Chapter Two
Royce
It takes nearly an hour to escape the arena.
Axle, Bryce, Blaze Cassel—the third-place winner—and I navigate interviews, photos, sponsors, and more interviews.
Every five steps, somebody stops Axle to shake his hand.
He never complains. He just smiles and signs another autograph, takes another picture, and thanks his fans. Giving everyone he can his full attention for a brief moment.
I hang back with Bryce while we watch him in action.
“You ready for next weekend?” I ask.
“Fuck yeah. I’m more than ready.”
Bryce is more than just our competition. He’s engaged to our cousin Charli Storm. He also owns Raintree-Storm Rodeo Academy, which is located on our family’s ranch.
The wedding will be held at the ranch next weekend.
“Yeah, I talked to Shelby before we headed to the arena this morning. She said Charli had them all up before dawn, helping her pack up the cabin,” I say.
The massive new house Bryce had built on the hill overlooking the academy is finally finished, and Charli has had her sisters—Matty, Shelby, and Harleigh—working hard this week to get ready so they can officially move in before leaving for their honeymoon.
“I know. I wish I were there to help do the heavy lifting. I’m gonna be in Dallas for a few more days, ironing some things out with my business manager and taking meetings with CBS. They want me in the broadcast booth next year as a television analyst for the Pbr Unleash the Beast season.”
“Really? That’s awesome.”
“Yeah.” He runs a hand down his face. “I don’t know. It will take me away from the academy a lot.”
“True. You thinking about turning them down?”
“We’ll see. There’s a lot to consider. But that’s tomorrow’s concern. Tonight is about Ax.”
He bumps my good shoulder, and the vibration makes me bite back a curse.
“You all right?”
I instinctively straighten. “Fine.”
“Right.”
That’s all he says, and I know he doesn’t believe me. Bryce has seen and experienced enough injuries to recognize one from a mile away.
Unfortunately …
Someone else noticed too.
“Royce.”
I close my eyes.
Damn. Jovie.
She steps beside me in her Pbr Sports Medicine jacket, blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail after what had to be a long-ass day for her.
She’s a member of the Pbr medical staff.
They operate as a makeshift emergency room on-site, working nonstop to stitch wounds, manage concussions, and treat acute injuries throughout the event.
Medical trainers and doctors arrive hours before the bull riding begins to tape athletes, evaluate injuries, and provide physical therapy.
They also stay afterward to assess riders before they leave the arena.
During multiday events like the finals, they are on call continuously to provide ongoing treatment, often working twelve or more hours a day, depending on the round volume.
“You having trouble with that shoulder?” she asks.
“Nope.”
She raises one eyebrow. “Move it.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
Bryce chuckles under his breath. He knows exactly where this is headed. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”
Fucking traitor.
The second he’s gone, Jovie points toward an empty hallway. “Let’s go.”
“I’ve had enough people poking me today,” I say.
“Aw, poor cowboy. He can have a bull toss him around like a rag doll, but he’s afraid of little ole me wanting to check his boo-boo.”
“Exactly.”
She folds her arms and glares at me.
I sigh dramatically. “Fine.”
I follow her into a quiet corridor, away from the chaos.
“Shirt off.”
I blink. “Buy me dinner first, Doc.”
“Now, Royce,” she demands.
I pull off my leather vest, unsnap the buttons of my denim shirt, and tug my T-shirt over my head with my right arm.
The left protests enough that I have to grit my teeth.
Jovie notices as she steps closer and assists, all business now. “Where’s it hurt the most?”
“Front.” I point near the top of my shoulder.
She brings her hand up and presses the tips of her fingers lightly, and pain shoots down my arm.
“Ow,” I bite out.
“How about here?” She moves her fingers farther back.
I hiss.
She nods like she expected that, and then she steps back. “Lift your arm for me.”
I get it maybe halfway before it feels like someone jams an ice pick into the joint.
She catches my wrist and gently lowers my arm. “When?”
“Last ride,” I say.
“What happened?”
“The big bull was mean to me.”
“Royce,” she says, exasperated.
She’s had to put up with cocky, stubborn cowboys for days on end, and I can tell her bullshit meter has reached its limit.
“We were in sync, and then he decided to jerk to the left mid-spin, and my free arm torqued hard enough that I felt something tear,” I admit.
She exhales slowly. “I don’t like this.”
“I know,” I say as I clumsily try to pull my shirt back on. “It’s just sore because it’s fresh. It’ll loosen up.”
She pins me with a stern look. The one she uses on all injured riders who lie straight to her face. Then she moves to help me redress myself.
“The MRI showed a partial-thickness tear eleven months ago,” she reminds me. “You were already compensating. And now you can’t actively elevate your arm.”
