in the leather and rope around the horse’s sternum.

I lean in, my eyes wide as Ramiro is jerked around by the thousand-pound creature while he tries to free his hand. The glove is twisted up with the leather, but his hand isn’t just sliding free like it should. The crowd gasps audibly as the clowns rush in, trying to help. Ramiro jerks backward, trying to free himself, and I breathe a sigh of relief when his hand pops free, until I realize he’s not out of danger yet. The horse is still bucking, trying it’s hardest to get away from the people surrounding it. He rises into the air and kicks out his back legs. Ramiro throws himself to the dirt away from the horse, that hoof just barely missing his face.

An injury that would warrant a rush to the hospital.

The hooves come down again and he rolls away before they can get him, the crowd screaming and watching in shock. Only when the rodeo clowns get the horse under control and Ramiro gets back to his feet does the crowd cheer. Only then do I relax, but still, I noticed the way Ramiro is holding his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” I say as I slide past the other reporters and leave the press box. I’m waiting for Ramiro by the time he comesout of the prep area, my eyes wide. “Hey, just thought I’d come check on you.”

He grins, but I can see the way he keeps his right arm relaxed. “Qué dulce,” he teases. “Of course, I’m fine. What? You think I’m some amateur?”

I point to his arm. “You’re holding your shoulder still.”

“Best not to agitate it,” he says. “Precautions.”

I raise my brow at him. “Alright, well, for that score, I guess you deserve something good. Come on. Let’s get a funnel cake. My treat.”

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