Chapter 10
Chapter ten
This Life Is Dangerous
Riley
Ishouldn’t be here.
That thought sits steady in the back of my mind from the second we step through the gates, but it doesn’t slow Hadley down for even a second.
She’s already pulling me forward, small hand wrapped tight around mine, eyes wide as she takes everything in like it’s the most exciting thing she’s ever seen.
And maybe it is.
The noise hits first, loud and constant, layered with music, voices, the sharp metallic clang of gates slamming shut. The smell comes next, dust and sweat and something heavier underneath it that settles in your lungs whether you want it to or not.
It’s a lot.
Too much, if I’m being honest.
But Hadley doesn’t see it that way.
“Mom, look,” she says, tugging me toward the rail, already on her toes as she tries to see over the crowd. “They’re right there.”
I let her pull me forward, moving through the people until we find a spot close enough for her to grip the fence like she’s been doing it her whole life. I stay just behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder, grounding her without holding her back.
That balance matters.
It always has.
I tell myself I’m here for her.
That this is about letting her see something new, something that clearly means something to him, even if I don’t fully understand it.
But that’s not the whole truth.
Because when I look out into the arena, my focus doesn’t settle on the other riders.
It finds him.
Jace stands near the chutes, shoulders loose but ready, every movement controlled in a way that feels different from the man I remember. There’s nothing reckless in it. Nothing careless. Just focus, steady and sharp, like he knows exactly what he’s stepping into.
And that should make this easier.
It doesn’t.
“Is that him?” Hadley asks, already leaning forward, like she’s afraid she might miss something.
“Yeah,” I answer, my voice quieter than I mean it to be.
She beams, bouncing a little where she stands, and I tighten my hand on her shoulder just enough to steady her without pulling her back.
I try to see this the way she does. This is her first rodeo ever. I get down to her level and explain what the goal is here for the rider. She seems to understand and loves the challenge of it.
Exciting.
Impressive.
Something to be proud of.
But all I can see is the risk. I'm glad she doesn't see that part.
The way the bulls slam into the gates hard enough to rattle metal. The way the riders move like they’re one wrong second away from hitting the ground. The way the entire thing feels balanced on something that could go bad faster than anyone can react.
This life.
It’s dangerous.
There’s no way around that.
And suddenly, it’s not just his risk anymore.
That thought lands harder than anything else, settling deep and sharp in a way I can’t ignore.
Hadley shifts closer to the fence, completely focused, completely trusting that what she’s watching is something good, something worth being here for.
I wish it felt that simple.
The announcer’s voice carries over the speakers, calling out names and stats that don’t mean much to me, but the crowd reacts anyway, energy building with each rider that steps up.
I watch each one, trying to understand the rhythm of it, the way the crowd leans in, the way everything seems to hinge on a few seconds that decide everything.
Then his name is called.
It hits the crowd different.
I feel it before I even realize why, the shift in volume, the way people turn, the way attention sharpens just enough to notice.
Beside me, Hadley lights up. “That’s him!” she says, louder this time, like everyone else might not have caught it.
I nod, even though my focus is already locked in, my body going still in a way I don’t control.
Jace moves into position, smooth and steady, like he’s done this a thousand times, and maybe he has. He swings up onto the rail and settles in, one hand gripping tight as the bull shifts beneath him.
Everything slows.
At least it feels like it does.
My hand tightens on Hadley’s shoulder without thinking, my attention narrowing down to that one moment, that one point where everything could go exactly right…
or very wrong.
The gate snaps open.
And I realize, all at once, that no matter how steady he looks out there…
this isn’t something I can ever pretend is safe.
The first hit steals the breath out of me.
The bull explodes out of the chute with a force that doesn’t look real, muscle and weight and power crashing into motion all at once, and for a second I forget how to breathe.
My fingers tighten on Hadley’s shoulder without thinking, grounding myself as much as I am her.
She looks up at me and says, "mom your hurting my shoulders.
" I lighten my grip as much as I can in this moment.
He stays on.
That should be the focus.
It isn’t.
All I can see is how fast it happens, how violent the movement is, how there’s no space between control and disaster. One second he’s centered, balanced, moving with it, and the next the bull twists hard enough that it feels like everything shifts under him.