“I know the drill. I’ll do the stretches,” I promise.
“You may have turned that partial tear into a full-thickness tear, Royce.”
The words hang between us.
Fuck.
I hate surgery.
More importantly … I hate recovery. Six months. Maybe longer. A fucking eternity in professional rodeo.
“I’ll get it checked.”
“Oh great. When?” she asks sweetly.
“Soon.”
“When, Royce?”
I rub the back of my neck. “A couple of weeks. Sometime after the wedding.”
She actually laughs. “Tomorrow.”
I shake my head. “You know good and damn well it’s going to be a late night, and I’ve got sponsor appearances in the morning.”
“Tomorrow,” she repeats.
“We fly out in the afternoon.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Jovie—”
“Royce.” Her voice softens. “I know what this sport means to you.” She glances back toward the celebration, where Axle’s laughter echoes down the hallway. “But I also know what happens when cowboys ignore injuries because they’re afraid of what a doctor might say.”
I stare at the floor.
“I’d rather tell you that you need rotator surgery now than tell you in six months that you have a complete rupture and require massive reconstruction surgery—or worse, I’d hate to see you attempt to ride with a compromised shoulder and put added stress on your neck and spine and end up paralyzed because you’re being a stubborn asshole. ”
That one lands.
Before I can answer, one of the event coordinators pokes his head into the hallway. “There you are! They’re bringing out the whiskey.”
Jovie sighs. “This conversation isn’t over.”
“I know, and I promise I’ll address it before I get back on a bull.”
I can see she doesn’t like that answer, but she lets it go for now because she wants to be out there, celebrating my brother, as much as I do at the moment.
The second we step into the restaurant, every conversation seems to stop, and applause rolls through Colton’s Smokehouse as people stand from tables, raising beer bottles and hats in the air. Someone whistles loud enough to rattle the mounted antlers hanging above the bar.
Axle freezes for half a second. As much as he loves the attention in the arena, he’s never liked being the center of it on the outside.
Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t have much of a choice tonight.
Bryce claps him on the back hard. “Better get used to it, Champ. It’s gonna be a long night.”
Axle shoots him a look over his shoulder. “I’m already tired.”
Bryce laughs. “Oh, you just wait until tomorrow. The interview rounds are going to be brutal. And Outlaw Heritage is going to have you smiling at photographers until your cheeks hurt.”
Outlaw Heritage is a hat company that makes quality cowboy hats. They’re also Axle’s biggest sponsor at the moment.
“Fuck. I’d rather ride another rank bull or ten,” Axle groans.
Our private room sits toward the back of the restaurant, already buzzing with familiar faces. Stock contractors. Pickup men. Bullfighters. Sponsors. And media folks who’ve somehow become family after years on tour.
Every seat is full, except the ones saved for us.
The second we walk in, all conversations die.
Axle gets choked up as he thanks everyone on our team.
One of the servers appears, carrying an entire tray loaded with unopened bottles of Bull Rope Whiskey.
“Courtesy of the owner,” she says with a grin. “He insists the new world champion shouldn’t have to buy his own drinks.”
“Now, that’s my kind of hospitality,” Bryce says.
Laughter ripples around the room because Bryce is one of the owners of the whiskey brand.
The corks come flying out, one after another. A pretty brunette passes glasses around while another pours generous splashes of amber liquid.
Bryce taps his glass with a fork, and the room slowly quiets.
“I’ve stood in front of a lot of rooms like this over the years.” He pauses, glancing toward Axle. “But tonight is different. When I first met this asshole”—he points at Axle—“he couldn’t grow a decent beard.”
“Still can’t,” I yell.
“He worked harder than anyone I’d ever met,” Bryce continues. “Except me, of course. Took every loss personally. Every mistake. Every buck-off. And tonight, all that paid off.” He lifts his glass. “To Axle Trust, our new million-dollar man.”
“To Axle!” The room echoes the toast, and glasses collide.
I glance toward my brother.
He’s rubbing the back of his neck, looking like he’d rather crawl under the table than be celebrated.
Jovie slips her hand into his, and I see him immediately relax.
Amazing what one good woman can do.
The next few hours disappear into a blur. The phone never stops ringing. We all field calls from Momma and Dad, Grandma Evelyn, and our younger brother, Cabe. Our cousins Micah and all the Storm girls, our wide variety of sponsors, reporters, and friends from back home.
Every few minutes, someone else shoves a phone toward Axle. Jovie eventually steals it and tucks it away.
“Eat,” she tells him.
“I am,” he says as he tears off a piece of roll and pops it into his mouth.
