Page 20 of Maverick
Partly because he seems like the kind of guy who could do it. I think that’s one of the things that draws me to him. He’s not a man I would ever date. Not a man I would ever marry. Because he’s not the marrying kind. That much is clear.
Which is what makes him the toe-curling, one-night-stand fantasy type.
Of course, I didn’t even get that from him.
Honestly, it’s a little bit insulting that what he wanted to do was take care of me like I was a baby bird that fell out of the nest.
I’m either that unappealing or he’s secretly honorable, and I just don’t really think he’s secretly honorable.
I rest my chin on my hands, which I have curled around the fence slats. I hold my breath while the first two riders go. I’m just expecting an accident every time now. I know that it’s rare. If it weren’t rare, we would do things differently. But after what happened to Colt, he asked me if it was the first time I ever looked at my own mortality, and I guess it is. Colt and I are the same age. Young and strong, the peak of physical perfection, and he was completely taken out by an animal he had a lot of experience with. And that’s the thing, you feel like you’re anexpert. But when you work with animals, being humbled can be closer than anyone believes.
Maverick’s third, and I watch as he gets into the chutes. I can’t see the big screens, which typically have an overhead vantage point of the cowboy on the back of the bull adjusting the gear, but I can see him, even if it is at a bit of a distance. I reach inside my shirt and grab hold of my necklace. It’s a cross necklace my grandma gave me, and it serves as my good luck charm, talisman, and grounding tool all in one. I catch myself saying a prayer for him as his name is announced over the intercom.
And then, it starts.
My mouth is dry, but I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s athleticism personified. I’m not usually allowed to root for him when Colt or Dallas are here either. Fair enough. You can’t go against your friends and root for another guy just because you think he’s hot.
This time, I’m crossing my fingers. Hard. The bull he’s on is black, spinning in circles, snot slinging out of his nose.
It’s a brutal sport, all around.
My heart is hammering so hard I forget to breathe. And then the clock passes eight seconds, and he jumps off. He faces away from the crowd like he always does. But his eyes connect with mine. Like he found me, crouched in the darkness, like he could feel me.
And I don’t even know how that’s possible.
My heart was already beating hard, and now I feel like it’s in my throat.
And so I do the totally reasonable thing. I stand up and practically run away.
I go get Cloud Dancing ready to be put away more quickly than I did last night, and I scamper to my trailer. I don’t want to run into him.
It feels dangerous. I can’t explain it. Tomorrow, we’re leaving this venue. There’s another event in a week, and if I don’t win that one, then I’m out for the season, functionally. I could keep going, but there’d be no real point. I won’t be able to earn enough points to get to the championship.
And it would be for the best anyway. This season has been terrible. A bust, really. I can go to Gold Valley and visit Colt, I suppose. Or I could go back home to my little house near my parents’ in Sonoma. Yeah. That’s probably what I’ll do.
And what I don’t do is think about Maverick.
We’re in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, for the next event before I see Maverick again. And when I do, it’s like being punched square in the chest. He’s there looking fine and glorious, and treacherous, the sun shining down on him, and I’m getting my trailer parked in position, and I can’t afford to be distracted.
So I look away firmly, get into my spot, and climb out of the truck. I open up the side door and grab a halter and lead rope, opening up the back of the trailer and clipping the lead rope onto Cloud Dancing. She comes slowly out of the trailer, and I lead her down the narrow row of stalls before I find the one designated for us. I half expect Maverick to come over and talk to me. He doesn’t. And I’m left feeling silly that I thought he might.
Maybe he’s forgotten. Maybe he’s won too many other women in random poker games since our last encounter for him to think about me at all. Maybe saving virgins is such a commonplace activity for him that he’s now forgotten about it entirely.
That seems possible.
I resolve not to worry about him. Because he isn’t thinking about me. This is an annoying feature of me and my obsessiveness. It hasn’t happened very many times, but if I get obsessed with a guy it can take over my brain.
I’m standing firm in the decision that I will not allow Maverick to take up that kind of space.
Lust isn’t a crush. And there’s nothing particularly crush-worthy about him. No. That’s actually laughable. Almost as funny is thinking of him as a potential boyfriend. That word would fit him like one of those horrible hand-knit sweaters made from cheap yarn. Itchy, lumpy, and just no.
“What score do you need to advance?”
I know his voice. I don’t have to turn around to confirm that it’s him. My heart leaps up into my throat. I clench my teeth together, and I don’t turn, because if I do, I have a feeling he’s going to be standing far too close, the impact of him far too severe.
“An impossible one. I would need to make the time faster than I ever have. Clean.”
“And you don’t think that’ll happen?”
