Page 62 of Eight Seconds to Ride

Positioning is key.

The horse I’m on tonight is a beautiful black mare. She’s got a shiny coat and a thick mane. It’s my first time riding her, but I’ve seen others ride her in previous rodeos, and she’s a wild one, which could mean there’s potential for a higher score. In bronc riding, it’s not just about staying on the horse; it’s also about how hard you have to work to do it. The better the buck, the higher the score.

Once I’m sure I’ve got the rigging grasped tightly and my feet are in position, I give a nod, and a moment later, we’re flying out of the chute. Everything happens so fast, it’s nearly impossible to think while being flung around. Relying on muscle memory during these eight seconds is important. Trusting my body to know what to do while my mind hones in on one thing—waiting for that buzzer.

As soon as it sounds and the pick-up man drags me off the bronc, my cheeks hurt from smiling so hard and my heart is galloping inside my chest. I nailed it, I know it. And knowing my parents are in the stands, and they got to see the whole thing, fills me with an enormous amount of pride.

Sweat lines my forehead and my neck, dripping down into my button-up shirt. My hair’s slicked to my forehead, and I’m dying to get out of these chaps. Once I’m in the back, I pass by Shooter, who is up after this next guy. Our eyes meet, and he gives me a nod, a small smirk sliding on his face. I return the gesture, and when he mouths “good job,” my stomach does a quick flip-flop before I duck outside to meet my folks.

Things between us have been changing, but I think last night really sealed the deal. At least for me. I feel something for Shooter that goes beyond my annoyance, and it goes beyond just the physical stuff. My pulse kicks up when I see him, my chest aches when I don’t. Having him sleep in my bed last night, and getting to wake up to him this morning, was really nice in a wayI never knew I wanted. And to be honest, that frightens me more than a little bit.

Daisy’s warning comes back to me, though. How Shooter doesn’t do relationships. And how I was so adamant about not becoming another notch next to his belt buckle… but is that what I’ve become? Once the season is over, will his interest fade? Sure, we live in the same town, but outside of training and the circuit, we have no reason to see each other. Am I simply something of convenience? But even as the thought swirls around in my mind, it doesn’t feel right.

My parents come into view, bright smiles on their face as they run over to me with wide open arms.

“Honey, you did so good!” my mom squeals as she squeezes me in a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

“You did damn good, son,” my dad chimes in, my chest swelling at the pride in his voice.

Blinking away the blur in my vision, I pull back and say, “Thanks, guys.”

They lead me back to where they were sitting in the stands, and it’s just in time to watch Shooter go out. It’s rare I get to watch him anymore because he either goes out before me—and I don’t allow myself to watch anybody prior to me going out—or he goes out immediately after me, and I’m already heading back to the camper to get changed out of the hot, sweaty clothes.

Bad to the Boneechoes throughout the arena as the gate to the bucking chute is ripped open. The bronc comes barreling out, and from the moment they hit the dirt, I can tell something’s off. Shooter isn’t riding like he normally does. He’s stiff. His posture is all wrong. My stomach sinks as the seconds drag on, and when that buzzer sounds after his eight seconds are up, I let out a held breath that he at least didn’t get bucked off and disqualified again.

Somehow, as if there’s a glaring red sign above his head, I shift my gaze, finding Shooter’s dad in the crowd immediately. The lump in my throat intensifies as I think back on everything Shooter admitted to me last night, and I just know, he’s kicking himself in the ass right now.

The announcer shares Shooter’s score, and while it’s not bad, it’s also not anywhere near winning either.

Suddenly, all I want is to go find him and be there for him in any way that I can. But how can I do that with my parents here? It’s their last day in town before heading back to Texas, so I don’t really want to ditch them to go comfort someone I’m not even sure wants me to. I try to shove him and his ride and the disappointed look on his father’s face out of my mind as we exit the stands and make our way off of the grounds.

Normally, I like to stay for the whole rodeo, because I enjoy getting to watch Daisy perform, and she’s one of the last ones to go out before the bull riders, but given my parents leave tomorrow, we decide to grab dinner in town instead.

The wait to get sat once we get there is nonexistent since nearly everybody in town is at the arena. The three of us order some Cokes and burgers, my stomach growling loud enough for the whole establishment to hear, I’m sure.

“What time’s your flight tomorrow?” I ask my parents.

“Seven in the morning,” my mom offers. “It’s an early one.”

“I can take you guys.”

“That’s okay, honey.” She offers me a warm smile. “Conrad already offered. Said he has to run into town anyway.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. And besides, you’ll probably want to sleep in after that amazing ride you had. I’m so proud of you!”

I chuckle at her excitement. “Thanks, Mom. I appreciate that. I’m really glad you guys were able to fly up here.”

Our food comes a short while later, and as we dig in—it’ssofreaking good—my mind keeps drifting back to Shooter. Wondering how he’s doing. In between bites, I slip my phone out of my pocket, wanting to send him a quick text.

Me: How’re you doing? I’ll be home a bit later if you want to stop by.

I hit send before I can overthink it, already hating what I said. He’s probably busy tonight with the guys, or with his family. A bit presumptuous of me to think he’d want to spend his night coming to my house again. Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I let out a sigh.

“Who’re you talking to?” The question comes from my dad, and when I glance up, he’s got an amused grin playing on his lips and his eyebrows are lifted.

“Oh, just a friend,” I reply, realizing how freaking stupid that sounds. “One of the bronc riders,” I add.

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