“More than two bites of bread.” She scoots his plate, piled high with steak and potatoes, closer to him. “You haven’t eaten all day. You’re gonna crash out when the adrenaline’s gone.”
I chuckle into my beer. “Listen to the doctor.”
“And you need to follow your own advice,” she says.
Axle’s eyes snap to me. “You all right?”
“He reinjured his shoulder tonight. It’s pretty bad this time,” Jovie answers before I can.
“Damn, and you still managed to come in fourth,” Axle says with pride as he extends his fist past her.
I bump it with mine.
Jovie shoves his arm. “You’re both impossible.”
The private room doesn’t stay private for long. Within an hour, the restaurant is standing room only, and the fans begin drifting toward our section.
Most are respectful. They just want a glimpse at the champ.
Axle signs everything from hats to ticket stubs to boots. One woman has him sign her baby’s blanket. The little bugger is wide-eyed and partying right along with the rest of the crowd.
I move to the long mahogany bar in the center and am halfway through another glass when someone slides onto the empty stool beside me.
“Hey there, cowboy. That was some great riding today.” The voice is smooth.
I turn to see a stunning blonde, probably in her early twenties. Her hair spills over her bare shoulders. She has perfect makeup. She’s wearing a black fringe dress, which leaves very little to the imagination, cinched at the waist, with a belt featuring a large silver buckle.
I smile politely. “Thanks.”
“I’ve watched you boys ride all weekend.”
“Appreciate it.”
Her eyes drift over me slowly. “You were incredible.”
I chuckle. “My brother was incredible.”
She leans a little closer. “I meant both of you.”
I nod toward the crowd surrounding Axle. “I’ll be sure to pass along the congratulations.”
She shifts closer. Close enough that her bare arm brushes mine.
Across the bar, Jovie catches my eye. She watches the interaction unfold over the rim of her water glass, rolling her eyes, and I nearly laugh.
The blonde notices. She looks over her shoulder just in time to see Axle finally escape and head straight for Jovie.
He reaches her, hooks both hands around her waist, lifts her clean off the floor, and kisses the absolute fire out of her.
Someone whistles, and Bryce yells, “Get a room.”
Axle ignores everyone. Jovie laughs against his mouth before wrapping her arms around his neck. The man has forgotten there are another hundred people in the restaurant.
The blonde beside me watches them, and when Ax notices us, he starts walking in our direction.
“So …” She looks back at me. A perfectly manicured hand coming up to rest on my thigh as she leans in. “What’s the plan for the rest of the evening?”
I shrug. “Whatever my brother wants to do.”
Before I can elaborate, Axle throws an arm across my shoulders, and I flinch.
“Sorry,” he mutters as he looks toward the blonde. “I’ll be calling it a night soon and taking my girl back to the hotel for a private celebration.”
The blonde looks from him back to me.
Then her hand moves up to my chest. Slowly. Her fingernails trail lightly across my shirt, and she runs her tongue over her bottom lip.
“Maybe,” she says softly, “you and I could have our own little celebration.”
I consider it for a beat, then smile apologetically. “Maybe some other time.”
Her smile falters. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m beat, sweetheart. Afraid all I’m gonna be good for is a hot shower and some shut-eye.”
She pouts—a genuine, disappointed pout—before giving my chest one last pat. “I could help with that. I’m good at lathering up a dirty cowboy.”
“Tempting, but I’m gonna have to pass this time.”
Her expression hardens, and she takes a step back. “Your loss.”
I nod. “I know it is.”
She turns on her heel and disappears back into the crowd.
I watch her go for exactly two seconds before taking the last sip from my glass and signaling for the bartender.
Jovie snorts into her drink as I fish my good hand into my pocket and toss a stack of bills on the bar.
“What?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing. I’m just impressed.”
“With?”
“You turned down the hottest buckle bunny in the building.”
“Yeah, what was that? She practically gift-wrapped herself,” Axle says.
I shrug and wince.
He narrows his eyes and points at me. “Damn, you must have really hurt yourself.” He looks back at the bunny, who is now wrapped around Blaze, who looks more than happy to have her help him shower off the day. “She probably would have been an eager nurse.”
“Can’t a guy just want to celebrate with his big brother?”
He looks back at me, and for a second, the noise around us fades. It’s just the two of us. Two little boys who grew up chasing impossible dreams in the Wyoming dirt.
One of us reached the top tonight.
The other …
Well, I’m suddenly not so sure where my road goes from here. My shoulder throbs beneath my sleeve, and I have the fleeting thought that maybe this is the beginning of the end, but I quickly shove it aside.
It can wait.
Tonight belongs to dreams coming true, not ones possibly coming to an end.