Page 48 of Groomsman to Groom

“Warriors!” Skye appears before us in an outfit that can only be described as bullfighter-meets-cruise-director, her typical flamboyance toned down to merely excessive rather than outrageous. “Hayes is in position already, capturing some preliminary footage. Remember, this is about conquering fear, showing courage, and looking fabulous while running for your lives!” She claps her hands, then she leans in, dropping her voice. “Between us, Hayes is going to be impressed with whoever shows both courage and good judgment. This isn’t about being reckless—it’s about knowing your limits.”

Before I can process that little nugget, we’re being ushered toward the starting position. The narrow street has been cordoned off, with local security and medical personnel stationed at regular intervals. I spot several camera operators positioned strategically along the route, and then—my heart stutters—Hayes himself, perched on a small platform with his professional camera, ready to capture the whole thing.

He looks ridiculously handsome in a black button-down and jeans, his photographer’s eye clearly evaluating angles and lighting. When he spots our group approaching, his expression shifts from professional focus to something more complex. Concern, maybe? His gaze lingers on me for a half-second too long, and I feel that now-familiar electricity even from thirty feet away.

“Look at him pretending to be concerned,” Luna murmurs beside me. “As if he didn’t sign off on this death trap.”

“In fairness, we all signed up for this.”

Luna gives me a sideways look. “True.”

We’re positioned, and I end up with Serena, Gabby and Luna a few people ahead. The safety coordinator gives us one final briefing—stay in the center of the street, don’t stop running, head for the arena at the end of the route—while I try to focus on anything except the distant sound of bulls being readied.

“Remember,” the coordinator says in accented English, “these are younger bulls, not the full-sized animals used in the traditional run. Still dangerous, but more... predictable.”

“Oh good, predictable deadly animals,” Serena whispers. “Much better.”

A warning rocket explodes in the sky, signaling the bulls’ imminent release. My heart threatens to burst from my chest. I glance one more time at Hayes, who’s now focused intently through his viewfinder. Is he worried? Excited? Just doing hisjob? The uncertainty of where I stand with him is almost as terrifying as the bulls.

The second rocket fires. Someone down the line lets out a small scream.

“Remember,” I whisper to Serena, “we don’t have to be the fastest. We just have to be faster than at least one other person.”

She laughs, high and nervous. “The production assistants are probably the slowest. Let’s just outrun them.”

The final rocket sounds. A distant gate opens. And suddenly, we’re running.

The initial surge of adrenaline is almost euphoric. We move as a pack down the narrow street, the white of our outfits and red of our sashes creating a visual snake weaving between ancient stone buildings. Spectators cheer from balconies above, though I suspect they’re disappointed by our sanitized version of their traditional event.

For the first hundred yards, it almost feels like fun—a group of women racing through a beautiful Spanish town, unified by shared fear and excitement. I’m surprisingly quick, keeping pace near the front of our group, my screenwriter’s brain already spinning this into a scene: the pounding feet, the gasping breaths, the golden Spanish sunlight on cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.

Then I hear them. The unmistakable thunder of hooves on stone. The snorting. The crowd’s roar intensifying.

“They’re coming!” someone shouts.

Our pack fractures into individual survival mode. Luna sprints ahead with grace, while Annabelle stumbles against a wall before righting herself. I maintain my pace, focusing on the end of the street where it opens into a wider avenue. Just get there, I tell myself. Just keep running.

I’m so focused on my footing that I almost miss seeing Hayes. He’s repositioned to a balcony overhead, camera trackingour progress. The morning light catches him perfectly, turning his hair golden, his expression intense with concentration. He’s beautiful.

And that’s when it happens.

My toe catches on an uneven cobblestone. My arms windmill, but momentum carries me forward into a spectacular fall. My palms and knees scrape against stone as I crash down, pain radiating through my right side. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs.

“Brielle!” I hear Serena’s voice, but it sounds distant against the sudden screaming from the crowd and the much closer thunder of the approaching bulls.

Stay down, curl up, protect your head. The safety instructions flash through my mind, but panic freezes me on the street. I twist to look behind me and see them—five young bulls, still massive and terrifying, charging toward our scattered group. Toward me.

Time slows to a crawl. I see everything with clarity: blood from my arm landing on something sharp on the cobblestone; a flowerpot on a nearby windowsill overflowing with red geraniums; Hayes’s face on the platform transforming from concentration to horror as he registers my position.

And then he’s moving. Dropping his camera. Vaulting over the balcony railing to a lower awning, then to the street itself, running toward me against the flow of fleeing contestants and production crew. I hear his distant voice shouting, “Brielle! Someone help her!”

There’s no plan anymore. Just Hayes sprinting toward me as the bulls close the distance, his face set in a determination I’ve never seen before. Just as the lead bull is nearly upon us, he reaches me, grabbing me around the waist and half-dragging, half-throwing me toward a recessed doorway. Wetumble together into the shallow protection as the bulls thunder past, close enough that I feel the rush of air they displace.

“Are you okay?” Hayes demands, his voice rough with fear. His hands move over me, checking for injuries, his body partially covering mine in the narrow doorway.

“I think so,” I gasp, though my right arm is throbbing and my head spins. “You—you could’ve been killed!”

His eyes lock with mine, something fierce and unguarded in them. “So could you.”

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