Page 8 of Eight Seconds to Fly

2

One Year Later

“But how would it look if she got hurt, Burt?”

Burt rolled his eyes, and I resisted the urge to do the same. Instead, I bit the inside of my cheek so I didn’t mouth off.

“I don’t know, Stan, probably the same way it would look if any of them got hurt. Like she knew what was going to happen when she walked out onto that dirt like everyone else.”

Fuck yeah, Burt. Give it to him.

“But she’s a woman, it ain’t the same at all and you know it. If she gets hurt, it looks bad on us for letting her out there in the first place,” Stan Wilfred Senior was just as much of a bitch as his son. He wasn’t worried about my health despite his ‘What about the little lady?’lip flapping. He was worried about how it would look if they let a woman into the ‘Toughest Sport on Dirt’.

Burt was a big guy, current president of the WBRP. His wife was a former barrel racing pro and he happened to be a friend of my father's way back when. He’d sent flowers when he died, apparently.

He looked at me like he owed me something, which he didn’t, but I was grasping this opportunity with both hands. He turned away from me and back at Stan Senior. “There's nothing in the rules that says she can’t ride. She has the points. No one is saying we whack her on stage in Nevada, Stan. She has to earn her way there, just like she worked her way here, like most other riders have.”

Oh. I heard that burn. Like everyone but a legacy rider whose daddy had all the judges in his bulging pockets. Stan, much like his son, had been kicked in the head by one too many bulls and didn’t pick up the subtle jab.

Stan went red in the face. “This isn’t the end of this,” he said, shooting me a dirty look and slamming out of the room.

Burt pinched his nose and sighed. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like jackass, but when he lowered his hand and looked back at me, his face was nothing but businesslike.

“That’s it, Tessa. You are in. But you’re gonna have to eat dirt and ride bulls like everyone else on your own merits. There isn’t any favoritism here.” I resisted the urge to scoff and he canted his head to the side as if he was reassessing his own words. “Well, there shouldn’t be. There's an oversight panel and all that malarkey, but honestly, you will probably have to work harder than the other rookies. The heat of that spotlight is gonna shine right on your head, girl, and I hope you have the brass ones to withstand it.”

I nodded. “I do, sir, I promise.”

Burt nodded, giving me a soft smile. “I know you do. I watched some of your tapes before this meeting. You’re good, kid. Got good quick moves. Good understanding of the bulls, which is to be expected. You got the heart, and the arrogance,” he smirked, “to make it in this competition. But it ain’t going to be easy and you can’t come running back here, telling tales and hoping I’ll fix it. Once you do that, you’ve lost all credibility amongst the good ole boys, you get me? You’re gonna have to hold your own.”

I nodded eagerly. Yeah I knew. I’d been holding my own against these misogynistic assholes for three years now. I had ridden sixty bulls in that time. I’d cracked ribs and wrists. Dislocated my shoulder and my left knee. But I got back up, and I’d keep getting back up, because riding was in my blood.

Burt nodded. “Stick with the Brazilians. Most of ‘em don’t speak English, but they know what it's like to be on the outside and they are a close knit group. You need people out here, or it gets lonely fast at the top.”

I nodded again. I knew loneliness. Once I told my aunt that I was going to be a bull rider, she’d cut me off. She thought rodeo had killed my dad. She might have been right. But she’d been my last ounce of family, and she’d turned her back on me.

Frankie was the closest thing I had to family left. “My best friend, Francisco Santos, is a Brazilian bullfighter, so I can speak a little Portuguese. I’ll take your advice.”

“Ah, Frankie Santos! I saw him bullfighting down in Texas a year back. Good instincts, quick on his feet. The ladies seem to love him too,” he said, his tone knowing.

I nodded and grinned. “They certainly do. But we’re just friends. Frankie’s had my back for years now.”

Burt raised both brows knowingly. “He’s leaving the amateur circuit to come sit on the sidelines while you ride?” He seemed disbelieving and I couldn’t blame him. I’d been disbelieving too. But Frankie had just grinned, grabbed me up and spun me, and said he had my back. And besides, he was more likely to be seen by the higher ups here and get himself on TV.

I didn’t make decisions for Frankie, but I was damn glad that was what he’d decided.

I shrugged at Burt and he shook his head. “Get out of here, Moore. I’ll see you on Friday night.”

I grinned so wide I thought my face would crack. “Yessir.”

Turning on my heel, I swaggered out the door of the WBRP head offices like I was walking onto a podium in the center of an arena.

Frankie waited for me in the lobby, and when he saw my face, he whooped loudly.

“Yes,Querida!” He grabbed me up in his arms and spun me around. “You did it!”

I squeezed him tight, appreciating the leather, dust, and vanilla scent that was uniquely Frankie. “I couldn’t have done it without you, you know that right?”

He made a rude noise and slid me back to my feet. “I know you, Tessa. You are stubborn as a bull, and you would have got here with or without me. But I am happy as hell that I was here to witness it.”

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