Page 90 of Reckless Hearts

Something deeper. Something she doesn’t want to say out loud.

I didn’t press. Not yet, but I will.

I don’t watch rides from this close. The sounds, the smells. It winds you up again, but I couldn’t resist coming to see him.

But fuck, I wasn’t prepared for how good he’d look.

He’s tall, at least five inches taller than anyone else standing here. He’s wearing a light blue button-up, the sleeves rolled up just enough to show the lean strength in his forearms. His leather vest covers the protective gear we all wear. Chaps lined with fringe fall over his jeans, swaying slightly with each step.

I don’t know when I stopped looking at him with hate and started noticing all the rest—the creases by his eyes, the way his brows knit together as he takes slow, calming breaths. Hisfingers flex, already running through a dozen scenarios in his head. He’s always been one step ahead of me, my rival, the one I had to beat.

For once, I don’t hate it.

For the first time, I want him to ride the full eight.

The announcer’s working the crowd into a frenzy. A bullfighter taps Maverick on the shoulder. It’s his turn. He hasn’t seen me, and I want to keep it that way. I don’t want to be the reason he loses focus.

Bull riders are creatures of habit. We all have our rituals, our superstitions.

I know the bull he drew. Carnage. He’s one of the wildest in the circuit, famous for throwing riders within the first two seconds and then trying to stomp them into the dirt. That’s what makes it so valuable. The more dangerous the bull, the higher the score. Drawing this beast is the best thing that could’ve happened to Maverick—if he can hold on.

While the other riders look anxious, Maverick moves like he’s in complete control. Calm. Focused. Like he’s mounting an old horse, not straddling a grenade.

He nods along to whatever the bullfighter is saying, listening closely. They run this part of the show. We just ride the eight.

One grabs Maverick by the vest and helps lower him into the chute.

The bull reacts instantly, thrashing hard. The wrangler yanks Maverick out just before he’s crushed against the metal. Most people think the danger’s out in the arena. They’re wrong. The chute is just as dangerous. You’re trapped with the beast, relying entirely on the men around you to get you out in one piece.

A lot of riders would bow out right now. Bulls this wound up aren’t worth the risk. That’s why those riders aren’t ranked like Maverick is.

It’s fear that ruins a rider. This sport demands recklessness.

Maverick knows that. He waits for the bull to settle, then gives a nod. He’s ready.

I hold my breath as they lower him in again. This time, the bull doesn’t fight, just stomps and huffs like usual.

I’ve ridden some of the nastiest bulls on the circuit, taken hits that rattled my bones, earned hospital stays that blurred into each other, but I’ve never felt like this.

It’s a tight, coiling pressure in my chest that won’t let go. My boots are planted, but everything inside me feels unsteady.

Maverick’s lowered into the chute, calm as ever, running his palm over the rope to heat the resin, working with the same steady focus he always does. It should settle me, seeing him in control. Seeing him do what he’s trained his whole life to do.

It doesn’t.

I know what this bull is capable of, and for some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off.

That light relief I felt earlier? Gone, replaced by a sharp, gnawing edge of anticipation that’s more dread than excitement.

The next eight seconds are going to feel like hell.

It’s only because I’m watching so closely that I notice it.

The rope.

The one thing anchoring Maverick to the bull—the thing that keeps us from flying—is frayed, right beneath where his boot presses down.

Terror slams into me like a freight train.

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