6 - Sophie
6
Sophie
“It is a dumb rule!” Liz exclaimed. “I’ve dated plenty of rodeo guys.”
“And it’s always gone poorly,” I replied.
The two of us were standing at the concession pick-up station to refill our backpacks with cans of beer. During the rodeo, we walked through the stands and sold beer to customers. The tips were always good on opening night, and this was no exception—I had already earned over two hundred bucks, and the ceremony had just begun.
“It doesn’t always go poorly!” Liz argued.
I gave her a look. “Five years ago, before you met Travis, you hooked up with a rodeo guy. And he refused to call you.”
“Because it was just a one-night stand!”
“I remember you crying on my couch after one of those so-called one-night stands ,” I reminded her. “Then the year before, you went on three dates with that one guy from Montana, and tried a long-distance relationship…”
“Before I caught him cheating on me, yes, you don’t have to remind me.” She rolled her eyes. “But all of those were still fun , even though they didn’t go anywhere. You shouldn’t be afraid of trying something just because it might not turn into a serious relationship. And eventually all those mistakes led to Travis! He started off as a one-night stand, too.”
“I like a good fuck as much as the next girl…” I trailed off as the concession guy raised his eyebrows at me. Lowering my voice, I told Liz, “I like a good fuck as much as the next girl, but not with these rodeo guys. They’re all full of themselves.”
“I call that confidence , and I happen to find it very attractive,” Liz replied.
“Thank you for your opinion. But I’m done hooking up with rodeo peacocks.”
With our backpacks restocked with cold beer, we walked back out into the stadium. Dickies Arena was a brand new stadium on the western side of Fort Worth, bigger than the old stadium at the Stockyards but small enough to feel intimate. The atmosphere was electric tonight, with a blend of old-school Texas tradition and modern spectacle. The rich scent of sawdust and livestock mingled with the more pleasant aromas of popcorn, barbecue, and beer. It was filled to capacity tonight, fourteen thousand fans dressed in cowboy hats and boots, their cheers and whistles echoing off the high ceilings as the ceremony began.
The rodeo competitors entered at one end, riding on horseback in a loop around the dirt floor, before exiting back where they had entered. The arena lights cast a golden glow over the floor, illuminating the dust kicked up by the line of horses spaced out to give each competitor a moment in the spotlight as they entered.
“Abraham Jackson,” boomed the announcer’s voice as a rider emerged from the gate at a slow walk, waving his hat for the crowd. The crowd noise rose a degree, but immediately waned as he slowed his horse down and joined the procession circling on the floor.
“Cold beer!” I shouted to the crowd around me. I had been assigned an area down in the lower bowl, where the expensive seats were. “Get your cold beer!”
In the section to my right, a booming laugh cut through the crowd noise. That was Liz’s section, so I glanced in that direction.
And groaned.
The private booth right on the floor was filled with some of the richest people in town, but the booming laugh came from someone every local would recognize. Theodore Salmon, one of the wealthiest men in Fort Worth and the largest donor of the rodeo, was unmistakable in his white suit and white cowboy hat. Despite being in his seventies, his face was smooth and unnatural from years of plastic surgery, making him look halfway like a mannequin. His wife, who was a third his age, was nowhere to be found.
“Get me a margarita, sweetheart,” he said to Liz, handing her what looked like a single dollar bill. “And put some hitch in your giddy-up. I’m thirsty. ”
Liz gave him a smile that was as fake as his face, making eye contact with me long enough to roll her eyes. I turned away to make sure Ted Salmon couldn’t see me chuckling. He was not the kind of man you wanted to make an enemy.
Suddenly, the lights in the arena dimmed and a spotlight swerved back and forth across the floor. The announcer’s voice rose to an excited degree as he exclaimed, “And now! Entering the arena! Your reigning Fort Worth Rodeo champion! From Silver City, Montana… Chris Appleton!”
The spotlight swung over to the entrance in time to catch the man in question gallop onto the stadium floor. Competitors weren’t supposed to ride out that fast, but the fans cheered loudly, some of them jumping to their feet to clap, including one rabid woman to my left who didn’t seem to notice that she had bumped my arm and was shrieking into my ear.
I winced and walked farther down the aisle. I didn’t like Chris Appleton, despite the fact that he had won the rodeo two years in a row. Sure, he was good at what he did… but he seemed fake to me. The jawline, the plastic smile, the dead look in his eyes. It was like he was created in a marketing lab to be the face of the rodeo. An AI impression that fell into the uncanny valley of humans. Liz called him the male equivalent of a bimbo with way too much plastic surgery: he was totally fake, with no substance.
