Page 42 of Eight Seconds to Ride

Shooter looks at me, but I just shrug and follow Daisy. I’m positive in the morning when I wake up, hungover as fuck, I’ll be thanking her for breaking this up.

But for right now, I’m half-hard and annoyed.

20

Sterling Addams

The steady hum of anticipation has been vibrating under my skin all day. It’s like this every single rodeo, no matter what. I remember the first time I competed bareback. It was in high school, and I remember the electric thrill was unlike anything I’d experienced before. The rush, the adrenaline, the excitement. There was nothing like it—and there still isn’t. The nerves swimming in my gut made me so nauseous, I thought for sure I would puke as soon as I left the bucking chute, and my hands and legs trembled so badly, I’m surprised I didn’t fall right off the bronc. And thank God for the gloves because my palms were slick as a Slip ‘N Slide nearly the whole time.

Rodeo isn’t something I’ve always wanted to do. Sure, I was around it for a good chunk of my childhood, growing up partially in Copper Lake the way I did, but if anything, I grew up wanting to work around animals, period. It wasn’t until high school, when I got the opportunity to be a part of the Rodeo Club, that I got to learn how much I enjoy riding bronc, and how good I wasat it. I’ve always felt intuitive when it comes to animals, and the broncs are no different.

I’m competing in my seventh pro rodeo tonight. I’ve won three of those—the most recent being last night—and honestly, I couldn’t be prouder of myself for that. There are many men who go their entire first season without seeing a win. This season so far has been nothing short of surreal, and we aren’t even halfway through. It’s exceeded all of my expectations, and I still can’t even believe I’m here.

Checking my phone and making sure I’m still on schedule, I note that I have about forty-five minutes before I go out; second to the last bareback rider, with Shooter being the last.

The campsite we’re staying at this weekend is a small, quiet location with a creek nearby. Reaching into my duffle, I pull out my rolled-up blue yoga mat, slinging the strap onto my shoulder as I step outside.

If you were to ask any rider, I think they’d unanimously agree to having a pre-rodeo ritual or routine of some sort, and I’m no different. For as long as I’ve been competing, I’ve done the same things in the same order right before. I don’t even think it was a conscious decision I made at first, just something that felt right and it stuck. Step one of my ritual being meditation.

My mom taught yoga classes in the park for many years, and I always thought it surely had to be bogus, the whole meditating thing. Until I was riddled with nerves for my first competition in high school. I couldn’t calm myself down, and I was one heavy breath away from a full-blown anxiety attack. She suggested I meditate with her, because what could it hurt? Even if it did nothing for me, at least I tried.

But it worked. Twenty minutes of sitting in the lawn, focusing on my breathing, and letting everything else fade away did wonders on my nervous system that night. Being able tocenter myself and bring myself to a place of mental calmness before going out and competing changed everything.

Finding a spot in the shade, I roll out the mat before sitting down on top of it, legs crisscrossed and my hands resting loosely in my lap. It’s a nice day today; the sun’s shining, but it isn’t too hot, especially in the shade. There’s an app on my phone that plays relaxation music, so after I turn that on and set it beside me, I let my eyes drift closed. For the next twenty minutes, I’m at one with myself and with nature, everything else that’s stressing me fading away.

The anxiety over the rodeo.

The uncertainty and confusion surrounding Shooter.

It’s just me and my even breathing, my steady heartbeat, surrounded by a deep and peaceful calm, where time feels like it slows down momentarily. Birds chirp in the trees above me, the water rolling and lapping gently beyond me.

By the time I open my eyes again, I feel refreshed, like a whole new man. Heading back to the camper, I quickly get changed into my riding pants, boots, and the black long-sleeve button-up I’m wearing tonight. Cope and Shooter aren’t in here, but that’s not surprising. They’re both probably out doing whatever ritual or routine they do before a rodeo. After grabbing the hat I want to wear and plopping it on my head, I amble through the camper, to the mini fridge, grabbing a Red Bull and pounding it.

The Red Bull kind of counteracts the effects of meditation, but rituals are rituals, okay?

Heading over to the arena, which conveniently is next to the campsite, I take in the crowd. Even from out here, I can hear the fans cheering from the stands. People flutter around the grounds, getting food, hanging out, or letting their kids play. The atmosphere at these events is always unmatched.

I make my way to the back, hanging out there until it’s time to load up into the bucking chute. The anticipation is a steady buzz as it courses through my body. About five minutes before I’m set to load up, I run through the pre-rodeo stretches—neck, arms, legs, making sure my body is nice and ready. As I’m working on my hamstrings, someone rounds the corner. Peering up, my gaze connects with a familiar pair of baby blues that sends a shock wave through my now warmed-up muscles.

Surprising me, Shooter doesn’t say anything. Instead, he sidles up beside me, getting to work on his own stretches. With his head turned, focusing on his left leg, I let my gaze drag over his form. He’s wearing his usual rodeo night cowboy hat. It’s black, well worn, and faded from the sun. His powder-blue button-up accentuates the bright color of his eyes, and his vest has sponsor patches thrown haphazardly on the back. The Wranglers he’s got on are light denim and faded, tight as hell, hugging his every damn muscle and curve. And the chaps… Whoa boy, the chaps. They’re a simple brown leather with fringe, but there’s something about a man—specifically, something aboutShooter—in chaps that just sends a thrill down my spine. A zap of arousal to my groin.

Now I’m fantasizing about things I definitely shouldn’t be fantasizing about… like him bending me over one of them chutes in nothingbutthose chaps. Feeling the blunt tips of his fingernails biting into the flesh on my hips as he plunders into me, teeth bared, animalistic groans rumbling from his chest.

“Earth to Sterling.”

I’m snapped out of my crude imagination when Shooter waves his hand in front of my face.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He huffs out a laugh through his nose. “As much as I’d love to have you sit here and eye-fuck me, you’re up.”

“I was not,” I hiss, feeling my cheeks heat. I totally was.

“Whatever you say, Addams.” I start walking away, but before I can get out of earshot, he adds, “Don’t choke out there while you picture me dicking you down again.”

His dark chuckle is the last thing I hear.

Asshole.

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