Chapter Two
Ben Down Those Rhodes Before
Colton
May, 2024
Sometimes I wonder what normal would feel like.
I’m not talking about a white picket fence, two-and-a-half kids, climbing the corporate ladder only to retire kind of normal. I shudder at the very notion of stuffing myself into a suit every day of the week like my dad and brothers do; you won’t catch me dead in a corner office. Not even for the promise of no broken bones at the end of a workday or a thousand-dollar orthopedic desk chair to roll around in.
No, I’m talking about my normal.
The one before . The one where I didn’t feel like losing it every time I checked my phone before I remembered that Tripp won’t be calling me anytime soon. The one where every day didn’t feel like its predecessor—dull, lifeless, and numb. The one where I didn’t struggle to hang onto my sobriety because I didn’t want something, anything , to take the edge off the grief.
Sitting in a cold jail cell nearly twelve years ago should have taken care of that once and for all, and it had . Until now. Until feeling like everything is spiraling out of control, like it’s slipping slowly through my fingers. I feel helpless to do more than go through the motions.
I don’t like this new normal. In fact, I’m trying to improve my headspace enough to make it through tonight’s finals unscathed. It might not feel like I have much to live for anymore, but my niece will be in the stands tonight. Jolene has no idea how many times she’s metaphorically saved me in her seven years of life.
I need to pick myself up, shake off the ghosts, and finish giving her this tour of the arena. My whole family, actually—Dad and Hazel, Jordan and Jolene, Graham, and Gran. There’s never been a time in my thirteen years on the circuit where all of them were at one of my rodeos; might as well enjoy it the best I can.
“Daddy, can I ride a fake bull?” Jolene asks Jordan. “I bet I could stay on for more than eight seconds.”
Jordan shoots me a thanks-a-lot look that I only grin at. “Absolutely not.”
“But Daddy .”
“No but Daddy’s about it,” he says, bopping her on the nose with his index finger. He’s done that gesture since the very day she was born, when her nose was no bigger than a tiny button. “Not everyone can be as dumb as your Uncle Coat.” He flashes me a smirk. “No offense.”
“I can’t see why he’d take offense to that,” Graham says dryly.
“You’re right,” I say with a mock solemnity. “Maybe I’ll take a gate to it.”
Giggles bubble out of Jolene, my brothers and my dad roll their eyes, and Hazel hides a soft laugh behind her palm. I swing my niece onto my shoulders, intensifying her laughter as she grasps at my hair for balance, and when I give an exaggerated ow! she laughs harder.
Some of the tension drains from my shoulders.
“Hardy-har,” Graham mumbles in response to my joke.
“Look alive, Grammy,” Jordan says, sweeping a hand to our surroundings. The AT he just points at his eyes and mine in a decidedly supposed-to-be-threatening way before speedwalking off to do God only knows what. Hopefully not bug me until I’m good and ready to be bugged.
Maybe things are looking up.
I spoke too soon.
One look at the gleam in Ben Rhodes’s eyes is all it takes to know I shouldn’t have agreed to this interview. I can’t put my finger on why—I’ve fielded plenty of hungry reporters in the last thirteen years—I just know I don’t want to talk to him.
Unfortunately, Travis already sequestered me to the “studio”, which is really just one of the arena’s many offices. Two chairs face each other, a camera stares me down from a tripod, and Rhodes attached a mic to the collar of my blue chambray shirt. Based on the way he counts down silently on his fingers, I have four seconds to prepare myself.
Three.
Two.
One, and—
“Welcome back to the Rhodes-deo Podcast , where we’re sitting down with some of the biggest names in rodeo before tonight’s Finals,” Rhodes says. He sounds nasally. I don’t know if that or the podcast name would turn me off faster as a potential listener. “Right now, I’ve got the two-time world champ, Colton Del Ray, in the room with me. Colton, can you give us a brief intro?”
I’m almost certain an introduction is unnecessary considering I’m known in this sport like Tom Brady is known in football. “Well, I don’t know what you want me to say. Bulls like to buck me off, but I like besting them. I’ve been pretty successful at those eight seconds in the last thirteen years, yeah?”
Ben laughs, but it doesn’t sound particularly amused. If Travis is listening, he’s swearing at me under his breath, one headphone on his ear and one off.
Who am I kidding? I’d bet a million dollars he’s standing outside the door right now.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” Ben replies. Under his light tone, something hovers ominously. Something I don’t like. He shifts on his red pleather stool. “So, this is your ninth time here in Arlington. If you could give one piece of advice to the first timers, what would you say?”
My shoulders relax marginally. Maybe I’m imagining the glint in Rhodes’s eyes. I shift on my own stool and scratch the back of my neck.
“I guess…” I pause to consider my words. It’s easy to give the generic keep your head on straight or enjoy the ride, pun intended , but I won’t. I know what it’s like to be at the start of this career; I won’t pretend I’ve forgotten now that I’ve reached the metaphorical top. “I guess I’d say that making it is only the starting point—seizing it is the real opportunity. How well can you perform under this much pressure? What are your pre-ride rituals that you need to hold onto, even in the adrenaline of the moment? Is there anything in your head that has the potential to stop you from outperforming your last best ride? Those are the game changing questions for me.”
“And how would you answer that last question?” Rhodes asks. “It’s no secret that you haven’t taken the bulls by their horns, so to speak, since you lost your mentor Tripp Kolter last year.”
There it is—the reason for my apprehension. I made it clear to Travis that the one thing off limits in any interview, live or pre-recorded, audio or television, was Tripp’s accident and ongoing hospitalization. Drill me for a failed ride or drag my name through the mud for some crime I didn’t commit for all I care, but don’t bring Tripp up.
I hate that it makes me question my longtime manager’s loyalty.
Curbing my irritation behind a neutral expression, I shake my head. “Sorry, but I’m not going to discuss that.”
I haven’t lost Tripp yet, but it’s not even worth correcting him.
“Oh?” Two perfectly shaped brows lift. “Why not? We were under the impression you’d want to. You know, talk is therapy.”
I’m beginning to wish I’d trusted my gut about this guy. It’s becoming clear he’s more interested in clickbait to draw listeners than genuine conversations with bull riders. The exact kind of reporter I’ve always avoided.
“That may be true,” I concede through gritted teeth, “but I’ll just have to deal with the trauma.”
“So, it’s not true that Kolter was drinking at the time of his accident? It’s no secret that you’re among the very few to be sober in the world of rodeo.” Rhodes’s eyes gleam wolfishly. “That has to be hard on you.”
I’m not a violent person by nature, despite my delight in riding the nastiest bulls, but that comment breaks something inside of me. Maybe it’s irritation, maybe it’s anger, or maybe it’s the razor-sharp sting of grief. Maybe it’s a combination of all three, bubbling to the surface after months of shove, shove, shoving them deeper down.
I snap.
I stalk up to Rhodes and take him by the lapels of his starched white shirt, my words low when I say, “Don’t bring his name up again. Are we clear? I will not discuss it, and if you try to push me, you won’t have a podcast anymore.” I shake him firmly by the shoulders, because despite it all, he still wears an infuriating smirk on his face. He knows alcohol wasn’t involved. Anger sears through my veins. “Do I make myself clear?”
It’s not until Travis bursts into the room, followed only seconds later by two uniformed police officers, that I remember this is all being broadcast live.