Chapter 5 #2
My eyes jerk back to Beau. His body is upright now, his strength undeniable.
For every movement the bull makes, Beau is steady and fluid, his frame refusing to yield to the bull’s command.
Four seconds. The bull jerks sideways again, so I have his rear in view, and Beau’s as well.
I see the way his jeans-clad ass lifts off the bull’s back, the way his body—briefly, and for all its strength—looks to be on the losing end of this.
His hand stays in the air, a confident line that conveys pure control.
The bull makes a guttural noise as he stomps harder, and dust flies up.
Five seconds. ‘Come on,’ I find myself whispering, as though my silent incantation can do anything.
And what do I want it to do anyway? To win? To be over? For Beau to be okay?
I wrap my hands around the metal railing, craning forward, staring at him intently.
I’m aware of rodeo bullfighters shifting on the perimeter of the arena, of Beau’s ass lifting off the beast again.
The crowd is unnaturally silent, as though each and every one of us is holding our breath.
The bull is rough and angry—much angrier than the bulls I’ve seen so far.
A bull like this will get the rider a better score, so I guess that’s a good thing.
Besides, there’s something about the way Beau’s in command, the way he shows his mettle.
The way he owns the bull, despite the disparity in their size and strength.
Seven seconds; almost over. I grip the railing more tightly, so my knuckles glow white, and then, with one last thunderous buck and snort, the clock tips over to eight seconds and suddenly Beau’s letting go of the rope and jumping off the bull’s back in one manoeuvre, right as the rodeo bullfighters rush in, drawing the bull’s attention—and ire—away from Beau.
He chucks his hat in the air, then his hands, in a giant celebration.
The crowd celebrates right back—me included.
I find myself cheering enthusiastically for a man I just met and a sport I didn’t know a thing about a matter of weeks ago.
I’m smiling from ear to ear, counting down the time until the official events are over and I can ask him what the hell that felt like. And this time, I won’t let him get away without answering.
Beau watches the rest of the rides with the other guys.
It doesn’t matter that he’s older than a lot of them and clearly a bit of a star with the crowd, he also obviously considers himself to be just the same as the rest of them.
They sit on the rails and watch, and I notice something about Beau I didn’t get a chance to see before, because before his own ride he was out the back, probably preparing for what was to come.
I learned about the headspace of a bull rider from my research, but from almost the first moment I met Beau, I got a sense that there was more to him than just the carefree persona he exhibits so skilfully, and I see it so clearly as he watches the rest of the event.
When the bulls are pushed into the chute, he doesn’t just toss them a glance then get on with his conversation.
He looks. Like, really looks. Assessing the bull, weighing it up.
His hands form fists, as though he’s imagining he’s about to get on the thing, about to grab the rope and ride again.
As the other younger riders pass, he leans down, says something quiet to each of them.
I make a note in my book to ask him about it later, but for now I wonder if he’s not passing on some hint or tip from his observations.
It makes my heart lift to think so, and I don’t know why.
Only, he’s a good guy, and I haven’t known a lot of them.
Or the ones I have known I’ve been careful to keep at a distance.
Just like I have to be careful with Beau.
As each rider goes through their prep, Beau watches carefully.
Then, when they’re out in the arena, he’s deathly still, his entire focus on the action, his body leaning forward, just like mine did when I watched him, and felt almost as though with the sheer force of my concentration, I could keep him safe.
As soon as they jump off, he’s back to himself: smiling, laughing, clapping, just one of the guys again.
All relaxed easygoing charm—or the appearance of it.
Beau’s a top-three rider by the end of the night. There are two ahead of him, and I seriously can’t understand how or why. Beau’s mastery of the bull was, in my humble, completely inexperienced opinion, unmatched. He looked like he was born to ride. Born to control bulls.
My press pass gives me access to the whole arena, and after the event I head toward the security guards minding the doors to the locker rooms. I don’t know why, or what I want to know.
Behind-the-scenes access is a part and parcel of the piece I need to write, but deep down I know that’s not what’s got me heading that way.
I just want to see him. Halfway through the event, I’d wanted to pinch him, to make sure he’s real.
Most of the other athletes I’ve interviewed, the sports I’ve covered, are familiar to me.
No, they’re recognisable to me, as real people, real sports, real jobs.
This is like a whole other world. It’s so primal and dangerous, so incredibly impressive.
My blood is still throbbing in my veins, adrenalin coursing through me.
I flash my pass at the security guards. One of them waves me inside, the other narrows his eyes slightly then nods, says something into his walkie-talkie that I don’t quite catch.
I push through the doors into a brightly lit corridor.
It smells of sweat, clay and celebration back here.
I read the signs, looking for where I’m meant to be going.
A rider walks out, limping a little, his body obviously stiff.
He’s wearing jeans, but he’s taken off his protective vest, shirt and chaps so there’s just a white tank top covering his toned body.
‘Can I help ya, darlin’?’
I fight my first urge—to ask him not to call me darlin’.
I’m clearly waging a losing battle around these parts.
Besides, I know what life has done to me.
Between my parents, my ballet dreams crumbling into nothing and Kirk, I’ve become borderline brittle.
Cold. The fact I bristle at a simple endearment shows how much I’ve allowed cynicism and impatience to become my stock in trade.
Do I regret it? Not really. Not when I consider the alternative.
These things keep me safe from guys like Kirk, from people who’d otherwise take advantage of me.
Trusting isn’t something I do easily. But that doesn’t mean I have to give a stiff rejoinder to a nice man trying to help.
I smile at him, as if to underscore that to both of us. ‘That’d be great, thanks. I’m looking for the locker room?’
‘You’re gonna cop an eyeful if you go in now.’
Heat flushes my cheeks, and a mental image populates my mind that I really don’t need. Beau Donovan, undressing. Chest naked. Muscular. Maybe even a little bruised up, in need of kissing better.
I clear my throat, try to focus.
‘Want me to grab someone out for you?’
I reach for my press pass, holding it like some kind of shield. ‘I’m interviewing Beau Donovan,’ I blurt out. ‘Is he around?’
He nods once. ‘You’re in luck, pretty. He’ll be down in the bull pen.’
‘The bull pen?’ I frown, mentally running through the program. ‘I thought the events were done with?’
He laughs. ‘I mean the press room, doing interviews. You should be there, shouldn’t you?’
If Beau is a natural on the back of a bull, he’s even more so when staring down the sports’ media.
It’s no surprise that the circuit’s chosen him to be a bit of a de facto spokesperson.
He’s eloquent, charming, funny and roguishly likeable.
There are four other riders up there with him, but time and again he’s the one getting asked the questions, answering with the kind of tone he used with me.
Like we’re old friends, disarming and charming as though he eats journalists for breakfast.
It’s both incredible and off-putting to watch, because it makes me realise that whatever spark and intimacy I’d felt between us last night was just an act.
This guy flirts like he breathes. And for that I might have risked my whole professional reputation.
I slip out of the press conference quietly, head ducked, determined to push fantasies of Beau Donovan right out of my mind.