Page 13 of Eight Seconds to Fly

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Walking back into that dressing room after Branch’s little outburst had been tough, but I planted a cocky grin on my face and strode in like I owned it, rolling my eyes and shrugging. Frankie took me over and introduced me to the Brazilians. Loads of fans didn’t like how they dominated the sport, but I thought the competition was good. You can’t claim to be the best in the world, unless you were riding against the best. And these guys? Some of them have lived and breathed this sport since birth. The bulls they learned to ride on back in Brazil were rank as hell, and it made them better riders right off the bat. They were young, fit, and it was no surprise that they dominated so much.

They spoke in rapid Portuguese, some of which I could keep up with, enough that I could reply haltingly in return, but they still seemed to appreciate it.

Anything I missed, Frankie caught me up on. Still, as it got closer to show time, the more nervous I got. I bounced around, pulling on my gear to do the walk on. I didn’t have many sponsorship patches, even though arguably my daddy’s company sponsored me by default. I tried not to dip into that money, even though it was rightfully mine.

But I figured this wasn’t a job you were in for a long time. You either ended up injured out or dead. I wanted to have enough money squirrelled away in case it was the former. And so I’d have money for a nice funeral if it was the latter. I still used it to pay entrance fees and medical bills, so I wasn’t as hard off as a lot of rookies on the circuit, scrabbling to make an impression and get some dollars.

I braided my hair tight to my head and let Frankie help strap on my chaps.

I slid on my flak vest, and pulled on my hat, shoving it low on my head. At a casual glance, you wouldn’t know I was a woman. I was just your normal wiry bull rider.

Frankie came to stand in front of me, his hands resting on my shoulders. “You good?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. I left the rest of my gear in the locker, walking over to brush my rope. It was the small rituals that you gathered on the way up that really made you feel like you belonged. The fact they put these fencing panels in the locker room showed how much this small ritual meant to a lot of riders.

I blocked out the rest of the riders as I thought about my bull for the night,Lancelot. He wasn’t super high ranking, but he got good air and liked to do sudden shifts in direction. He’d get a good ride score if I could stick the eight seconds. I tried to run over every scenario in my head, but bull riding wasn’t a thinking person's game. Obviously. If you were a thinker, you’d definitely take one look at the matchup between man and beast and say, “Screw this shit.”

No, when it came down to riding bulls, it was all muscle memory. You didn’t think. You reacted. Excellent reaction times were what separated the mediocre from the greats in this sport.

A guy in Wranglers that were a size too small came and collected us, ready to parade us onto the stage at the center of the arena.

We all stood huddled at the entrance gate, waiting for our names to be called as lasers and smoke machines made the darkness more interesting.

I tried not to pay too much attention, keeping myself calm and in my own head so I didn’t run out of there screaming. Name after name got called up, and when the announcer called Branch, I lifted my head to watch him stride out, waving to the fans, his dimples deep and his smile wide and disarming. “This young rider was runner up for Rookie of the year two years ago, and he looks set to climb his way right to the top of the standings this year, folks.” The crowd went crazy, and I might have been a little paranoid that the pitch of the crowd seemed to be mostly women.

“He came runner up to this rider, Dylan Montaigne, 2018’s Rookie of the year, and a real contender for the finals this year, folks.”

It had occurred to me that I’d run into Dylan here. After all, I’d googled him after our night and knew he was well and truly a rising star in the sport. I just figured he wouldn’t remember me. It was a year ago and that guy would get pussy thrown at him like a cream pie at a clown. Straight for the face.

Apparently, I’d been wrong.

“T.M. Moore,” the announcer called. “This young rider has just come up from the minor competition. She also happens to be the first woman to ride in the WBRP competition.”

The arena literally went completely silent. You could have heard a pin drop. Fucking announcer just had to out me like that, and when I shook his hand, I could see the faint shadow of disapproval in his eyes.

Ah, one of those.

It was okay, I would prove them all wrong in the best possible way.

I walked over and stood beside Dylan, who shot me a quick smile. Then the announcer moved on, working his way through the rest of the riders.

Dylan leaned toward me. “You know how to make an impression,” he laughed, and I gave him a tight smile.

Didn’t matter what the crowd thought. It just mattered what happened between me and my bull. Finally the announcer was done, and they brought out someone truly horrendous to butcher the national anthem. Then it was back into the locker rooms to finish gearing up and get my head back in the game.

This was it. My moment.

Where most of the cowboys had been relaxed for the afternoon, when we made it back to the dressing room it became a hive of activity. Beau and Frankie were back there, having what looked to be an intense conversation. I narrowed my eyes at them, and when Frankie spotted me, he grinned broadly.

When he wandered back over to me, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders again, and I frowned. Not that I didn’t like the comfort. If I didn’t think I would lose any and all respect, I’d make him sit down and crawl into his lap and hug him to me, like I sometimes did on the road while we were watching movies.

Sometimes bad bathroom sex didn’t constitute actual human contact. Go figure.

But usually, he was more discreet about his affections at events like this. When I looked back at Beau, I saw his eyes were narrowed at the contact too, and Branch looked like he wanted to tear Frankie off me.

Don’t know what his problem was, but if it irritated him, I was happy to stay where I was. “How’d it go?” Frankie asked, leaning closer so his breath tickled my ear. A small shiver raced across my skin, my core clenching and I swallowed hard. What the fuck?

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