30. Colt
Chapter 30
Colt
The crowd’s going crazy tonight. The city’s gone all out, fireworks booming in the sky, lighting up the arena in a kaleidoscope of colors. There isn’t a single spare inch in the stands. Everyone’s getting hungrier the closer we get to the finals.
The finals.
In all my years riding, it’s the first time that word hasn’t made my pulse spike for the right reasons. Used to be the only thing I cared about points, rank, that gold buckle at the end. Winning was simple. Predictable. The one constant in a life full of chaos.
Things are different now.
Now, all I can think about is Callie. About the countdown I’m on that has nothing to do with standings and everything to do with the day she packs up and leaves.
She told us from the start just the season, then she’s gone. And the closer we get to the end, the more impossible that feels.
The only win that matters now is finding a way to make her stay.
I’ve already had my ride tonight. Scored decent. Enough to hold my position, maybe inch a little closer to the top. Normally, I’d be coming down off the high right now, back in the locker room, icing whatever’s bruised and watching the rest of the event from a screen.
Tonight, I’m back here, tucked into a shadowed corner near the bucking chutes, watching from behind the chaos as Maverick gets ready. The space is a mess of nerves and movement—riders pacing, bullfighters shouting instructions, the low, restless snorts of the animals as they’re loaded into place.
Callie… well, she’s not here.
Said she wanted to visit a horse out at the stables. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. I know what this place brings up for her. What it cost her.
She never talks about it directly, but I see it in her eyes every time the gate opens how her whole body tenses like she’s bracing for impact. I know watching us ride isn’t easy.
Lately, I’ve started wondering if there’s more to it.
Not just fear. Not just grief.
Something deeper. Something she doesn’t want to say out loud.
I didn’t press. Not yet, but I will.
I don’t watch rides from this close. The sounds, the smells. It winds you up again, but I couldn’t resist coming to see him.
But fuck, I wasn’t prepared for how good he’d look.
He’s tall, at least five inches taller than anyone else standing here. He’s wearing a light blue button-up, the sleeves rolled up just enough to show the lean strength in his forearms. His leather vest covers the protective gear we all wear. Chaps lined with fringe fall over his jeans, swaying slightly with each step.
I don’t know when I stopped looking at him with hate and started noticing all the rest—the creases by his eyes, the way his brows knit together as he takes slow, calming breaths. His fingers flex, already running through a dozen scenarios in his head. He’s always been one step ahead of me, my rival, the one I had to beat.
For once, I don’t hate it.
For the first time, I want him to ride the full eight.
The announcer’s working the crowd into a frenzy. A bullfighter taps Maverick on the shoulder. It’s his turn. He hasn’t seen me, and I want to keep it that way. I don’t want to be the reason he loses focus.
Bull riders are creatures of habit. We all have our rituals, our superstitions.
I know the bull he drew. Carnage. He’s one of the wildest in the circuit, famous for throwing riders within the first two seconds and then trying to stomp them into the dirt. That’s what makes it so valuable. The more dangerous the bull, the higher the score. Drawing this beast is the best thing that could’ve happened to Maverick—if he can hold on.
While the other riders look anxious, Maverick moves like he’s in complete control. Calm. Focused. Like he’s mounting an old horse, not straddling a grenade.
He nods along to whatever the bullfighter is saying, listening closely. They run this part of the show. We just ride the eight.
One grabs Maverick by the vest and helps lower him into the chute.
The bull reacts instantly, thrashing hard. The wrangler yanks Maverick out just before he’s crushed against the metal. Most people think the danger’s out in the arena. They’re wrong. The chute is just as dangerous. You’re trapped with the beast, relying entirely on the men around you to get you out in one piece.
A lot of riders would bow out right now. Bulls this wound up aren’t worth the risk. That’s why those riders aren’t ranked like Maverick is.
It’s fear that ruins a rider. This sport demands recklessness.
Maverick knows that. He waits for the bull to settle, then gives a nod. He’s ready.
I hold my breath as they lower him in again. This time, the bull doesn’t fight, just stomps and huffs like usual.
I’ve ridden some of the nastiest bulls on the circuit, taken hits that rattled my bones, earned hospital stays that blurred into each other, but I’ve never felt like this.
It’s a tight, coiling pressure in my chest that won’t let go. My boots are planted, but everything inside me feels unsteady.