“Mom,” Hadley whispers, not scared, just in awe, like she’s watching something incredible instead of something that could go wrong in a heartbeat.
“I see him,” I say, even though I haven’t looked away once.
I can’t.
My pulse is loud in my ears, matching the rhythm of the ride in a way that makes it hard to separate what I’m feeling from what I’m seeing.
Every movement he makes, every adjustment, every second he holds on feels like it matters too much.
Because it does.
The bull spins, kicks, slams back down, and the crowd reacts with every shift, voices rising and falling like they’re part of it. I don’t hear any of it clearly. It all blurs together, background noise to the one thing I can’t stop watching.
Him.
He looks in control.
That’s what makes it worse.
Because control here isn’t safety. It’s just the illusion of it, something that can disappear in a second if the timing’s off or the bull changes direction or one muscle doesn’t respond the way it’s supposed to.
And I don’t know how to sit here and pretend that’s okay.
I don’t know how to watch this and not think about what happens if he doesn’t land right.
If he gets thrown.
If he doesn’t get up.
The thought hits hard enough that I pull in a sharp breath, forcing it back down before it turns into something Hadley might notice.
He can’t get hurt.
Not like this.
Not when she’s watching.
Not when she’s already looking at him like he’s something solid, something she can count on.
The ride stretches, seconds pulling long enough that it feels like it should already be over, like my body can’t hold this tension much longer.
Then the buzzer sounds.
The release hits almost as hard as the fear did.
I watch him clear the bull clean, hitting the ground on his feet before moving out of the way in one smooth motion. The breath I’ve been holding finally leaves my lungs all at once.
“He did it!” Hadley shouts, bouncing beside me, pure excitement lighting up her whole face.
I nod, but it takes a second for my body to catch up with the reality of it. The tension to unwind enough that I can actually see what just happened instead of everything that could have gone wrong.
He’s fine.
He’s more than fine.
He made it look easy.
And that doesn’t make me feel better the way it should.
It makes it worse.
Because if this is easy for him, if this is something he can do without hesitation, then it’s not something he’s going to walk away from.
And that means this risk…
this life…
It’s part of who he is.
Hadley leans further over the rail, waving both arms now, completely caught up in it, and I steady her again, my hand firm on her shoulder even as my gaze tracks him across the arena.
He looks up.
Finds us.
And for a second, everything else fades out again, not because of the ride this time, but because of the way something in my chest tightens when our eyes meet.
Relief.
Sharp and immediate.
Followed just as quickly by something heavier.
Because the second he steps into that arena again…
I’m going to feel this all over.
Hadley doesn’t come down from it the way I do.
If anything, she leans further in, energy still buzzing through her like the ride never really ended. Her hands grip the rail, feet bouncing in small, restless movements that make it clear she’s already looking for what comes next.
“That was so cool,” she says, turning just enough to look back at me before snapping her attention right back to the arena. “Did you see how he stayed on?”
“I saw,” I answer, my voice steadier now, even if the feeling underneath it hasn’t fully settled.
“He wasn’t even scared,” she adds, completely certain of that.
I almost correct her.
Almost tell her that fear doesn’t look the way she thinks it does, that being good at something like that doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous, doesn’t mean it can’t go wrong.
But I don’t.
Because the way she’s looking at him right now… I don’t want to be the one who takes that away from her.
Instead, I shift closer, keeping my hand light on her shoulder as I follow her gaze back to the arena. “He’s done it a lot,” I say, choosing something simple. “He knows what he’s doing.”
That seems to satisfy her.
Or maybe it just fits what she already wants to believe.
“Can I do that someday?” she asks, the question coming out so casually it takes a second for it to land.
My chest tightens again, but this time it’s different. Quieter. Heavier.
“We’ll talk about that later,” I tell her, keeping my tone even.
She nods like that’s fair, already distracted by the next rider stepping into position, her attention shifting without hesitation.
It amazes me how easily she moves through it.
How she can take something that felt like too much for me just a few seconds ago and turn it into something exciting, something worth watching again.
I wish I could do that.