Page 8 of Riding the Storm
I grunt. “No.”
All coffee is going to do is keep me awake. I don’t want that. I want to drown myself and enjoy the peace of unconsciousness.
“I’ll take a whiskey neat though.”
He sighs, that long-suffering exhale he does when I’m being “difficult.” His word, not mine.
“You don’t have to act like a petulant child, you know,” he says. “I’m not trying to penalize you. I’m keeping your career alive.”
“My career was doing just fine before you and the suits decided to ground me.”
Shawn shuts the laptop with a soft click and turns in his seat to face me. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray blazer over a plain black tee—casual enough to pretend he’s not just another corporate suit, but still slickenough to remind me he is. “You’re not grounded, Ry. You’re just being smart. There’s a difference.”
I pull my hat lower, muttering, “Smart. That’s just a pretty word for retired.”
He chuckles once, humorless. “Retired guys don’t get paid seven figures to wear Wranglers and Resistol hats.”
The reminder burns like a shot of Jack Daniel’s down my throat. I know what’s on the table. I also know exactly what I’m losing.
I’m a bull rider. Been one since I was old enough to hang on to a steer in my daddy’s practice pen. I’ve ridden through rain, mud, broken ribs, torn ligaments, and more concussions than I can count. The danger—that’s the thrill of it. You climb in the chute and nod your head, and for eight seconds, the world stops spinning. Everything that matters—every-damn-thing—is under you and inside that arena.
And they want to take that away from me.
“You done giving me the PR version?” I ask, still not looking at him.
Shawn leans back. “I’m giving you the truth. Your medical team cleared you for limited activity, but no more bulls. You took your fifth concussion in two seasons. Fifth, Ry. You remember what the doc said?”
“Yeah. He said don’t hit my head again.”
“He said one more could cause significant brain injury. You could face paralysis, nerve damage, even a serious spinal injury. Or worse, it could kill your stubborn ass. And even though you cause me more grief than any of my other clients, I’d like to keep you on this side of the dirt for as long as possible.”
Those are things that every bull rider faces. We all know that we’re looking down the barrel of a gun every time we straddle our next opponent. There’s nothing new about my current situation, apart from the fact that I now have a team of people who are invested in keeping me profitable.
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. My jaw aches.
“Then I guess I’d better ride smarter.”
Shawn laughs under his breath. “You can’t outsmart gravity or the fury of an angry bull, cowboy.”
I finally look at him. “I can sure as hell try.”
The flight attendant delivers our drinks as the rest of the passengers make their way onto the aircraft. I swallow mine in two gulps.
Once everyone is aboard, the announcement is made to put away all electronics, and Shawn finally closes his computer and settles into his seat.
The plane starts taxiing, engines rising to a low roar. My stomach knots the way it does before a ride, only this time there’s no chute gate, no adrenaline high waiting on the other side. No purse or gold buckle. Just a trip to the middle of nowhere.
“Remind me again, why Wyoming?” I ask. “There’re trainers everywhere from Fort Worth to Calgary.”
“Because the trainer in Wyoming comes highly recommended by one of our own,” Shawn says. “And Wildhaven is off the beaten path. Far away from the distractions of home and the PBR Challenger Series.”
I snort. “Sounds like fun.”
Shawn ignores that. “The last thing you need right now is for anything to draw your focus away from the training,” he says. “I researched the place online. Wildhaven Storm Ranch. Eleven thousand acres of beautiful, wide-open land, just north of Jackson Hole. Nice horse operation. Albert Storm owns it. You’ve probably seen some of their horses at PBR charity events. They breed and train for ranch work and the rodeo.”
“Sounds like a great retirement home for broken cowboys,” I grumble.
“Then you’ll fit right in.”
