Chapter One
Royce
Five Years Later
The roar of the crowd still echoes in my ears long after I leave the dirt.
It’s funny how thousands of screaming fans can fade into white noise the second the adrenaline starts wearing off.
I roll my shoulder once as I disappear beneath Dickies Arena toward the locker rooms, biting back a grimace before anyone notices.
I try to lift my arm as soon as I’m away from the cameras.
The joint pops. Not the satisfying kind either.
The kind that sends a sharp bolt of pain down my arm and leaves my fingers tingling.
Son of a bitch.
That last bull had every intention of pulling me apart limb by limb and scattering my pieces across the arena floor.
Mission accomplished.
I flex my hand to make sure everything still works. It does. Mostly. And that’s good enough for me. I’ve ridden through worse.
The trainers try to wave me over, but I flash them a grin and keep walking.
“I’m good, fellas,” I call.
One of them laughs. “That’s what every cowboy says right before a ride in an ambulance.”
“Fuck that. Buses are expensive.”
“Yeah, well, so’s getting sidelined for an entire season because you’re recovering from surgery.”
I lift my hand in a lazy wave without looking back. “Exactly.”
Truth is, they’re probably right.
My shoulder has been talking to me for almost two years now. Started as a nagging throb, then a burn whenever I reached overhead, and then eventually settled into a constant, dull ache.
The MRI last summer showed a partial-thickness rotator cuff tear.
An inconvenience, but a manageable one. Rest. Rehab. Strengthening. But no surgery required unless it got worse.
I followed the rehab.
Mostly.
The resting part …
Well …
My life doesn’t leave much room for that. I’m either working, training, teaching, or traveling. Can’t exactly chase after that purse and a world title from the couch.
Tonight though … tonight feels different.
That bull torqued so hard that it jerked my free arm back with such force that I felt something give. Like Velcro ripping apart inside my shoulder.
I shove the memory of it to the back of my mind. Because tonight isn’t about me. It’s about my brother.
I sit on the bench in front of my locker, looking at the monitor for a few more minutes, catching my breath. The leader standings flash across the screen. My name moves up to the fourth slot. I’ll take it. With one successful round win and a bonus, I’m guaranteed a $100,000 check for the event.
I curse at the weakness in my hand as I remove the cap from a bottle of water, then make my way back up for my brother’s last ride.
I round the corner toward the bucking chutes just as his name is announced.
“Axle Trust is our last rider of this year’s finals. He’s currently locked horns with reigning champion Bryce Raintree.”
I vault onto the steel rails of the bucking chute, my boots ringing against the metal as I crouch over Axle. The roar of the crowd crashes around us—ten thousand fans on their feet, music pounding through the arena, the announcer’s voice echoing overhead—but inside this chute, it all fades away.
Right here, it’s just me and my brother and one rank, mean beast.
Axle sits low over the bull’s shoulders, his gloved hand buried deep in the bull rope, his jaw tight beneath the brim of his hat.
I glance up at the giant scoreboard—92.25.
That’s the number. If he scores a ninety-two and a quarter or better, he walks out of Fort Worth as this year’s Pbr World Champion.
Anything less …
Bryce Raintree keeps the gold buckle and pockets the million-dollar bonus one last time before hanging it up for good.
The bull slams into the front gate hard enough to rattle the entire chute. His muscles bunch beneath Axle, every inch of him coiled and looking for a fight.
“Easy there, Diablo,” I mutter before looking back at my brother.
He rolls one shoulder and looks up at me. Not a damn ounce of fear on his face. Just determination and hunger.
I grin.
“Well, hell,” I say. “You ready to make history?”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“Think you got a ninety-three left in ya?”
“Fuck yeah,” he grunts.
“Good, ’cause if you don’t, I’mma spend the next twenty years reminding you that you let that ancient SOB best your ass tonight.”
He chuckles.
“You’ve busted your ass for this your whole life.” The bull lunges again and rattles the chute. “And this ugly bastard?” I point to the bull’s head. “He’s just another eight seconds standing between you and everything you’ve ever wanted.”
Axle nods once.
“So, don’t overthink it. Trust your instincts.
You know how to do this better than anybody.
” I jab a finger into his shoulder. “When he comes out of this gate, don’t ride scared.
Ride pissed and spur every damn jump. Stay in the middle.
