Page 43 of Eight Seconds to Ride

Sliding down into the chute and straddling the bronc is an experience all on its own. My mind clears of any and everything other than making sure I’ve got a good grip on the rigging and that my spurs are properly marked out, and the way it feels as if I become one with the beast beneath me. All the nerves and the anxiety from earlier in the day vanish, adrenaline and a giddy type of anticipation in its place.

The blood in my veins is pumping hard, pulse hammering as I do a mental run through, making sure I’m in position before giving a quick nod, letting the crew know I’m ready. The crowd waits on bated breath as we burst out of the chute.

It’s showtime.

As a bronc rider, being able to think on your toes is one of the most important things you can possess. Hesitating even minutely or making the wrong snap judgement can cost you everything. You have to be able to read the bronc, to think quick, and you have to have your head in the game all eight seconds. Even a millisecond of resistance can be the difference between a win and a disqualification.

Those eight seconds feel like an eternity while that fifteen-hundred pound horse is writhing and thrashing you around. You simply do not have time for errors. It’s why I’m so adamant about my pre-rodeo ritual.

So, when that buzzer sounds and I’m pulled off the bronc, and the announcer boasts a ninety-three score for tonight, I couldn’t be prouder. My blood is pumping for an entirely different reason and my cheeks hurt from smiling so damn big,because I know I went out there tonight and gave it my all. I did everything in my power to win.

Getting out of the arena, I watch from the sidelines as Shooter goes out. Shooter rides broncs like it’s an art form. Like it’s his God-given right. I’ve never seen anything like it. The way he anticipates every single move the horse makes, the way his body is so fluid. When I first decided I wanted to go pro, it was him and his talent that kept me going. Reaching his potential was, and still is, the goal.

Which is why, as I stand here stock-still, it’s so jarring watching what happens next after the gate opens and they exit the chute. Not even three seconds into the ride, the bronc jumps to the left, in a move Shooter evidently wasn’t anticipating. That becomes abundantly clear as Shooter gets bucked off.

My jaw drops, eyes going wide as I snap my head to the right, finding Cope’s equally surprised expression. Returning my gaze to the arena, the pick-up man gets Shooter up right away. He isn’t hurt, or at least doesn’t appear to be.

But he is disqualified tonight. Something that has rarely happened to him in his entire rodeo career. And it hasn’t happened this entire season.

This also means I’ve won. As much as I feel for him, at how shitty it is to lose like that—to be disqualified—I can’t deny the chest-swelling pride and excitement filling me right now, and I’m not sure if that makes me an asshole.

21

Shooter Graham

“Shooter, get the fuck up!”

Cope’s aggravated voice cuts through the state of half-asleep I’m currently trying to burrow myself in for as long as possible. I can tell without even moving, my entire body aches. My eyes burn as I peel them open, the sunlight pouring in through the blinds like a drop of acid hitting my corneas.Fuck this.

I’m not sure about the time, but whatever it is, it’s too damn early. It feels like I just passed out ten minutes ago. That guess is probably more accurate than not, knowing me lately. There’s shuffling around me, Cope and Sterling probably getting ready to hit the road. Something I should be doing too.

Something whacks me right on my forehead, my eyes flying open and landing on Cope, who’s standing in the doorway to the bunk beds. “What the fuck, man?” Reaching down, I pluck the navy-blue stress ball off the floor that was just chucked at my head. “What’s your fucking problem?”

“You,” he bellows, throwing his hands in the air. “We have to hit the road and you need to get the fuck up. I’ve tried getting you up for the last half hour. What the fuck?”

“Are you dumb? We’re in a camper… as in, it’s attached to the truck. If you want to leave, then get in the truck and fucking leave. Why do I have to be awake for that?”

Cope huffs out a laugh, grabbing another pair of socks and chucks it at my head again. “Now who’s dumb?” he throws back. “I’m not leaving you back here to sleep so you can throw up from motion sickness. Besides, it’s your fucking turn to drive!”

Narrowing my eyes, I glare at him for a moment, realizing he’s right. It’s ironic as fuck that I get motion sickness in cars, given the fact that I’m tossed around on top of a bronc several months out of the year. Throwing the blanket off of me, I sit up, digging the heel of my palm into my eye socket, yawning.

“You’re such a little fucking bitch, you know that?” I grumble at Cope as I raise off the bed and reach for my pants.

“Says the one throwing a temper tantrum about having to get out of bed,” he snaps back as I shove past him. “You also fucking stink. When was the last time you took a shower, bro?”

“Fuck off.”

“What the fuck’s gotten into you lately?”

“You. You’re always on my ass about this or that. Lay the fuck off.” It’s a lie. The truth is, Cope hasn’t done anything I wouldn’t do if the roles were reversed. I’m being a grade A dick to everybody around me. And while I know this, I also can’t seem to make myself stop either. “You can’t just drive today and let me be?

“No, I can’t, you prick.” He folds his arms over his broad chest, glaring at me down his nose. “It’s not my fucking responsibility to pick up your slack, Shooter. You’re a big boy, and you can stick to the plan and do your part.”

I scoff. “You’re un-fucking-believable. God forbid you do anything more.”

Shoving through the door that leads outside, my eyes are assaulted with the morning light. The ground smells like dew, the grass sprinkled with droplets of mist. Reaching into the pocket of my sweats, I grab my pack of Marlboros, plucking one out and placing it between my teeth as I dig around to find my lighter. Once lit, I take a long drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs while a steady buzz works its way through my body. I need it.

I’m not fucking sleeping, and it’s catching up to me quickly. I can’t remember a single time where sleep has ever been an issue for me,especiallyduring rodeo season. Usually, I’m out like a light as soon as my head hits the pillow after competing. But this entire season, it’s been like pulling teeth trying to calm my mind down enough to get a few hours.

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