The fans seemed to eat it up, though. And he was skilled when it came to rodeo events.
“BEER GIRL!” a large man down in the front row shouted at me. He pressed two fingers to his mouth and whistled. “BEER GIRL!”
I channeled my best Chris Appleton fake smile and descended to the front row, ignoring the way he stared at my chest even though his wife was sitting right next to him. By the time I had sold him three beers—and earned a twenty dollar tip—several more competitors had entered the arena to various amounts of applause.
But then the announcer said, “Next up, from Horseshoe Ranch, Colorado… Johnny Armstrong!”
My gaze immediately whipped toward the arena floor as Johnny rode into the spotlight. He didn’t gallop or wave his hat or do anything else extravagant; he just entered with a calm confidence. I couldn’t help but compare him to Chris Appleton in my mind, remembering the way he looked this morning on his jog downtown. There was nothing fake about Johnny. He was a real man.
There was a muted cheer from the crowd, but nothing spectacular. I smiled to myself. I was going to tease him about that later.
But Johnny wasn’t done. He stood up in his stirrups, put a hand on the top of his hat, and leaped into the air. I watched in shock and excitement as he completed a perfect backflip, landing softly on the dirt floor of the arena.
The fourteen thousand fans were just as surprised—they were silent for a heartbeat, then erupted in a deafening roar that rivaled even Chris Appleton’s reaction. Johnny jogged forward, smoothly leaping back into the saddle and waving his hat for the crowd.
And as he passed in front of my section, his eyes locked onto me like he knew I would be there. His smile shifted, becoming a little more genuine. I had to admit: my heart sped up as he rode by, body rolling suggestively in the saddle along with his horse’s steps.
Damnit. So much for teasing him tonight.
“…Elijah Hawkshaw!” the announcer said.
Was that the Elijah I had met last night?
Sure enough, there was the goofy boy in the brown cowboy hat, riding into the arena. He stood up in his stirrups like he was going to do a backflip too, bending his knees. A hush came over the crowd as he lunged into the air…
…but one of his feet was caught in the stirrup. He fell sideways off the horse, drawing gasps and cries of surprise from the spectators. But he didn’t hit the ground; his foot remained in the stirrup, swinging him forward, then tossing him into the air. He swung his leg over his horse’s head, landing back in his saddle—facing the wrong direction.
There was a muted laugh and cheer from the crowd, who clearly couldn’t tell if the stunt was intentional or not. Eli waved his hat while riding backwards, pretending like nothing was wrong.
And when he passed my section, just twenty feet away, he gave me a knowing wink before continuing to wave his hat for the crowd.
I narrowed my eyes and smirked. That was the kind of show-off attitude that normally made me roll my eyes, but Eli pulled it off with the right amount of goofy charm. Once again, this was in stark contrast to Chris Appleton’s manufactured personality.
“Two beers, please,” said a nice woman wearing a leather skirt, purple cowboy boots, and a denim jacket.
I handed her the two beers as the next rodeo competitor rode out, his name booming through the arena loudspeakers: “Sawyer Easton.”
I collected the cash from the woman and glanced out at the arena. Yep, it was that Sawyer, decked out in black like the villain from an old Western movie. He rode calmly without fanfare or spectacle, his face completely blank as he circled the arena. The crowd was strangely quiet for him, as if wondering why he wouldn’t at least pretend to be excited to compete in the rodeo like all the other participants.
I remembered what he said last night: I don’t play games. It looked like he was serious about that, and intended to let his rodeo performance speak for itself.
And as he passed in front of my section, his gaze collided with mine. He remained stone-faced for a heartbeat, then continued staring out at the crowd. He practically glared at the fans.
Had he not recognized me? After the reactions from Johnny and Eli, I was disappointed he didn’t at least smile at me. I guess he really didn’t play games.
The most annoying part? I found his uncaring attitude irresistible. Which frustrated me, because I normally wasn’t attracted to the “I don’t give a shit” bad-boy attitude. Yet I couldn’t deny the warmth at the base of my stomach as I watched his broad-shouldered body ride away from me.
Whatever. It wasn’t like I was interested in him, anyway.
“HEY!” someone tapped me roughly on the back of my shoulder. “Are you deaf, lady? I’ve been shouting for a beer for the past minute!”
I gave the asshole customer a fake Chris Appleton smile. “Sorry, I’m all out of beer.”
He frowned and pointed at my backpack. “It looks full to—”
I shoved past him and walked up the stairs, my mind focused on the competitors I had met last night.