Chapter 45
Beau
Dad was here this weekend, and chances were, he’d be at every event for the rest of the season. This was it. The final stretch.
“You ready?” Dalton asked, adding resin to his rope in the locker room.
I nodded. He didn’t know about my plans to walk away after this season, but tonight wasn’t the time to dwell on that. Tonight was a good night. My girl was in the shark pit with the media, the stands were packed with a hometown crowd, and I was in love.
“Hell yeah,” I muttered.
I was in love.
I felt it deep in my bones—every fiber of my being knew it.
Dad clapped a firm hand on my shoulder, his grip solid, steady. “Hell of a season you’re having, son. Proud of you.”
That meant more than he probably knew. I gave him a small nod, swallowing down the lump that formed in my throat as Dalton and I stepped to the side, looking over the day sheet.
I scanned the lineup and found my name. Barnyard.
Dalton let out a low whistle. “Shit,” he muttered, blowing out a breath. “Barnyard’s a monster. No real pattern. No way to predict where he’s going.”
I shook him off. “It’s fine.”
Was it? Last time I drew this bull, I hit the dirt hard before the eight seconds.
As we made our way toward the chutes, Dad kept pace beside me, throwing out instructions. “He’ll fake right, son, but watch his shoulders. If he drops that left one, he’s turning left. He’ll try to bait you into committing too early. Stay patient.”
I nodded, taking it all in as I grabbed more resin, rubbing it over my rope. My eyes flicked to the chute, where Barnyard waited, a massive black animal, snorting and shifting restlessly.
“You got this,” Dad murmured.
Dalton was behind me too. He knew what this ride meant.
Third rider out. Just me and this bull.
I exhaled, shaking out my shoulders as I looked toward the arena. I couldn’t see her from here, but she was watching. I had to get through this ride. One clean ride.
Then, no more waiting.
As soon as I stepped out of that arena, I was telling Fable I loved her.
I climbed into the chute and swung my leg over Barnyard. The second I settled, Dad was there behind me, spotting me, keeping a steadying hand on my vest as Dalton worked the rope.
“Over, under,” I murmured to myself. “Scoot up, tuck your chin.”
Simple. Second nature.
But Barnyard wasn’t making it easy.
The bastard kept shifting, pressing his weight against my inside leg, making it damn near impossible to sit square. My boot scraped against the metal as I tried to push off and settle my weight evenly, but he wouldn’t give.
“Fuck,” I gritted, adjusting again, trying to coax him forward.
Dalton yanked on the rope, securing it as tight as I needed, but the second I moved, Barnyard slammed his body against the chute wall, pinning my leg.
“Come on, big guy,” I muttered, wincing. The bullfighters outside whistled, clapped, trying to get his attention. Nothing. He was locked in, stubborn as hell.
Then I heard it.
“Dammit,” I shouted.
They’d put me on the clock.
Thirty seconds.
I had thirty fucking seconds to get this bull to settle, or I’d be disqualified before I even nodded my head.
Panic clawed at my chest as I fought to get square, my body twisted wrong, my weight uneven. Barnyard kept shifting. I scooted up, trying to force him forward, but he braced harder.
“Shit, come on,” I gritted, tugging at the rope, but it wasn’t working. My grip was slipping, my body off balance.
“Fifteen seconds, Banks,” someone shouted.
I yanked at my rope again, my breaths coming fast. I needed to get square. I needed to be forward, to get control before that gate swung open. But Barnyard had other plans, his body rolling under me, shifting enough that I was perched too far back.
Fuck.
I grabbed the bottom of my gold helmet, my heart hammering, and nodded.
The chute doors flew open.
The second Barnyard bucked out backward, I was in trouble. Bulls weren’t supposed to do that—it threw off my weight.
Adjust. Stay centered. Find the rhythm.
There wasn’t one.
He was wild beneath me, jerking left, then right, like he wanted me off now, and I fought to keep my legs locked, my grip tight, to stay on him for those eight fucking seconds.
Then—shit.
He pulled a sudden, vicious snap to the right, away from the well. The force yanked me sideways, my hips slipping, my fingers burning against the rope—I was losing it.
Hold on. Hold on.
My grip faltered.
Fuck. No.
I lost the rope.
The fall happened too fast for me to stop it.
The ground slammed into me, but I barely felt it before my wrist twisted beneath me with a sickening crunch.
Pain exploded like fire, white-hot and brutal, and I gasped, trying to push myself up—get up, get up, move—but my fingers weren’t working.
I couldn’t fucking move my hand.
The bullfighters were running, I could hear them yelling, but I couldn’t look away from the ground, from the dust swirling in my vision. I sucked in a breath, forcing myself to move, to get the hell out of the way.
I looked up.
Instead of the glare of the arena lights, all I saw was the bottom of a massive hoof—coming straight for me.
And then—
Nothing.