Page 9 of Riding the Storm
That earns him a glare.
I lean my head back against the seat, eyes half closed. “You ever been to Jackson Hole?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Years ago. Gorgeous place. Nice downtown area. Expensive as hell. You’ll like it.”
“I won’t.”
He smirks. “You haven’t even seen it yet.”
“Don’t have to. I know the type. It’s a joke. A gimmick. A place where people visit and sip lattes in their freshly purchased, overpriced cowboy boots ’cause it looks country.”
Shawn chuckles. “You’re not wrong. But Wildhaven isn’t like that. It’s working land. Real horses. Real cowboys.”
“Real waste of my time,” I mutter.
The seat-belt sign dings, and the plane jolts upward. My stomach drops as we climb into the dark, early morning Texas sky. Ten minuteslater, Shawn’s already back on his laptop, drafting emails, crunching numbers, and running my life from thirty thousand feet.
I stare out the window. City lights fade beneath us, swallowed by clouds. Somewhere down there is the arena in Houston where I got thrown last month—by a bull named Knight’s Vengeance. Fitting name. I had known the moment I drew his name that there was going to be a reckoning.
I can still see his massive shoulder roll when the gate opened, feel the sudden torque of power between my thighs, and the way my hand slipped the instant he snapped left out of the chute. I lasted six seconds. Hit the dirt so hard that I couldn’t remember my own damn name for another two days.
They told me I’d asked for my momma ten times, like some little kid, and she and my dad drove all night from Tulsa to get to me.
The doctors said I was lucky. They told me my brain needed rest. Said “one more like that, and you might not wake up.”
My parents were beside themselves. And my sponsors—those corporate bastards—saw dollar signs slipping away. So, they all called Shawn. And Shawn called my management. And now, here I am, flying to Wyoming, accompanied by my agent like some drugged-out rehab project.
“Ry,” Shawn says suddenly. “Listen to me for a second, okay? Just hear me out.”
I exhale through my nose, but don’t say anything.
“You could have another six, maybe seven years in this sport if you pivot now. Bronc riding’s still tough, but it’s not the same kind of head trauma. You’re good enough, athletic enough, to make the transition. Hell, you could dominate it. There’s a ton of crossover appeal. You’re already a fan favorite—America’s cowboy, the comeback kid. You win a couple of bronc titles? You extend the brand, keep the sponsors happy, and stay in the game. You do nothing? You’re done. You understand?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I understand you’re trying to sell me something.”
He shakes his head. “I’m trying to save you something. Your future.”
“My future’s in the arena,” I say. “On a bull.”
He closes the laptop again, sighs like he’s carrying my stubbornness around his neck like a chain. “Ry, you’re twenty-eight. You’ve had more concussions than most NFL linebackers get in their whole careers. Youcan’t keep pretending it’s not catching up to you. Your reflexes have slowed down. Your timing has been off. You know that as well as I do.”
I look away. Because he’s right. I do know it. Last season, I was half a second slower out of the gate. My balance was off just enough that I could feel it. And that’s all it takes—half a second, one bad landing.
Fuck.
“I’d rather die on a bull than live the rest of my life wondering if I quit too soon. If I chose the coward’s way out.”
“Yeah?” he says softly. “What if you don’t die? What if you end up paralyzed? You think you could live with that?”
I don’t answer. Because that’s the only thing that scares me more than quitting. Being a burden for the rest of my miserable life.
He lets the silence hang between us for a minute, then says, “You’ve got endorsements waiting, Ry. The hat deal alone is worth three million over two years. You have the possible Bull Rope Whiskey collab with Dry Canyon Distilling company. Your own brand. They want you to partner with them and be the face of the whiskey. And a saddle company wants your input on a custom bronc rig. You walk away now, you lose all of it.”
I give a low laugh. “So, it’s about money.”
“It’s about you. It’s always been about you. Money’s just the only language you seem to listen to besides the glory of gold buckles.”
The flight attendant comes by with more coffee, and Shawn orders two. I take mine black, bitter, and scalding. It fits my mood perfectly.
