Chapter 2
Beaudreau ‘Beau’ Banks
“Man, that bull fucked me up good tonight,” my best friend and fellow competitor, Dalton Culpepper, grumbled as we walked away from the chutes toward the changing rooms. “Wasn’t expecting a wreck, but damn, my thigh hurts like a motherfucker.”
I shook my head, giving him a squeeze on the shoulder. “Quit being such a pussy.”
His bright green eyes lit up like I’d handed him the perfect setup.
“What?”
“Speaking of pussy . . .”
“Don’t you start—”
“Man,” he whined, dragging out the word like a kid denied dessert. “We’re done with the events, we’ve got a four-day turnaround, and we don’t fly out until tomorrow morning. What else are we supposed to do tonight?”
I snorted. “Besides limp back to the hotel and whine about your leg?”
Dalton huffed, but his gaze drifted past me, unfocused for a beat.
“Next weekend’s Idaho and I swear to God Idaho is just… potatoes, tractors, and one guy named Steve who closes the bar at nine.”
I barked out a laugh before I could stop it.
“You’re not wrong, but next weekend is Chicago.”
Dalton blinked, then frowned hard. “No. Chicago’s… later.”
“Tomorrow morning we fly home. Next weekend is Chicago. Then Idaho.”
He stared at me for a second too long, squinting like he could force the schedule to rearrange itself back into something that made sense. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I snapped. “And the fact you have to ask is exactly why I’m telling Dad you need to get checked again. You keep mixing shit up, and it’s getting worse.”
He muttered under his breath, rubbing at his temple like it pissed him off that his own brain wouldn’t cooperate. Dalton might’ve been one hell of a bull rider, but the wear and tear was stacking up in places no one could tape.
“So…home tomorrow. Chicago next weekend. Idaho after.”
“Congratulations,” I deadpanned. “You’re back on planet Earth.”
Dalton shot me a look, half annoyed, half relieved. “Okay, okay. Damn.”
“Now come on,” I said, steering him toward the changing rooms again. “Before you decide we’re supposed to be in Alaska.”
Dalton nodded along and muttered under his breath again.
“I’ll get you some pussy with a buckle bunny in Chicago.”
Dalton flicked his eyes to mine and smiled. “Hell yeah.”
“I wonder if Snuggly is going to come back. I swear to fucking God if I get that bull again, the entire world is against me somehow.”
Dalton laughed, the sound following us down the corridor as we headed for the hotel to grab our bags and start the quick turnaround. The timelines never made sense to anyone who didn’t live it: fly in, ride, get wrecked, fly out, repeat.
It was also why it was nearly impossible to find someone dependable to keep my ranch in Lindley running while I was gone. I had to pay people to feed cattle, check fences, and keep the horses in one piece every time the road swallowed me up.
Bull riding wasn’t my job—it was in my blood. My dad wasn’t my coach; he was my mentor, the one who had shaped me into the rider I was. He’d done the same for Dalton.
This life wasn’t about work. It was a lifestyle. Always on the road, always climbing onto the back of a bull, always risking everything for the adrenaline rush and the promise of a fat paycheck at the end. For me, it wasn’t a choice. It was who I was.
The career had been good to me. I was a two-time bull riding world champion back in my prime, and this weekend marked a milestone—my 1000th qualified ride.
But damn, my body felt every bit of my thirty-five years.
The bumps and bruises I’d collected over the years lingered longer, and there were days I longed for the simplicity of ranch life—just tending to the bulls and horses without the constant grind of the circuit.
Every eight-second ride, every rank bull I’d conquered, every spill I’d taken—it was all part of the legacy I was building. My dad, who was still my coach, couldn’t have been prouder. That pride kept me pushing forward, even when my body begged me to hang up my rope.
It wasn’t about the glory, though. I loved this lifestyle.
The adrenaline of climbing into the bucking chute, the camaraderie of the locker room, and the brotherhood I’d found with the guys on the circuit—it was something you couldn’t replicate anywhere else.
Yeah, I’d be lying if I said the attention from the buckle bunnies didn’t add a little extra fun.
Dalton and I definitely had that in common.
I wasn’t ready to settle down. Not with my dad still cheering me on, not with milestones like this one ahead of me, and not with a career that still lit a fire inside me every time I climbed onto a bull in the chute.
We walked into the hotel, grabbed our bags, and headed back downstairs to meet the rideshare. We weren’t going to the airport tonight but to a different hotel across town, closer to the terminal so we wouldn’t have to fight morning traffic half-asleep.
Neither of us said much as we slid into the car. Dalton shifted in his seat, stretching out his leg while keeping an ice pack pressed against his thigh where the bull had stomped him. He winced occasionally, but stayed quiet, staring out the window at the passing streetlights.
The car smelled faintly of air freshener and leather, and the hum of the tires on the road filled the silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable—it never was with Dalton—but tonight, the quiet felt different. Heavy.
“Yo, Beau.” Dalton interrupted my thoughts as we pulled up to the new hotel.
“What’s up?”
“You ever wonder what life would be like without all this?”
“Without what?” I asked, even though I already knew.
He hesitated, still looking out the window. “The injuries. The traveling. The bulls.”
I blew out a breath, grabbing my bag as the car came to a stop. The driver mumbled a polite “Have a good night” as I tipped him, but I barely heard it. Dalton was already on the sidewalk, his bag slung over one shoulder, waiting for me like always.
“All the damn time.”