And when he starts spinning”—I grin—“you show him who the fuck’s in charge tonight. ”
Axle laughs.
I grab the front of his vest and give him a shake. “You’ve already made me proud. I know you’re the best rider on the planet.”
His smile fades just enough to let me know he’s listening.
“But prove it to them”—I point to the stands—“and go win the damn thing.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
I lean in one last time. “Ride the fucking hide off this son of a bitch, Ax.”
He grins so wide that I can see every ounce of confidence settle into him as the gate man steps forward.
“Ready, rider?”
Axle nods, wraps his fingers tighter around the rope, and lifts his free hand.
I climb backward onto the catwalk as the latch clicks into place.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I lock eyes with my brother one last time and give him a single nod.
Go become a world champion.
The gate swings open, and the crowd goes wild as the bull launches violently into the air. Twisting, kicking, spinning.
Yet, somehow, Axle looks like he’s having fun.
One of the commentators shouts over the speakers, “Diablo busted onto the scene two years ago and was named PRCA Bull of the Year. He has bucked off sixty-four of his last sixty-eight riders, and Axle Trust is absolutely in rhythm with him.”
My heart is in my throat as the clock counts down the seconds.
The buzzer sounds.
Axle launches from the bull’s back and lands cleanly before he jumps and throws his fist into the air.
The arena explodes.
I hold myself back until the score hits the monitor—92.37.
For a moment, everything stands still.
“And he has done it, folks. Axle Trust is your Pbr World Champion!”
Everyone in the stadium loses their mind.
I start running, leaping over gates and cowboys. Bryce makes it to him first, and I collide with the two of them a second later.
I clasp the back of his neck and pull his forehead to mine. “You fucking did it, Ax!” I choke out as pride fills my chest.
Bryce’s arms hook both of us, and us three grown-ass cowboys start jumping around like kids celebrating while cameras flash from every direction.
Tears stream down my big brother’s face.
I’d laugh at him if my own vision wasn’t suddenly blurry.
Bryce leans in and says something to Ax. I can’t hear what it is over the crowd. Don’t need to. Whatever it is makes Axle laugh through the tears.
Then Bryce lifts my brother’s hand into the air.
The greatest bull rider of our generation—the outgoing champion—passing the torch.
One legend making room for the next.
Goose bumps race down my arms.
Damn. What a moment.
A few minutes later, the rest of our team crashes into Axle from every direction, and the event’s stock contractor congratulates Axle for besting Diablo. Photographers are practically climbing over each other, trying to capture every second.
Axle looks completely overwhelmed.
His face is busted up from an earlier ride. Butterfly closures are roughly holding the skin above his eyebrow together. My face probably doesn’t look much better.
Cowboys.
We’re a mess.
I stand in the middle of the arena with our team and Axle’s girlfriend, Jovie, as pyro blasts from every corner, lighting up the dirt in flashes of gold and white. The roar from fans rattles my body harder than any bull ever has.
A stage rolls onto the arena floor while cameras swarm Axle from every direction.
He tips his hat to the crowd, then starts walking across the dirt with that crooked grin of his.
The same grin he wore when we were kids, running barefoot around Wildhaven Storm Ranch, pretending fence posts were championship bucking chutes.
A Pbr executive places the Jerome Robinson Cup in his hands.
The thing is enormous. Sixty-seven pounds of silver and gold.
Axle grunts as he takes hold of it, then muscles it over his head anyway.
The crowd absolutely loses its mind.
Next comes the diamond-studded gold buckle, gleaming inside its display case, followed by a comically oversize check with more zeros than either of us ever dreamed we’d see.
Confetti erupts from the rafters, raining over the arena like a Texas thunderstorm, made of red, white, and blue, as he nimbly removes the buckle from the case.
Axle stares at it like he isn’t sure it’s real.
Honestly …
Neither am I.
Because we’ve dreamed about this since we were little boys, climbing on the back of practice bulls every chance we got.
One day.
One buckle.
One historic ride.
One world championship.
Now he’s standing here, holding it.
He removes the handcrafted trophy buckle from his round-one win and replaces it with the new one, drawing every female’s attention directly to his waist.
Axle smirks as his eyes go to Jovie, and he winks. She just shakes her head at him.
I clap until my palms sting.
My chest feels too tight.
That’s my brother.
My best friend.
And tonight, the whole damn world finally knows what I’ve known all along. He’s the best bull rider alive.