Chapter 3 #2
When I was sure everything was set, I paused, glancing toward the backstage area. I thought about heading back to wish Mike luck, but the idea left a sour taste in my mouth. He didn’t need me hovering around, and honestly? I didn’t need to be there, either.
Fuck it.
I headed to the concession stand and grabbed a beer. It was sealed, which meant I didn’t have to worry about germs on the rim. Small victories. Twisting it open, I took a sip and let the cool bitterness settle me as I made my way back to the stands where Harleigh was waiting.
The doors opened, and the crowd spilled in.
People were everywhere, their energy contagious.
I stood there, watching as they flocked to the Bucking Energy stands, grabbing cans and popping them open without hesitation.
The sound of the tabs cracking, the flashes of our logo everywhere—it was everything I had envisioned.
We were by the announcer stand again, and John was grinning. He was watching the scene with an almost stunned expression, his eyes scanning the crowd. When he saw me, he gave a quick wink and a satisfied nod.
Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was seeing my work come to life, but something shifted in me.
Pride swelled in my chest, something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
I took another sip, savoring the moment, and slowly unzipped my jacket.
The bold Cowboy Pillows lettering on my top peeked through, and for once, I didn’t care how ridiculous it might look.
I was here. Out of my house. Out of my comfort zone.
Harleigh turned to me, her eyes narrowing like she could read my mind. “Well, look at you.”
“Look at me,” I said back, a little surprised by my own confidence.
The crowd buzzed around us, the smell of dirt and BBQ hanging in the air, the sound of cans opening echoing everywhere. My work, my night, my moment.
For once, I wasn’t hiding in the background, surviving the day. I was here, and for the first time in a long time, I was living.
The arena buzzed with energy as the lights dimmed, drawing the crowd’s attention to the center.
A spotlight illuminated the announcer standing tall and proud in his crisp Western shirt, jeans, and a cowboy hat that seemed to glint under the light.
He was standing right by us, so it was easy for us to see.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Professional Bull Riders Tour, right here in the heart of Chicago.”
The crowd erupted in cheers, whistles, and applause, the noise reverberating through the metal rafters.
The announcer went on to explain the rules, his voice steady and clear despite the excitement in the arena.
“Tonight, you’ll see the best of the best—our top bull riders competing against the best bulls in the world.
Each rider has eight seconds to prove themselves.
Eight seconds, folks. But it’s not about staying on.
Style matters, too. Judges score the ride, fifty points for the bull and fifty for the rider, with the best score out of one hundred taking home the glory. ”
He paused for effect, letting the tension build before continuing. “And remember, these bulls aren’t animals—they’re athletes, trained and bred for this.”
The lights dimmed, and music blasted through the arena as smoke and fog filled the air. The crowd roared to life.
As the smoke cleared, the announcer’s voice returned. “Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Let’s meet tonight’s bull riders.”
The doors to the back chute opened, and one by one, the riders walked into the arena. Each was announced by name, hometown, and ranking, a spotlight following them as they strode toward the center.
I leaned closer to Harleigh, studying the group. “Wow,” I said, a little louder than I intended. “They’re all . . . a little short . . ..and young?”
“But they know how to buck, baby,” she said, punctuating it with a ridiculous hip-thrusting motion.
I gagged dramatically. “Oh my God, Harleigh. That’s disgusting.”
She laughed, clearly proud of herself.
“And you call them bull riders? Or cowboys?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Bull riders. Not cowboys. They could be both if they work on a ranch, but these guys are professional bull riders. It’s a whole thing. Different vibe.”
I nodded slowly, realizing I was woefully underprepared for this entire experience.
The riders lined up, tipping their hats to the crowd as the announcer hyped them up. The crowd roared again, the energy in the arena reaching a fever pitch. It was finally time to get the show started.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a big round of applause for tonight’s milestone rider—his one-thousandth career ride—Beaudreau ‘Beau’ Banks!”
The crowd erupted, everyone standing and clapping. The energy in the arena was electric, and I found myself rising to my feet along with everyone else, curiosity piqued.
I watched as he stepped into the spotlight, raising one gloved hand to acknowledge the cheers. His thick mustache framed a face with dark brown hair that fell to the base of his neck. His chaps were deep red with intricate designs that caught the light, giving him a striking presence.
