2. Hammer
2
HAMMER
DAKOTA
S he’s bold, she’s mean, and she’s got one hell of a scowl.
Did the announcer have to say that? It’s not as if I scowl at everyone. It’s just my face. But heaven forbid women don’t have a smile plastered to their mouths twenty-four seven.
“Remember, darlin’,” my dad mutters, nodding to Hammer, the snarling bull whose name fits him since he’s hammering away in the chute. “You stay loose and—”
“Flow like good tequila. Smooth and steady,” I finish, backing away from the metal rails.
My dad’s been repeating that phrase since I was old enough to string a sentence together, which looking back, isn’t the best thing to say to a two-year-old, but that’s my daddy. Bold as all get out and doesn’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks.
I’m proud that I’m just like Colter Cutler.
He’s not just my father. He’s my best friend.
My dad is one of the most respected bull rider coaches in the state, and no one fucks with my father—just like no one fucks with me.
I eye the brown bull with a determined frown. He’s the meanest bull in this rodeo, and I’d pick him every time. I like the mean ones. They give me a good challenge. And the meaner the bull, the better my score since they’re harder to stay on.
“I know, Pops. I’ll try to stay loose.” I slap his sweaty shoulder. The heat’s oppressive today, and these chaps soak in all the heat. I might as well be swimming in lava.
This one looks like a spinner, so my dad’s right. I need to loosen up, and staying loose is my biggest problem right now. I’ve been wound tighter than a lasso ever since Boone did that interview and shattered my confidence with one sentence. It’s been tough for me to get back out here in the arena, but I’m trying.
Really damn hard.
“Right you are, darlin’.” My dad grunts under his cowboy hat. “Now, look at me and listen up.”
I focus on my dad’s intense stare while he gives me pointers for the ride. We’ve got the same amber eyes, dark waves, and dimples, so he’s always turning the ladies’ heads, even though his brow never un furrows.
Ever since my parents divorced, he’s been strutting about with that same grumpy frown with the same cigar in his mouth, drinking from the same bottle of tequila.
He plucks a cigar from his back pocket. “You got that? Hammer’s a tough one. You watch out now, you hear? Stay relaxed out there. No more locking up.”
I begged him to give up smoking years ago, but he still likes chewing on the tip when he’s worried. His words might be steady, but I can hear the faint undercurrent of stress that always comes out before I ride, and I love that he still cares so much.
“It’s kind of hard to relax on the back of a two-thousand-pound bucking animal, Pops,” I try to tease, but my mom’s sense of humor skipped a generation, so all my jokes fall flat. “I’ll be fine. I got this.”
Fine is a gamble, a flip of a coin. Heads you live. Tails you die. Bull riding… it’s not for the weak.
As I watch the raging bull snorting in the chute, I’m not so sure I got this , but that’s what he needs to hear, and what I need to tell myself. When it comes to bull riding, doubt will get you killed, but for a chronic and cursed overthinker like me, it’s hard not to stress about the risks.
Most bull riders need to have a whatever-happens-happens mentality, but I’m constantly worrying that I could die in a blip without any children, a legacy—a family.
I really want to be a mom one day.
“I’ve got faith in you, darlin’. Always have, always will. That bull’s got the makings of a champion. If you can stay on him, you’ll be up there in the bigger circuits, just you watch.”
I straighten with hope. “You really think so?”
“There’s not a doubt in my mind.”
The big circuits.
The Pbr.
The Professional Bull Riders League.
It’s been my dream since I first watched my dad climb on the back of a bull. All because I wanted to be just like him. I come from a long line of bull riders, so riding isn’t just in my blood, it is my blood, and I’ve poured every ounce of my blood, sweat, and tears into this sport.
My dad grips the chute rails, his eyes darkening with the intense fear for me he tries so hard to hide. “You hang on for them eight seconds, ya hear?”
I gulp down my nerves. “I’ll try, but no one thinks I’ve got what it takes, Pops.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks. I know you’ve got what it takes.” He waves to the rustling crowd of cowboy hats. “All that noise. All those people. Tune ’em out. You’re not a flower that needs to be watered with validation, you’re a cactus, darlin’, prickly enough to thrive in a desert of doubt. ”
I used to have a soft heart, but ever since Boone claimed I’d never make it in this sport, I’ve hardened. I had to, so no other insults would dent my determination. Now, shit just rolls off me.
I’m damned if I care what anyone thinks, so I nod, trying to muster every ounce of confidence I’ve got, but inside, my stomach’s twisted up.Being the only female bull rider in the Lonestar state, I’ve been faking confidence for so long that my whole life feels counterfeit.
Eight seconds.
It sounds like nothing, but on top of a raging beast, it’s an eternity.
I try to smile for him, but I can’t manage one through my nerves. “Thanks for that. I needed to hear it. Love you, Pops.”
“I love you always, but you know that. Now, you ride hard, ride loose, and ride smart. Raise hell, darlin’,” he repeats for good luck, and then kisses my cheek and struts away toward the animal stalls.
