Chapter Thirty-Three
Axle
I finish rewinding the clip and let it play one more time on the large monitor mounted to the wall of the video room.
“Watch your left shoulder,” I tell Taron, pointing at the screen.
The sixteen-year-old leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, studying every frame.
The kid has talent. The kind you can’t teach.
The bull explodes out of the chute, and even on video, I can see his natural timing. His balance comes instinctively. His feet are correctly positioned, and his free arm is loose.
Most young riders spend years trying to develop that.
Taron already has it.
“Right there,” I say, pausing the footage.
The image freezes.
“See how your shoulder drops?”
He squints. “A little.”
“A little is all it takes.”
I grab the laser pointer from the table. “You don’t lose this ride because of the shoulder. You lose it because the shoulder starts a chain reaction. See how your hips follow the drop, causing your weight to shift. Now you’re chasing the spin instead of controlling it.”
Taron nods slowly.
I remember being sixteen and sitting in a folding chair beside some old cowboy who was trying to explain why I kept hitting dirt.
Back then, I thought I knew everything and they were full of shit. Relics of a sport that chewed them up and spit them out.
Now I know they were right.
Bull riding is a game of inches and milliseconds. You have to think fast and recover faster. The smallest mistake becomes a wreck in a hurry.
We watch the ride again and again. Each replay revealing something new.
Finally, I shut the video off.
“What do you think overall?” he asks.
I grin. “Overall, kid, you’re gonna make some people nervous.”
His eyes brighten. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I stand and clap a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got something. Own it. But don’t get cocky about it.”
His smile widens.
Too late. This hotshot is already full of piss and vinegar.
I laugh.
“Do you really think I could make a go of this? Ride professionally?”
“Absolutely.”
The answer comes easy.
I’ve worked with enough riders to know the difference between desire and talent.
It takes both to have any success. Some kids have one and not the other.
Taron has both.
But even then, the road to the top is a long and bumpy one.
“Keep working,” I tell him. “Keep listening. Keep learning. Don’t start believing your own press.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now get your butt over to Royce. He’s running drills in the arena.”
Taron stands. “Thanks, Axle.”
I watch the kid practically bounce out of the door.
Then I shake my head.
“He’s gonna be dangerous.” A familiar voice sounds from the doorway.
I turn and find Shawn Norris leaning against the frame.
“Definitely one to keep your eye on.”
My agent looks totally out of place inside the academy. Wearing tailored navy slacks, a crisp white shirt, expensive loafers, and designer sunglasses hanging from his shirt collar.
Meanwhile, I’m wearing boots, jeans, and a sweat-stained Raintree-Storm Rodeo Academy T-shirt.
“Shawn.”
He grins. “Good to see you, cowboy.”
I cross the room and shake his hand. “When’d you get here?”
“About twenty minutes ago.” His eyes sweep around the video room. “I wanted to see the place that Bryce Raintree is hanging his hat on.”
“Well?”
His grin widens. “It’s impressive. Not that I’d tell him that.”
I chuckle. “You have no one but yourself to blame. You sent him here. Right into Charli Storms’s path.”
“Don’t remind me.” Shawn glances around again. “I kick myself every day.”
I’m sure he does. He sent Bryce to Wildhaven Storm Ranch so Charli could train the superstar bull rider. The goal was to transition him to saddle broncs and extend his storybook career for another decade. That didn’t go to plan.
He reaches to his side and pats the leather briefcase. “A tour isn’t the only reason I’m here.” He unfastens the top, pulls out a manila folder, and holds it up. “I thought this deserved an in-person delivery.”
My stomach tightens slightly.
I’ve been a client for a couple of years now, and Shawn has never traveled to me with a contract. Paperwork has always been handled via mail or email. Not hand-delivered.
“Good news?”
He smirks. “Open it.”
He hands me the envelope, and I open it carefully. As I slide the contents out of the top, the logo is the first thing that catches my eye.
Outlaw Heritage Hat Company.
A brand I’ve worn for years. A name every cowboy in the country knows.
I start reading.
When I’m halfway through the first page, my eyebrows rise.
By the second page, I stop reading completely and stare at Shawn.
“You serious?”
“Very.”
I look back down.
Then scan the numbers once more. Two years. Over a quarter million dollars.
I whistle low. “Two hundred seventy-five thousand?”
“Yep. Minus my fifteen percent, of course.”
“Of course.”
For a second, I don’t know what to think.
I’ve done sponsor campaigns. A photo shoot, standing in front of a restaurant chain. Celebrating with a certain beer after a win. A logo stitched onto my riding vest or chaps.
Nothing remotely close to this—commercial shoots, social media partnerships, appearances, and product endorsements.
Not even in the same universe.
“Fuck.”
Shawn laughs. “That’s exactly why I like representing cowboys. No tears. No celebratory handshakes. No thank you, Shawn. Just a fuck and a smile.”
I shake my head.
