Page 7 of Eight Seconds to Ride

“So, what’s the deal with you and Sterling?” Whit asks predictably. I knew it was coming, from the moment I admitted to us already knowing each other.

“No deal,” I reply with a smirk.

“Right,” he deadpans, lip twitching. “You weren’t exactly subtle back there in checking him out.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t see how hot he looked, all shirtless and sweaty.” I laugh. “I’m sure you were checking him out, too.”

“Not really my type,” Whit muses, bringing the chilled glass up to his lips.

I throw my head back and laugh. “Oh, right. I forgot if a man doesn’t have the three B’s, you don’t want it.”

Arching a brow, Whit asks, “Three B’s?”

“Big, burly, and bearded.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it. It’s enough to steer the conversation away from the ranch and who we just saw there. My mind, of course, hyper focused on it.

Sterling Addams, the new bronc rider in town who’s staying at the Grazing Acres Ranch, is also Dimples, the guy who sucked my dick in a bar bathroom in Vegas. What are the fucking odds? I won’t lie, Ihavethought about that night more than once since it happened. Never thought I’d see him again, though—how most of my on the road hookups are—and now he’s here.

Do I like that? Would I hook up with him again if the situation presented itself? I don’t normally do repeats. It’s kind of unrealistic when we’re in a new city every weekend for half the year, and when we are home, we spend our days either training or watching footage from the road to figure out what we can do better. Over the years, I’ve learned it takes a special type of person to be with a rodeo cowboy, and frankly, I don’t care enough to look for that person.

Admittedly, it would be cool to have someone on the road I could enjoy from time to time, and Dimples wasn’t terrible. But…he is my competition now. Although, I doubt he’s anyrealcompetition. It’s so rare that someone fresh out of the gate, young and green, isthatgood.

They can’t all be like me, after all.

4

Sterling Addams

Not going to lie… it’s intimidating as hell being here. I know I’m talented at what I do. I know there’s a reason I’ve made it this far, why I’m going pro. But stepping foot into Powder Ridge, where so many of the greats were made, is a different type of anxiety. It’s like stepping into a dream come true. I’ve fought tooth and nail to get to where I am now. To get here. I don’t come from some long line of cowboys. I didn’t learn to walk with a latigo in my hand, like some of these guys did.

Shooter Graham is a damn good bronc rider, and I’d be lucky to make it even half as far as he has. But let’s be real here and call a spade a spade—he’s the rodeo equivalent to a nepo baby. I can’t imagine he had to fight very hard to have certain doors opened for him. There’s no denying he has a natural God-given talent. But the connections he had because of who his father is, and what the Graham name means in this world, helped too.

Now, don’t get me wrong, my parents are some of the most supportive people I know—even if this career terrifies my poor mother—but they don’t know the first thing aboutbronc riding or the industry. Everything I know, everything I’ve accomplished to get here, has been through hard work and dedication. I’m not saying everyone else here didn’t work hard to get here too, but I didn’t have the luxury of growing up with rodeo parents and expensive lessons.

I have to prove myself this year. Prove I deserve to be here just as much as the next guy. Prove the talent I possess, the drive I have, the future I know I can achieve. Prove that, while I may be new, I have the ability to be just as good as someone like Shooter. Prove it to myself, but maybe also prove it to the world.

True to his word, Conrad came with me this morning, and he just got done introducing me to the staff and a couple of the guys. It was wild meeting all these huge names I’ve seen all over the rodeo world for years now. Shooter and I are apparently the only bareback riders at this facility. Running into him last week at Conrad’s was nerve-wracking, to say the least. I was right in the middle of working, sweating my ass off, and him showing up right there in front of me took me off guard. And then when he blurted out that we knew each other, an icy chill slithered down my spine, and I thought for sure I was going to lose my breakfast.

He showed up with a vet. Is that his boyfriend? I wanted to ask Conrad once they left, but that would’ve opened up a can of questions I don’t necessarily want to answer. Conrad is nice and all, but we still barely know each other. We definitely aren’t on alet me tell you about my one and only bathroom hookup with a rodeo celebritylevel of friendship.

If he and the vetaretogether, he probably should get his face under control. It was uncomfortably obvious—at least, to me—that he was checking me out. I swear my cheeks couldn’t have been hotter under his gaze even if I tried.

Conrad eventually leaves the arena, mumbling about needing to get back to the ranch, and I spend the next severalhours training in the gym that’s down the road from the arena. It’s owned by the same people who own Powder Ridge, and he had mentioned it’s where a lot of the guys train. He wasn’t wrong. It’s a tiny facility filled with sweaty, grunting cowboys. A queer man’s dream.

I’m just about done when I hear someone walk up to me. Glancing over my shoulder, it’s Cope Murphy. Conrad introduced me to him this morning, but I already know who he is. He was just a few points shy of winning the title for saddle bronc riding this year at NFR. He’s a hell of a rider.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he asks, slinging a sweat rag over his shoulder.

“Hey,” I reply, sitting up on the bench. “Not too bad.”

Wiping the sweat off his brow, Cope smirks. “Good, good. How’re you liking Copper Lake so far?”

“It’s fine.” Looking around the gym, I notice the rest of his friends over by the far left wall. They aren’t watching us, but I’m sure they know he’s over here. “I lived here up until I was, like, seven. So, it’s not my first time here.”

He nods. “Right on. So, hey, a few of us were going to grab some lunch at the place up the road. Want to join us?”

“Oh, uh…”Shit.This is what I hate about being new in town. The make-new-friends scenarios. I’ve never been any good at it, and all of these guys have probably known each other their whole lives, so I’m the only outsider.

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