47 - Sophie
47
Sophie
I was a nervous wreck as I walked through the crowd, selling beers. I had never been this invested in the rodeo before, not even when my ex, Trent, was competing. That was because he was a mid-level rodeo competitor, and never really had a chance of stepping onto the podium for any event. Johnny and Eli, however, were among the favorites.
Part of me missed those days when I didn’t care.
The tension in the arena built as the night went on. Everyone seemed to be waiting for Chris Appleton’s ride. The reigning rodeo champion had been disqualified on his last event, Steer Wrestling, and absolutely needed to bounce back tonight if he was going to maintain his status as the face of the Fort Worth Rodeo.
By the time he came flying out of the gate, the air in the arena was electric.
The Bull Riding event was similar to Saddle Bronc Riding, in the sense that participants needed to last at least eight seconds for their scores to count. Then they were evaluated on their performance as a rider, and on how difficult the bull was to ride.
Appleton was immediately sloppy as the bull thrashed back and forth. The crowd let out a collective gasp as he almost lost his seat three seconds into the ride, but he recovered enough to stay in the saddle.
The buzzer sounded at eight seconds, signaling an end to the round. Appleton jumped off the bull and strode away. The camera zoomed in on him, making his face appear on the enormous screen above the arena. I smiled in satisfaction—he was wearing a lot of makeup, but his face was still puffy and lopsided from Sawyer’s punches.
His performance also made me smile. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great—it was somewhere in the middle. Nowhere near the top of the competitors we had seen so far, the best of whom had scored an 83.
But then the scores flashed on the screen.
Rider: 44
Bull: 50
Total: 94
I couldn’t believe my eyes. A score of 94 was exceptional . Appleton’s winning score last year was just 91, and that had been a legitimately masterful riding performance. For him to be awarded a 94 after looking terrible in the saddle…
I felt a pang of sympathy for my cowboy lovers. There was no denying it now. The rodeo was rigged.
The audience reacted with a mix of cheers, groans, and curses. But in the private booth a few sections over, Salmon was standing up and shaking hands with everyone around him. They were laughing and grinning like the rodeo was already over and Appleton had been crowned the victor.
My hand clenched into a fist at my side. Not if my boys have anything to say about it .
Eli was immediately after Appleton. I squinted down at the starting block, studying his face. I wondered if he was going to try his best to win, or if he was going to intentionally lose and take Salmon’s money. As much as I wanted him to kick Appleton’s ass, I didn’t know what I would do if I were in his position.
The buzzer sounded, the gate swung open, and the bull flew into the open arena.
The eight seconds seemed to last eight minutes, every thrash of the bull almost appearing to happen in slow motion. By the end, I had to close my eyes—I couldn’t watch.
When the buzzer sounded, I finally opened my eyes. Eli jumped from the bull, landing on the dirt floor of the arena, and immediately pumped both fists in victory. He opened his mouth and let out a battle cry, but I couldn’t hear it over the cheers of the crowd.
“That was good, right?” I asked the spectator who was jumping up and down to my left.
“Yes ma’am!” he replied, grinning down at the arena. “That’s the winning ride, I tell you h’what.”
He hadn’t lost on purpose. He’d tried his best. Even when tempted with seven figures, Eli was a man of principles. It reinforced everything I believed about that man, and made me grin with pride.
But my smile disappeared when the score was given.
Rider: 47
Bull: 46
Total: 93
“One point!” the spectator next to me groaned. “Unbelievable!”
“No!” I blurted out.
A nervous murmur filled the arena as everyone puzzled over the score. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I wasn’t a rodeo expert, but that performance seemed head-and-shoulders better than Appleton’s just minutes before. And it seemed like everyone in the arena agreed.
Someone to my right stood up and left, shouting, “This is an embarrassment!” as he went. Others nodded their agreement.
At least I knew I wasn’t going crazy. The event was officially rigged.
I turned my gaze down to the starting chute, where Johnny was now mounting the next bull. His face was stoic, his eyes serene. Now that it was glaringly obvious that he couldn’t win, would he intentionally lose and accept Salmon’s money? It was tough to stand up for what was right when things were stacked against you this severely.
“Your final competitor this evening in the Bull Riding event,” the announcer boomed over the loudspeaker. “A four-time participant in the Fort Worth Rodeo, and the winner of the Steer Wrestling event. From Horseshoe Ranch, Colorado… Johnny Armstrong!”
A hopeful cheer swirled throughout the arena, but it was subdued. If Eli’s score wasn’t good enough to beat Appleton…
In the starting chute, Johnny sat tall atop the bull. He gazed down, face obscured by the wide brim of his cowboy hat, but then he gazed up one final time. And like a magnet was pulling his eyes, he immediately found me in the crowd.
It might have been my imagination since I could barely see him from up here in the crowd, but it felt like his face tightened with determination.
The gate flew open.
My breath caught in my throat as the massive bull exploded into the arena, a whirlwind of raw power and fury. But Johnny moved like he was born for this—balanced and unshaken. His free hand sliced through the air with perfect rhythm, his grip locked tight, legs strong but loose enough to roll with the beast’s wild kicks. The crowd was roaring, screaming, but I barely heard it. All I could do was watch, my pulse hammering in time with each brutal twist and lunge on the arena floor.
Johnny wasn’t just riding—he was commanding .
Goosebumps prickled my skin, and the hair on the back of my neck stiffened as I watched what I knew was a once-in-a-lifetime performance.
This was something special .
Eight seconds stretched and snapped like a gunshot. The buzzer wailed just as the bull made one last, desperate leap, but Johnny released at the perfect time, flying off clean and rolling to his feet like it was a well-choreographed dance.
The arena erupted in pandemonium. Hats flew and boots stomped all around me, praise for Johnny’s performance and also somehow a protest of the two scores given before this. I realized I was gripping the railing so hard my knuckles ached.
I wouldn’t celebrate. I couldn’t . Not until I saw what the judges thought.
Johnny mirrored my reaction—he calmly stood to the side, staring up at the screen. Waiting.
At the ringside table across the arena, the two judges had their heads together. One of them was arguing, gesturing wildly, while the other only shrugged.
The crowd hadn’t quieted down—if anything, they grew louder. They thumped, they wept, they began chanting, “Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!” as the judges conferred. I gazed around in amazement. The noise passed beyond excitement into a kind of immense open anguish, a wailing, a cry for justice to be given.
Finally, the judges leaned back in their chairs. One of them gazed up in the crowd, a helpless expression on his face. At first, I took that to mean the other judge had overruled him and was trying to rig the event for Appleton.
Then I realized he was looking at Ted Salmon. The billionaire was pointing with his finger at the judge, saying something nobody could hear, face twisted with rage.
I realized why just as the score appeared.
Rider: 49
Bull: 48
Total: 97
The announcer could barely read the score out loud before the arena erupted in a cacophony of praise. 97 points. The highest of the night. The highest of the whole damn event.
Johnny removed his hat and ran a hand through his sweat-damp blond hair, turning to savor the crowd noise. The second his eyes locked onto mine, I let the beer backpack slip from my shoulders and I circled around the railing, taking the steps two-at-a-time, slipping past the crowd in the lower booths. I didn’t care about the cameras, or the lights, or the announcer calling his name. I reached the ringside railing at the same time as Johnny, throwing my arms around him, and he squeezed me like I was meant to always be in his embrace.
“You did it!” I whispered against his cheek, breathless, trembling.
Johnny grinned, his breath warm against my ear. “I did it for you, Sky Eyes. I did it for you.”