Three | Harlow
Nerves crackle under my skin, my body vibrating with impatience to get out there for my first ride of the season.
The stuffy smell that’s unique to only an indoor arena lingers in the air, carrying the scent of dirt from the floor and the faint odor of manure where the bull stalls are stacked behind me.
Cowboys, chute crew, staff members, and media hustle around behind the chutes, where all of us athletes wait for our rides.
I’ve been in this sport professionally since I was twenty, and it still astonishes me that they can transform a hockey rink into a bull-riding arena overnight.
It’s pure magic if you ask me.
It’s been a long road to recovery, but I’m here, and I’ll be damned if the past repeats itself.
I won’t allow it.
There’s a massive weight on my shoulders this year.
Ever since I signed that first contract a few years ago, I’ve carried the nickname Pbr’s Sweetheart.
I won’t disappoint them this time. No matter what shit spills out of Colson Payne’s mouth, I’m proving that women can keep up with men in brutal sports that demand your body’s cooperation.
I may have gotten thrown down and pummeled into the dirt, but the bull’s hooves didn’t taint the grit in my core. A few women in the Women’s Pro Rodeo Circuit wrote me letters and reached out on social media, inspired by my story, saying they hope to be where I am one day.
Being here isn’t just for me anymore.
It’s for every individual who has had someone dust off their doubts onto them and say they’ll never succeed at something.
For the ones who have been called a rarity or oddity and embrace the title, letting it push them to create space in the world for themselves where they thought they’d never find it.
Colson Payne may hate me as much as I loathe him, but he can only blame himself for sparking the electric current in my soul that has my competitive gears rotating on overdrive.
Whenever Colson and I are in proximity, fuses are lit, waiting for that perfect moment until it escalates and we’re both detonating. The aftermath is usually a chaotic explosion of heated words and actions that are bound to get us both in trouble.
Our rivalry is a source of entertainment for everyone else. To me, it’s survival. A way to keep me in my place, keep my head on straight, and remind me why I’m doing this.
As if he senses my mind conjuring up thoughts of him, his stoic gaze settles on me from where he’s leaning against the fence enclosing the bulls waiting to be loaded into the chutes.
He’s with a few other riders, but it’s like the neon lights flashing above in the dark arena are highlighting only his annoying glower.
Our eyes are locked for a moment before Colson knits his arms over his broad chest. His tattooed forearms look massive.
The sleeves of his tan button-down are rolled up, the material stretching across his biceps.
He somehow looks bigger and more threatening whenever his protective riding vest expands across the hard planes of his abdomen.
He’s motionless. Not even the strands of his black leather chaps over his Wranglers sway.
My focus drops to his buckle that I covet, along with all the other riders here. I suddenly realize I’m staring a little too long when his mouth morphs into a shit-eating grin. Great. He probably thinks I was staring at his dick.
My eyes roll.
He had one hell of a ride, effortlessly hitting the eight seconds. Okay, even I know it’s not effortless. It’s hard. Physically demanding. But sometimes I forget how good he is at this sport.
He may be a veteran, but he hasn’t stalled yet.
I’ll never tell him that, though. His ego is big enough, and I don’t think there’s space for much else.
Honestly, Colson was lucky with his draw tonight, getting Tumbleweed.
I’m surprised the bull didn’t roll over on his back and let Colson scratch his stomach.
They were two peas in a pod with Colson’s tan shirt matching Tumbleweed’s hide.
Sometimes, when you throw two monsters together, they’ve got a way of taming one another.
There is one more rider ahead of me, so I attempt to regain my composure and calm my racing heart. I tighten my fingers around my helmet, drawing in deep breaths.
Don’t let Colson get in your head. Focus, Harlow.
“Harlow,” a deep voice I know all too well calls over the announcer and music blaring through the speakers.
I turn to see my coach, Aaron Jackson, in the distance near the wall. They let coaches in briefly to give us encouragement or last-minute advice, so he must have left Melanie sitting alone in the front row while he came to motivate me.
Seeing his bearded face and bright green eyes dampens the stressful commotion swirling behind my ribs.