Maverick’s lowered into the chute, calm as ever, running his palm over the rope to heat the resin, working with the same steady focus he always does. It should settle me, seeing him in control. Seeing him do what he’s trained his whole life to do.
It doesn’t.
I know what this bull is capable of, and for some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off.
That light relief I felt earlier? Gone, replaced by a sharp, gnawing edge of anticipation that’s more dread than excitement.
The next eight seconds are going to feel like hell.
It’s only because I’m watching so closely that I notice it.
The rope.
The one thing anchoring Maverick to the bull—the thing that keeps us from flying—is frayed, right beneath where his boot presses down.
Terror slams into me like a freight train.
I’m moving before I can think, feet pounding across the dirt, lungs burning.
No one else has noticed. Not yet.
The only reason bull riding feels even remotely safe is because we know what we’re getting into. Every risk is calculated. Controlled. Maverick is about to step into that chute with a rope that’s about to give and has no idea what’s coming for him.
My throat burns as I scream, yelling at them to stop, to close the gate, to check the rope, but the roar of the crowd swallows it whole.
One of the bullfighters steps in front of me, probably thinking I’ve lost it. I dodge him. I won’t let anything stop me. Not now.
This fear isn’t like what I feel when I ride. This is different. This is cold. Crippling. It sinks into my bones.
I plant my feet and grab Maverick by the vest, hauling him backward just as the chute door groans open. We crash hard, my back slamming against the dirt with him on top of me. My lungs seize, gasping for air.
I don’t even realize I’m still clinging to him, arms locked around his middle, pulling him tighter just to make sure he’s real. He’s safe.
The arena explodes into chaos.
No one knows what just happened.
Maverick doesn’t try to get up. Somehow, he knows I’m not ready to let him go. A wrangler’s yelling above us, but I can’t make out a word. My ears are ringing. My mind’s gone blank. I just need another second.
Need to feel his heartbeat under my palm.
Then I’ll deal with the consequences.
The boss steps into view, the man who runs this whole show. Thirty years in the game, and everyone listens when he talks. He surveys the scene with quiet authority.
Before Maverick can move, the boss reaches down and grabs the rope still dangling from his hand.
The frayed edge swings in the air.
A quiet, horrible beat of silence.
The wrangler who’d just been yelling at me stumbles back a step, ghost-white. It had been his team’s job to check that gear. He starts apologizing, stammering to Maverick, face stricken.
I want to yell at him. Want to scream that he should be apologizing to me. That idiot nearly cost me everything. I can feel the fury building, swelling inside me, threatening to boil over.
Better the rage than everything else.
Because the alternative is kissing Maverick right here in front of everyone.
The boss helps Maverick to his feet, then reaches a hand down to me.
I take it, trying not to wince as he squeezes. I’m a big man, but this guy might as well be a bear the way his hand dwarfs mine. He lets it go and slaps me on the back. “Damn fine job you did there. Risky, but damn fine job.”
I didn’t even think about the risk.
Running into a loaded chute, grabbing a rider mid-mount, risking being thrown off balanced into the dirt, crushed or tossed or trampled. None of it registered. All I’d been able to think about was getting Maverick the hell out of there.
A shaky laugh bubbles up in my chest, the adrenaline still roaring through my bloodstream. I can’t believe I actually pulled it off.
Maverick’s not smiling. He’s not grateful. Not relieved. He’s glaring at me.
His eyes are wild, jaw tight, and some emotion I can’t name is flickering just beneath the surface.
He grabs my arm and drags me out of the arena, through a hall, slamming the door of a vacant room behind us.
His breaths are ragged, eyes wide. You’d never know by the way he was looking at me that I just saved his ass.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” he snarls, shaking me so hard my teeth rattle. He doesn’t even give me time to respond before he does it again. “You could’ve fucking gotten hurt.”
“Me?” I snap, grabbing his forearms. “What about you?”
I try to push him off, but he doesn’t budge. My fingers tighten, and I realize he’s shaking, full-body trembles rolling through him.
He doesn’t stop searching me until he’s satisfied I’m okay.
“You could’ve gotten hurt.” His voice cracks, shattered and raw like the words tear straight out of him.
My words are choked off as my ribs constrict, thoughts thrashing around my brain uncontrollably. I’ve never heard him sound like that—I never want to hear it again.
I grab his collar, yanking him forward and crashing my mouth against his.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not tentative.
