Chapter 8
Hadley
“Un-fuckin’-believable.” I rip my hat from my head. It hits the rail and falls into the dirt. How the hell do I end up on a shit bull, a left spinner, on the one night the scouts are back?
I literally can’t catch a break.
“Dammit!”
A throat clears behind me. A soft, elegant sound that doesn’t belong back here in the dirt, shit, and chaos. I spin back to find Maggie, camera in hand.
“I said no photos,” I snap.
She takes a step forward. “Well, actually. I thought about that. In light of the scouts being here, maybe you should?”
She looks . . . genuinely concerned?
“What do you mean?”
“Knox was saying—”
“Yeah, that’s all I need to know. So, no thanks.”
I turn back to the rail to restart my wrist. Looks like I’ll be needing all the reinforcement I can get.
“Hadley. How are you going to make it onto a team if nobody knows you’re here? You need to remind them.”
I let my arms hang by my side and turn back to her. “What are you talking about?”
“Knox”—she holds up a hand, insisting I hear her out—“said the more coverage you have, the bigger the sponsors.”
“I don’t have sponsors.”
She tilts her head, pinching the bridge of her nose as she closes her eyes like she’s trying to explain the meaning of life to a toddler.
“No, but the more you are photographed, the more exposure, the more on the radar you are. You getting it?”
She’s trying to help me?
“I get it.” It’s a deadpan response. “Why would you want to help me?” I rest my hands on my hips, dipping my head so our eyes meet.
“I—I . . . To repay you for stopping for me?”
“You don’t sound real sure.”
She sighs. “Forget it.”
As she turns to walk away, I snap out a hand and grab her wrist. Her tiny fucking wrist with skin so soft, hand so fine, I feel like my grip might snap her. Something like a buzzing current travels through my hand when my touch meets her skin.
I drop it and she cradles her wrist to her chest. Shit, did I actually hurt her?
“I could use your help,” I grind out.
She frowns, shifting on her feet. “I don’t understand.”
“Sorry, I thought you were offering.”
“No, I am. I’ll help you, but what I can’t piece together is why Kade made the cut and you didn’t.”
I scoff a laugh. “One of life’s great mysteries. How that guy gets anything.”
“At least we agree on something.” A soft chuckle escapes her lips. The arena light catches her wavy brown hair, lightening it to a golden hue as she looks around.
I clear my throat, shifting on my feet as I fold my arms to tamp down the sudden thrum running through my body at the sight of her under the lights tonight.
She barely tolerates me. I barely let her in my space . . .
Nothing could ever—
“So, who’d you draw?” She chews her bottom lip, and Christ . . . that does something to me it really shouldn’t.
I snap my attention to the chutes like they’re the most interesting fucking thing in sight.
An ungodly untruth if I ever heard one.
“Little Fizzer.” The words are as pained as I feel. Just my luck to draw the weakest bull of the night. A left spinner, no less. I guess getting a weak opposite is better than a hell bringer with an opposite. How am I supposed to showcase my skill on a lame-ass bull? Tonight, of all nights.
“Can you redraw?” she asks.
“Yeah, doubt it. After the stunt Knox pulled to swap out.”
“Hang on, why does he get to change, and you don’t?”
“He’s on a team. They have preference if their management steps in.”
“Oh, that’s utter shit.” She looks annoyed.
I chuckle. “I’ll live.”
Unease coils in my gut.
By next year, it probably won’t matter. The ranch will be repossessed by midsummer at this rate. The thought turns my mood sour.
“Okay, well, I’ll make sure to shoot you good, okay? Maybe it’ll help.” She smiles.
Now that coiling feeling unfurls and slips. Shit. I grind my molars against the sensation.
“You know what, don’t bother. I’d rather not be a charity case.”
Her frown tugs as fast as the annoyed look graces her face.
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head as she turns on her heel.
I can only stare at her back, the way her hair swings over it.
Those hips swaying as she walks away from me, heading to the first chute to where Levi stands, clipboard in hand.
I don’t need charity, I need a goddamn paycheck.
Diluting my focus is the fastest way to shoot myself in the foot.
The sounds of hooves thudding over dirt snaps my attention back to reality. I readjust my hat on my head and remind myself why the hell I’m here.
To make the eight.
To earn weekend money.
To save our ranch . . .
“Alright, ladies and gents. The event we’ve all been waiting for .
. .” The announcer draws out every word, the same way he always does.
The crowd settles, the air turning dense with tension.
“. . . Tonight’s lineup of cowboys will not only see you entertained, but the bulls—the real stars of tonight’s show—will leave you breathless. ”
Yada yada yada.
Hell, he sure knows how to pour it on thick.
Not like we can all hear him, pacing behind the chutes like we signed up for a round of Russian fucking Roulette.
Only an idiot would not be scared to get up on a bull.
The hideous shiver sliding through your limbs the second before the chute gate pulls, that’s how you know you’re still sane in a sport that mangles men for fun.
I filter out his extravagant syllable thrashing and take to stretching on the rails.
Calves. Hammies. Squats and lunges. Anything to loosen my body, ready it to be tossed around like a weightless rag doll for eight seconds.
Spencer, Brady, and Knox are finishing up their own warm-ups.
Brades makes for the first chute where his ride paws restlessly at the dirt.