We keep it simple before I ride—no need for drawn-out goodbyes.
I climb up onto the chute rails as the flank man adjusts the leather strap around the bull’s middle. “All right, you’re up, Cutler.”
“Remember, not too tight, sugar,” I call out to him, heaving myself over the rails. “We don’t want to hurt the poor beast.”
I don’t want the strap to hurt the bull. It just needs to be tight enough that he wants to buck me off. I respect these animals, and we treat them like kings.
They’re athletes, just like me.
The arena’s alive with cheers, but I push them aside, same as always. Securing my helmet, I lower myself onto the raging bull that could easily end me. One false move, and I’m done for.
Six feet under.
No matter how many times I ride, it never gets easier. The pressure only gets worse because now I know what to expect. I’ve seen videos of broken arms, legs, hell, even deaths in these competitions, but I can’t think about that, or I’ll never compete again.
“Let’s dance, you big ol’ brute,” I mutter to the snarling bull beneath me. “I’m not letting you take this round, hear me? Hammer away.”
He grunts through his nostrils like he understands me, and maybe he does. I’d like to think these animals respect me as much as I respect them. It’s one of the reasons I don’t eat meat. I love all animals.
The gate man unlatches the metal chute, and I tighten my grip, feeling the rope bite into my palm.
“All right,” he says, and I clench my chaps around the bull’s sweaty hide. “Three… Two… One!”
The metal gate shoots open, and we’re off.
Hammer bucks like the devil himself has a hold of his balls, and I’m jerked left, then right, then left again. The behemoth is a whirlwind of muscle, snot, and fury. I’m clinging on, every fiber of my being fighting to stay perched atop this raging beast. I’m in tune with his every move, just me and the animal moving, trying to be one.
It’s horrible.
It’s thrilling.
It’s addictive.
Always addictive. If it weren’t, I’d never ride.
The bull kicks me and kicks me and kicks me around the arena, and in this moment, I’m glad I’m able to tune out the roaring noise of the crowd. Bull riding is one of the only sports where people get a thrill out of watching you fall down, and it fucks with my head—the crowd getting more excited to see me fail than succeed.
I might not be the strongest rider in a sport dominated by men, but I’ve got delusional confidence, and that’s the secret to achieving anything.
Every time I fall down, I get back up.
Every time someone tells me I can’t do this, I give them my most arrogant grin, even if I feel like crying, and I feel like crying a lot—not that I ever cry in front of anyone. People don’t realize how much confidence it takes to be extremely vulnerable in public. It requires a give-no-shits mentality, and I’m still picking up the pieces of my broken confidence.
Hammer gives one particularly nasty jerk, and my grip loosens.
It happens that fast.
“Fuck!” I scream, scrambling to hold the rope. It’s no use—I’ve lost control.
He kicks me off, and I fly through the air, bracing for a rough impact. The ground slams into me, dirt filling my nostrils. Pain shoots up my side, but I barely notice the fire through the adrenaline. I spit and cough to try and clear the dirt.
Fuckfuckfuck.
I roll, narrowly avoiding the bull’s pounding hooves, and scan the chaotic arena for an escape. I need to get away from the charging beast fast before he comes at me.
“Shit!” I scream over the crowd’s excited cheers. They love when the bulls charge, and damn them for finding my failure exciting.
I could die out here.
“Dakota! Watch out!”
That deep voice.
His voice.
For a second, I think I’m imagining it, but when I whip my head around, that’s when I see him, right there in the front stands, looking like he’s about to jump into the arena and save me himself.
My summer boy.
My best friend.
Well, former best friend.
Wyatt fucking Patterson.
His actual middle name is Dale, but I think fucking suits him better now. The last time I saw him, he’d kissed my cheek, told me he’d see me next summer, and then hopped on a plane back to Nashville.
That was the last I heard from him.
I called and texted and FaceTimed and hell, I even sent a handwritten card when I found out he had a kid, but I never once got a response back.
Not one.
I hate how my summer boy left me, but more than that, I hate how much I’ve missed those pasture-green eyes.
His knuckles are clenched tight on the railing, those eyes locked on me. He looks older. Different. He’s still arguably just as cute as the little boy I stargazed with, but his dirty-blond hair is a wild mess around his broad shoulders, and it matches the frantic look in his gaze, like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop while watching me compete.
Staring at him feels like getting rammed by a two-thousand-pound bull, and my focus slips. Hammer lunges and the last thing I see is his snarling face barreling toward me. I jump out of the way as fast as I can, but not before his hard body hits my side.
“Goddammit!”
Shit, that really hurts.
That’ll leave a bruise.
A traitorous tear slips out of the corner of my eye. Then another, and another…
The crowd goes wild.
But I do what I always do.
I shut down those feelings, swipe away the tears, and sprint to the exit with Hammer raging behind me. But all the while, I can feel Wyatt’s gaze branding me.
I’ll never speak a bad word about anyone, but you can bet your ass I’ll never forget the people who did me dirty, and Wyatt Patterson…
He did me so goddamn dirty.