It’s heat and panic and every raw, unspoken thing that’s been building between us since the second we stopped pretending to hate each other.
Maverick freezes just for a beat. Long enough for my stomach to bottom out, for that flash of terror to grip me.
Then he exhales into me.
And kisses me back like it’s the only way to survive.
His hands fist in my shirt, dragging me closer until there’s no space left between us. Until the tension, the adrenaline, the fear, it all combusts into something feral. Our teeth clash. My fingers twist in his hair. I want to feel every part of him, want to mark him, want to brand this moment into something permanent.
Because I almost lost him.
Because I didn’t even realize how badly I wanted him until the thought of him dying nearly tore me in half.
Maverick growls low in his throat, one hand sliding around the back of my neck, the other gripping my waist like he doesn’t trust the ground not to disappear under us. His kiss is all fire and frustration, all unspoken confessions he hasn’t figured out how to say.
I kiss him like I mean it.
His mouth opens under mine, lips slick and demanding. I lose myself in it in him until I’m drunk on the taste of him, on the sound of his breath hitching against my jaw.
When we finally break apart, it’s not because we want to.
It’s because we have to.
We stand there, chests heaving, foreheads pressed together like the only thing holding us upright is each other.
His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“You scared me first,” I whisper back.
He swallows hard, like there’s too much he wants to say, but before he can, there’s a sharp knock on the door, followed by a shout.
“They’re asking for you, Kane. You good?”
Maverick doesn’t answer. He just steps back, still holding my gaze like he doesn’t trust himself to turn away.
I nod. “Go do your job.”
He hesitates, then presses his forehead to mine again for the briefest second before pulling away.
“I’ll come find you after,” he murmurs, voice still rough, still wrecked.
Then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and I’m left standing in the quiet, breathless and shaking, knowing nothing between us will ever be the same again.
I’m not breathing right.
Not because I’m out of air, but because I don’t know how to take in anything that doesn’t taste like him.
My lips still tingle. My chest is still cracked open. I feel exposed and full and hollow all at once.
And for the first time in my life, I think I get it—what people mean when they talk about being undone by someone.
A soft knock pulls me back to earth, and then the door eases open.
Callie steps inside, her eyes landing on me immediately.
She takes one look at me, hand still covering my mouth, hair a mess, probably looking like I’ve just been run over by an emotional eighteen-wheeler, and her expression softens.
She doesn’t ask what happened.
She doesn’t need to.
She just closes the door behind her and walks straight to me, arms wrapping around my middle like she’s done it a thousand times. Like this is where she belongs.
I sink into her without hesitation.
“Hey,” she murmurs into my chest, her cheek resting over my heart.
“Hey.” My voice is rougher than it should be, but she doesn’t flinch.
Her fingers trace soothing lines up my spine, grounding me. And when I tilt my head to rest against hers, she shifts just enough to press a kiss beneath my jaw. Gentle. Familiar. Hers.
“Luke told me what happened,” she says softly, no accusation in her voice, just concern. “Said you went tearing across the arena like your life depended on it.”
I nod, but it’s shaky. “It felt like it did.”
She pulls back just far enough to look at me, hands sliding up to cradle my face. Her thumbs brush along my cheekbones, eyes scanning mine like she’s checking for damage.
“He said you got there just in time,” she murmurs, voice almost reverent. “That you hauled Maverick out like a man possessed.”
“I was,” I admit. “That rope was frayed. If they’d let him out?—”
Her eyes widen slightly, understanding dawning in the way her hands still against my skin.
“Oh,” she whispers.
“Yeah.”
We fall quiet, the weight of what could’ve happened still thick in the air.
I lower my hand from my mouth, finally, and her gaze follows the movement. Her brows tug slightly, curious.
“You okay?” she asks again, more pointed this time.
Instead of answering, I lean in and kiss her slowly, grounding, nothing like the desperation I had with Maverick. This one is all comfort. All warmth. All the ways I love her that I still don’t know how to say.
She melts into it, arms tightening around me, her fingers finding the back of my neck and anchoring me there. When we finally break apart, she rests her forehead against mine.
“You’re kind of a mess right now,” she says with a little smile.
“Yeah, well,” I mutter. “You try saving a guy’s life, kissing him breathless, and then immediately getting wrapped up by a girl who smells like heaven, and see how you do.”