Cowboys set gear up, double- and triple-checking every piece of equipment before riders go anywhere near the chutes. Knox saunters to his, laughing and chatting with the chute cowboys as he pulls his helmet from his head and runs a hand through his pitch-black hair.
God knows what the fucker finds so damn funny.
Probably a coping mechanism. The rest of us turn introspective in the moments leading up to a ride. Not Knox, he’s all obnoxious confidence and arrogant taunts to the rest of us. Never the chute guys. He has them eating out of his palm.
A slap hits my shoulder. “Ready for this, Jones?”
Levi stops beside me.
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Remember, he favors the left, so use it to your advantage if you can.” He mimics a left turn, right hand down, left up. It looks as inside out as I’m betting it’s going to feel. Damn backward shit.
Fucking Knox.
As Levi nods with a smile and leaves me, making a beeline for Maggie, I drag my gaze from their happy interaction as I send my body in a spin to the left. Practice makes perfect, or some shit. It all feels wrong. Wrong hand on the wrong side.
I get the tap to climb the rails sooner than I’m ready as Levi double-checks his paperwork and gives me a stern nod. His version of you got this.
I’m literally winging this one.
I mount the rail, giving the bull a once-over. Something floral moves up the rail beside me.
“I said no, Gallagher.”
“I’m not here for you, Jones.” Not bothering to look at me, she leans in and shoots the bull. Jumping down, she moves to the head of the chute and takes a shot of the bull’s head, maybe its face, so close it must include the rails.
“What a ride!” the announcer drawls. “Next up, a longtime favorite, Hadley Jones. Give it up for this bull rider, folks. He’s been rodeoing for years.
His commitment and talent has brought us many a thrilling moment.
Time to hold our breaths again as our cowboy drops onto Little Fizzer.
” I do just that as he continues. “Don’t be mistaken by the cute name, ladies and gentlemen, this one has a kick. ”
Great. Kick and left-handed.
Fuck my luck.
I strap down, rubbing my hand on the rope until the resin is tacky. Double-checking my helmet is secure, I steady my breathing.
Something green and brown catches my attention from beyond the rails.
Maggie stands a few feet behind the chute, bottom lip tugged between her teeth, a hand gripping the strap of her camera, the other pressing to her head above her forehead.
I look down at my hand in the rope, curling my fingers over it before thudding it closed with my free hand. When I look back up, she’s gone.
I swallow past the stone that formed with her looking like that. Looking at me like that.
Nope.
In the zone, Hadley.
I can’t afford to think of anything else but spur, round, and up . . . spur, round, and up.
It takes a few seconds of closing my eyes to block out the noise, the smell, and the sights threatening to overwhelm me even before the chute pulls.
Brief sensations of being crushed, lances of agony slipping through my neck and chest, sweep my body.
I shudder and shake my head, gritting my teeth.
Channeling the revenge anger that’s gotten me through the last two years of tough moments, I shift my seat on the bull and nod to the gate cowboy.
The gate flies open.
Little Fizzer bolts from the tight space and flings left.
Hand high in the air, I spur his flank on the left, hoping to send him right. He buries his head, tossing me off my seat as he kicks out high.
I crash back down. The force jolts all the way up my spine, sending tingles in places they shouldn’t go.
Grunting, I bear down and send him forward, spurring him on, left leg.
He tosses to the right.
It’s all I can do to hold the fuck on and lean back, praying I make the eight.
The crowd spins as Fizzer takes up a pattern on my weaker side. My body starts sliding to the right, spinning me out like yesterday’s laundry.
The clock over the chutes comes and goes in a red blur.
Still not eight.
I lean forward and press in with my left leg, hauling my weight across.
Fizzer is too quick. My seat leaves the beast’s back as the buzzer sounds, and I’m off over his shoulder. My ass slams into the dirt, spittle and froth hitting my face.
Fuck.
Hot snorting breath hits my back.
FUCK.
I’m practically under the fucker.
I crawl away, scrambling to my feet, stumbling before sprinting for the rail. Climbing it, I dare a glance back. He’s right on me, his horn brushing past my thigh as he rushes past. Logan and his posse are goading him, coaxing him away from the rail and toward the return gate.
I hang my head.
“What a ride! Folks, this cowboy is well on his way to a solid comeback.” The announcer waves his hand toward the score screen.
The clock made eight.
Hell yes!
The score shows an 83.5.
With a whoop, I toss my hat off and into the air.
It’s not the greatest score, nowhere near my best. But damn, considering the draw I was dealt . . . not too bad.
The crowd cheers and I stand tall on the second to last rung, waving with both arms. The beat of a country song has them all standing in the stands. They clap their hands to the beat as I climb back down the rail.
It’s then I see Maggie, camera held up.
Pointing right at me.
She lowers it, her face alive with a pretty smile that drops like a stone in stagnant water when our gazes meet.
“Jonesy, you good?” A hand slaps my back.
Logan runs past.
“Yeah, bud.” I climb through the rails and walk past the crowd, heading for Maggie.
She sets her shoulders as I approach.
I huff an annoyed sound. “Ain’t real good at listenin’, are you?”
“About as good as you, I reckon.”
She nods to Knox talking to sponsors. He’s up last, since he currently holds the most points.
I tug my helmet off and shake out my hair. “I told you I don’t want your charity.”
“Ever thought maybe it’s a need more than a want?” She gives me an exasperated look and walks away.
This woman is always walking away from me, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
Next question—why do I care?