The oversized screen above the arena zoomed in on him as he tipped his hat to the crowd, but my eyes stayed locked on the real thing. There was an air of experience that set him apart from the others. He looked older, more seasoned. And wow.
“Hot, right?” Harleigh’s voice broke into my thoughts, pulling me out of whatever moment I was having.
“I’m engaged,” I said quickly, the words rushing out as my cheeks burned.
She grinned, clearly not buying it. “He grew up near us. He’s a little older than us—about ten years—but he was always at the ranch, practicing on Dad’s bulls. Comes from a whole legacy of bull riders. He’s kind of a big deal.”
I nodded, pretending to be indifferent, but my gaze flicked back to him as he stepped out of the spotlight.
Harleigh smirked knowingly, but thankfully, she dropped it, her attention turning back to the arena as the announcer wrapped up. Meanwhile, I sat down, gripping my beer a little tighter, and tried not to look back.
As the event began, Harleigh and I made our way to the small tables set up near the edge of the VIP section, above the arena floor. The seats were close enough to feel the vibrations of the bulls’ stomping and hear the snorts and bellows of the animals.
The first rider out of the chute was announced as Dalton Culpepper, a young guy who looked barely old enough to rent a car.
The gate swung open, and the bull tore out like a bullet, kicking up sand and dust as Dalton clung to the rope.
The ride lasted seconds—he was bucked off with brutal force, landing hard in the dirt.
I winced but couldn’t look away.
It was dirty in every sense of the word.
The riders, covered in dust and grime, threw themselves into this chaos willingly.
The arena floor was a mess of churned sand and dirt, streaked with sweat and whatever else came off those bulls.
It was unclean, raw, and entirely unlike the polished environments I was used to.
And yet, I couldn’t deny how fascinating it was.
These people risked their lives for this. They dove headfirst into an arena where they were tossed around like rag dolls, landing in filth and sand that clung to them as they stood. It was chaotic, unpredictable, and strangely captivating.
A few more riders followed. Most didn’t make it, but one finally hit the eight-second mark. The buzzer rang, and the crowd erupted in cheers as he leaped off the bull, narrowly avoiding a wild hoof.
The announcer called out the score, rattling off numbers I didn’t understand, but I didn’t care. I was enthralled. The bulls were magnificent in their own terrifying way.
“It sucks you in when you watch it, doesn’t it?”
The voice startled me, and I turned to see Roger settling into the chair next to me. I hadn’t even noticed him walk up.
“Oh . . .” I straightened, suddenly self-conscious about how intently I’d been watching. “Sorry, I was—”
“Entranced,” he finished with a grin, his eyes crinkling under the brim of his hat. “Happens to the best of us. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Beautiful? That wouldn’t be the first word I’d use to describe the scene in front of me.
It was disgusting—the dirt, the sweat, the mess of it all—but it was also authentic in a way I hadn’t expected.
There was nothing staged or polished here, just grit, determination, and a rawness that felt impossible to look away from.
“They’re bringing Mike on in ten,” Harleigh whispered, and I stood, breaking my attention away from the event and looking back toward the door.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I mumbled and felt bad momentarily for not thinking about my fiancé. The man who was going to perform for his biggest crowd yet.
I exited the VIP area—down the steps and toward the backstage door, where Mike would be coming out from. The crew was positioning a mic stand behind the announcer, and everything was set for him to come out and perform.
I pushed open the door to a little hallway where Mike was standing with his business manager, Trishelle.
“Hey guys,” I said happily, but when Mike’s gaze snapped up to me, I was met with anger and frustration rather than what I would’ve expected.
“We’re practicing,” Trishelle said coolly.
Trishelle had always been there, as long as I’d known Mike.
Back in college, they’d been inseparable—not romantically, but close enough that it was hard to tell the difference sometimes.
When Mike decided to make music his career, she stepped into the role of his business manager without missing a beat.
I’d never let myself feel jealous of her. Yet, I couldn’t shake the suspicion that she’d always had a thing for him. The way she stood too close, the way her presence always felt permanent, like she belonged in his world in a way I never fully did.