“Outlaw Heritage wants you as the face of their Western division,” he says, pointing toward the arena outside the window. “You’re one of the most talented bull riders in America, and after the coming season, you’ll be the most recognizable.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Bryce walks into the room and parks his ass on one of the tables.
“Don’t worry, Bryce. You’ll still be beloved by the masses,” Shawn says.
I snort. “Yeah, we love to bring out our decrepit old legends and parade them around the arena from time to time.”
Bryce chuckles. “Let’s get this thing signed so Shawn can take us to lunch on that agent commission of his.”
I scratch my signature across the bottom of each page, each one making the whole thing feel more real.
When I finish, Shawn collects the documents.
“Well,” he says, pulling a new camel-colored hat with a dark leather trim from a bag, “you are officially a hat model now. You live in this thing.”
I take the hat, place it on my head, and adjust the brim.
Nice.
“I mean it. You even sleep and shower wearing Outlaw Heritage. I know you boys get sentimental about things like hats, boots, and belts, but you toss out every other one you own.”
“Got it.”
Bryce claps me on the back. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
Shawn closes his briefcase. “Now that business is done, I want the grand tour before we eat.”
Bryce gestures toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re crossing the academy grounds.
The afternoon sun hangs high overhead.
Students move between buildings. Livestock is led between arenas. Stalls are being mucked out. Feed and water are being changed. The aroma of slow-roasting hog billows from smokers outside the dining hall.
We guide Shawn through the chaos as he takes it all in. The training barns, the bunkhouses, the classrooms, the fitness center, the indoor arena, and the outdoor practice pens.
“How many students?”
“Twenty-four this session,” Bryce answers. “Six sessions this summer.”
“How many instructors?”
“Depends on the season and the enrollment.”
“How long before you’re in the black?”
“I just inked a sponsorship and endorsement deal with Pbr. Along with projected tuition, lodging, and gear sales, we’re aiming to be profitable in just under thirty-six months.”
Shawn nods. “I like those estimates.”
We stop outside the indoor arena.
Royce is inside, running chute drills with a group of students. He spots us through the open doorway.
“Shawn!” He waves.
Shawn waves back. “They got you here too?”
Royce points to us. “Somebody has to actually work. All those two do is stand around, looking pretty all damn day.”
I flip him off.
He grins and returns his attention back to the gate.
“You’ve built something special here, Bryce,” Shawn says.
He’s right. This academy isn’t just another business built to line one man’s pockets. It’s an opportunity—a place where kids from all over the country can learn, chase dreams, and build futures. It’s something bigger than money. Something bigger than any of us.
Shawn’s eyes begin to scan, and you can almost hear his wheels turning.
“You need marketing.”
Bryce points toward the students. “We’re full.”
“Yeah,” Shawn says. “Today, you are.”
“We have a waiting list a fucking mile long.”
Once Shawn gets an idea in his head, there’s no stopping him.
He turns in a slow circle. “You know what this place needs?”
Bryce sighs. “No.”
“A professional content shoot. Photography. Video. Drone footage.”
Bryce rubs his forehead. “We did all that at the grand opening.”
“Nah, that was just press coverage. Which has its value, but it’s here and gone.”
He points at Bryce. “You’ve got one of the most recognizable bull riders in the world.”
Then he points at me. “You’ve got another one that’s about to blow up.”
He points toward the arena again. “You’ve got Shelby Storm. The three of you together? That’s what people need to see.”
Shawn starts pacing. “Training footage. Interviews. Lifestyle content. Student interaction.” The excitement in his voice keeps building. “We showcase the facilities.” He points at the mountains. “We showcase the location.”
Bryce looks at me.
I look at him.
Honestly? It’s not a bad idea.
The academy is incredible, and people should see it.
“We showcase it everywhere. On screens between events at every rodeo across the country—from Fort Worth to small arenas in every Podunk town. Run commercials during televised Pbr events and cover stories in every Western and rodeo magazine on the shelves.”
“Keep talking,” Bryce says.
“We bring in a professional photographer, a videographer, and a drone crew before the end of the summer.”
Bryce nods.
“And they spend two days creating enough promotional content for the next year.”
I whistle.
Royce appears behind us, having finished his session. He peels off his sweat-soaked T-shirt and pours the contents of a water bottle over his head. “What’s happening?”
Shawn points at him. “Perfect.”
Royce looks confused. “What?”
“You’re in.”
“I’m in what?”
“The promo campaign. Women will see all that”—he waves a hand at Royce’s drenched chest—“and trip over their husbands to get their kids enrolled.”
Royce nods. “The camera and the ladies do love me.”
I laugh.
“You. Axle. Royce. Shelby. Those are the faces of Raintree-Storm,” Shawn declares.
Bryce crosses his arms.
“It’s not the worst idea,” I say.
If a few cameras help more young riders find their way here, then that’s worth standing in front of a lens for a couple of days.
Shawn looks at Bryce. “Can I set it up?”
Bryce nods. “Do it.”