Page 71 of Eight Seconds to Ride

“Come on,” he pouts. “It’s been a solid three days since you sent me that late-night text, spilling your feelings to me.”

“Yeah, then reread it if you need it so bad.”

The truth is, I don’t regret admitting that. I honestly just enjoy sparring with him and giving him a hard time. We both know we care about each other, we both know we’re not seeing other people right now… So, it’s no surprise that I would miss him, even if we’ve spoken every day since I’ve been back on the road. Just like I’m sure he misses me. But yanking his chain is fun, and we both know it’s a bunch of bull anyway.

“What if I say it first?” he asks, voice dipping.

My brows lift. “I’m listening.”

“I do,” he states so confidently. I can practically see him metaphorically puff his chest out. “Miss you, that is. It kind of more than sucks not getting to see you regularly. And I’ve come to realize I sleep better with you. Even if you’re not in my bed, just having you close by in the other bunk helps my mind settle.”

This is way more than I thought I’d get out of him. He’s always been the more open one with his feelings, but it’s still jarring—and heartwarming—to hear him admit I make his life better.

“Only a few more months,” I say softly, knowing that it feels like a million years away. Mid-season is a terrible time to start a relationship, especially when one of us isn’t on the road. “I miss you, too.”

The door to the camper yanks open, and before Shooter can reply, I see Cope step into the small space, closing the distance between us in large strides. “Hey, there you are.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, Daisy’s just looking for you.” His eyes flit to my phone. “Hey, Shooter.”

“Sup, fucker,” he mutters, a smirk loud in his tone.

“I’ll be right out,” I tell Cope.

He nods, turning on his heel and leaves.

I glance at the sleepy face on my phone. “Well, I guess I’ll let you get back to bed.”

“Have a good night, baby” he offers. “Text me in the morning.”

“Goodnight.”

The call ends, and I lie there for a minute, smiling. That one simple ask from Shooter gives me butterflies every time.

35

Shooter Graham

“He doesn’t know anything, right?”

I’m at a rest stop about two hours outside of Copper Lake, phone hooked up to Bluetooth as I stick a wad of dip into my lip. My nerves are shot, mostly from excitement for what this weekend will bring, and since I refuse to smoke in my truck, dip it is.

Cope chuckles on the line. “Nah, bro. I told you, I haven’t said anything.”

“Okay, good. Keep it that way,” I grunt, putting the truck in drive as I head back toward the highway. “I’ll be there in about two and a half hours, so it’s cutting it pretty close, but I should get there before he goes out.”

“Sterling’s going to be pumped. He’s been sulking around for weeks.”

That shouldn’t bring a smile to my face, but it does. Sue me. It’s been sixlongweeks since Sterling and the crew hit the road again. Six weeks since I’ve seen him in the flesh, which, after how incredible we left things, it feels like an eternity. TheFaceTimes and the texting are nice, but nothing beats the real deal. It’s why I’m currently driving down the highway, heading toward Buckey, Wyoming, where they’re at for the next two nights for a rodeo event. I’m surprising Sterling in more ways than one, and I can’t fucking wait.

It's been a while since something’s gotten me this excited. I’m soaking it up, though, because this distance from Sterling aside, these six weeks have been challenging. A lot of self-reflection, a lot of time alone, but also, a lot of time with my new counselor, Benjamin. I hit the ground running almost immediately after they all left town, and I’ve been seeing him twice weekly. To be honest, I was pretty hesitant at first. I’ve never seen anybody professional for shit like this, but I have to admit, I think it’s actually helping. And I have Sterling to thank for that, because without his suggestion, I never would’ve thought to go this route.

He’s having a killer season. I’ve watched every single rodeo performance, and he’s kicking ass. Now that I don’t have the stress of disappointing my father on my shoulders, I can actually let myself be proud of him. Really fucking proud. With the way his first pro year is going, Sterling reminds me of me when I first started. The raw talent he possesses, the way he dances so effortlessly with the broncs. I feel like I’m exploding with pride for him. I’ll get to watch him compete tonight—assuming nothing stalls my arrival—and I can hardly wait. And the fact that he has no fucking clue I’m coming makes it so much better.

Cranking up the music, I kick back, letting the road take me as I go through tonight in my mind. Every part of tonight. Anticipation builds the closer I get, and by the time I’m parking at the Buckey Creek Arena, my body is thrumming with excitement. I shoot off a text to Cope, letting him know I’m here, but when I enter in through the front, I make sure to stay back toavoid Sterling possibly noticing me. I’d hate for him to spot me and have it throw off his game.

The guy currently out in the dirt is someone a few years older than me, who I’ve competed against for several years now. He’s good, but notgreat. He’s got nothing on Sterling and the way he’s been competing this season. His form’s a little sloppy and a little too loose, but he manages to score a decent eighty-one. The crowd goes wild when he jumps off his bronc, and if I’m not mistaken, I think he’s actually a local here, which would make sense.

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