Chapter 58
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Ace
The bull's name is Hellbent. Nineteen hundred pounds. Nasty and unridden in his last six outs. The kind of bull that doesn't just want you off his back. He wants you in the dirt, and then he wants to come back and make sure you stay there.
I lower myself onto him in the chute. Feel the heat of his body through my jeans. Feel the coiled fury in every muscle underneath me, the rage waiting for the gate to open. He slams against the chute panel, and I adjust my grip, work the rosin into the rope, pull it tight.
The crowd noise drops to a hum. And I slip into my tunnel vision. Just me and the bull and the rope and the eight seconds between where I am and where I need to be.
I think about Harper. The way she said I can't wait to watch my man win his world title back.
I nod.
The gate flies open.
Hellbent detonates out of the chute with a twisting lunge that snaps my head back.
He drops into a vicious left spin, kicks high, and reverses so fast the g-force pulls at my shoulder socket.
I lock my hips. Free arm high. Absorbing every impact through my core the way Dad taught me, the way Paulie refined, the way a thousand hours in the barn gym built into muscle memory so deep it fires without thought.
Two seconds. Three. He bucks vertically, and I feel daylight under me for a split second before slamming back into the seat.
The crowd is roaring, but it's distant, muffled, happening in a world I'm not part of right now.
I'm in the space between heartbeats. The place where time stretches, and everything is instinct.
Four seconds. Five. Hellbent throws everything he has.
A full-body convulsion that would launch a lesser rider into the dirt.
I hold. My legs burn. My shoulder screams. My free arm is high and steady, and I'm riding this animal with everything I've ever been and everything I've ever lost and everything I'm fighting to keep.
Six. Seven.
One more second. One more.
The buzzer sounds.
I let go. Hellbent bucks me forward, and I hit the dirt rolling, come up on my feet, and sprint for the fence. He wheels behind me, but the bullfighters are already on it, drawing him away. I clear the rail in one motion and land on the other side with my chest heaving and my blood roaring.
The scoreboard lights up.
94.5.
The arena erupts. Ninety-four-point-five. The highest score of the season. The highest score in a championship final in eleven years.
I did it.
I rip my helmet off, and the sound of the crowd hits me unfiltered, a wall of noise so loud it vibrates in my sternum.
People are on their feet. The announcer is screaming something about history and Sterling and a new world champion, and I can barely process the words because my body is shaking with adrenaline and my eyes are blurring, and somewhere in the chaos behind the chutes, I can hear Jett losing his mind.
The only person I want to run to to celebrate ain’t here.
He reaches me first. Launches himself over the rail and grabs me in a hug so violent we both nearly go down.
"You crazy son of a bitch!" He's screaming directly into my ear. "Ninety-four-point-five! That's a fucking record, Ace! A RECORD!"
I'm laughing. I don't know when I started, but I can't stop.
Jett is shaking me and yelling, and the crowd is still on its feet, and then Colten is there.
Climbing the fence with a look on his face I've only seen twice in my life.
Once, when his first horse was born. Once, when Dad told him he was proud of him, the week before he died.
He pulls me into a hug and puts his hand on the back of my head and holds me there.
"Dad would be so proud of you, Ace," he says, right against my ear, low enough that only I hear it above the noise. "So goddamn proud. We all are."
My throat locks. I grip the back of his shirt and hold on. For a second, I'm not a world champion. I'm just a little brother being told his father would be proud, and that's worth more than every buckle and every title and every score on every board in every arena I'll ever ride in.
Hunter appears at the fence. He doesn't climb over. He leans on the rail, arms crossed. But he's smiling. An actual, full, real Hunter Sterling smile.
"Not bad," he says.
I laugh. Wipe my eyes with the back of my glove. "Not bad? That's all I get?"
"What do you want, a parade?"
"A parade would be nice, yeah."
Wyatt is barrelling into my legs. “That was so cool, Uncle Ace!!” he cheers.
I ruffle his hair. “I’ll teach you soon, boy. Don’t worry,” I tell him, looking directly at Hunter.
He shakes his head. But the smile doesn't fade. And when I walk over and lean on the rail beside him, he puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes.
"You did it, kid," Hunter murmurs.
Jett is already FaceTiming someone, probably either Violet or Tate, holding the phone up so the arena is in the background, narrating the whole thing at full volume. Colten is standing with his arms crossed, watching me with that quiet pride.
These men. My blood. My brothers. The people who held this family together when it should have shattered, who buried a father, built an empire, and raised each other into something the world either respects or fears.
I'd ride a hundred bulls for them. I'd ride a thousand.
* * *
I shake hands. Pose for photos. Accept congratulations from riders and sponsors and people whose names I won't remember tomorrow. Jett handles the media overflow with a grin so wide it could sell toothpaste. Colten stands by the door and makes sure nobody gets too close.
Hunter pulls me aside as the crowd thins. "Good interview."
"You think the message landed?"
I dedicated my championship to Paulie, and I left a direct threat for those who did it.
"I think anyone with half a brain knows what you just said." He adjusts his hat. "Go celebrate. You earned it."
I should. I should stay and drink, let Jett drag me to some bar, toast with the boys, and soak in a night that most riders dream about their entire careers.
But something is pulling at me. A thread in my chest that's been tight since Harper's mom answered the phone with that careful voice.
"I gotta go home," I say.
Hunter looks at me and reads whatever's on my face.
"Something's off, Hunter. I don't know what. But I can feel it."
He nods and doesn't question it. "Go."
I grab my bag. Clap Jett on the shoulder mid-sentence. "I gotta run."
"Run? We just won a world championship! You're not going anywhere, we're getting drunk and making bad decisions."
"Jett, I need to get to Harper."
Something in my voice makes him stop. The celebration drains from his face, and what replaces it is the version of Jett that doesn't joke.
"Go," he says. "I'll cover for you here."
Colten's already got my truck keys in his hand, holding them out before I ask. "She's lucky to have you," he says.
"Other way around."
I take the keys. Walk through the parking lot. I’m still buzzing with adrenaline, still carrying the noise of a crowd that watched me become world champion twenty minutes ago.
I don't feel like a champion. I feel like a man whose gut is telling him to get home.
I start the truck. Pull out. Hit the highway.
My phone is in the cup holder. Harper's name on the screen. I dial her number one more time.
It rings. And rings. And rings.
Voicemail.
I press the gas harder. The highway opens up ahead, and I drive toward Harper the way I've always driven toward Harper. Like she's the only direction that matters. Like the road doesn't exist unless it leads to her.
Something is wrong. I don't know what. I can't name it. Can't point to it. Can't pin it to a fact or a phone call or a word someone said.
It’s the fact that she won’t speak to me. That’s what’s getting to me. She’s hiding something.
I know it the way I know when a bull is about to turn. The way I know when a storm is coming before the sky changes. The way I knew the first time, that she was leaving before she said a word.
I drive faster.