He’s been my coach since I was eighteen—saw something in me that so many other coaches and riders looked past, just because of my sex.
But Aaron gave me a chance and has been with me since the beginning.
He’s my hero and a three-time world champ, which is rare in this sport. Aaron may be my coach, but he’s also my fifty-six-year-old friend, who is like a second father.
He motions me over, and I hustle, knowing my bull will be loaded into the chute any moment.
Aaron glances over my attire—studying my black and burgundy suede chaps and protective vest over my flannel. All bull riders are required to wear a vest, which is made of tough material that protects a rider’s ribs, torso, and vital organs from major impacts out on the dirt.
If only I had had something like that for my legs.
Dear Lord. What are you doing? You can’t think about that right now.
Aaron pulls me out of my dark thoughts. “Are you ready, kid?”
I give a nervous smile. “It’s about damn time we both found ourselves back here.”
“I didn’t doubt you for a minute.” His confession warms my skin. He always knows exactly what I need to hear.
I’m lucky to have a coach as kind and zealous as he is. Aaron is just the right amount of sweet when the moment calls for it, but he can also be a hard-ass when he knows I’m being an idiot and need to be called out or put in my place.
“Remember to stay centered and control your movements,” he tells me.
Aaron’s brown cowboy hat casts a shadow across his eyes, making them appear dark and ominous. His jaw flexes, his fingers clenching the papers with my stats and notes in his hand from practice and my previous minor league rides. He’s nervous for me.
“Spin Top will do everything he can to catch you off guard. There’s a reason they gave him the name—just as you get comfortable and adjust your body and weight to the position he’s spinning in, he will change it up and go the opposite way.”
I swallow, nodding. I hate that Spin Top is the bull I drew on my first event back. However, this is the hand I was drawn. I have no choice but to hold on for dear life and hope that the eight seconds hit before the PTSD does.
I’ve been able to keep it in check thus far.
Well, mostly. Practicing on a bull out on my family ranch or back at Aaron’s with the sun beating down on my back and surrounded by nature is one thing.
But being back here, with the thick air, screaming fans, and a dark arena flashing with lights and the booming voice of the announcer relaying every second of my ride, is entirely different.
“Stay sharp. Stay in shape. Be innovative, and don’t be afraid to get hurt because you’ve already been through a lot, kid. No scratch or bruise will compare to what you’ve been through, so give it your all tonight. You hear me?”
“Yes, Coach,” I reply, hoping he doesn’t hear the anxiety slip through my tone.
He nods, and I spin around, observing as they load a brown and white bull into the chute.
My bull.
Shit. I don’t know if I’m ready for this.
As if sensing my chaotic thoughts running amok in my brain, Aaron reaches for my bicep and tugs me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me in an embrace that knocks the air from my lungs.
It’s not because his hug is too constricting; it’s because the seconds are dwindling until it’s my turn.
One hand hangs at my side with my helmet clutched in my fingers, but my other arm reaches around his back, holding onto him.
If I let go, I’m afraid my knees might give out, and I’ll crash into the dirt before I’ve even started.
His voice has an edge. “Hold on and don’t let go. But if you do, know that when life continuously knocks you down, you’re the only one who can decide if you want to get up and keep going.”
“I have to let go of the bull at some point.” I chuckle into his chest. “I can’t just ride into the sunset with him.” Flooding the situation with humor makes me feel a little lighter.
I feel his head shake back and forth. “Smartass.” His gruff laugh temporarily quells the tension seizing my muscles.
“Even if you don’t stay mounted for the eight seconds and get on the scoreboard tonight, you have another chance tomorrow in round two to stay on and collect some points for your world standings. ”
I lick my dry lips, trying to wet my tongue that’s as dry as the dirt below my boots. That’s why completing every eight-second ride matters each weekend—the bull rider with the most points collected throughout the season wins the buckle.
“Harlow, let’s go,” a male voice snaps with urgency.
Aaron releases me. “Go get ’em.”
He returns to sit with my sister, who will no doubt record every moment of this ride.
As my media manager, she’s been determined to document this entire journey from start to finish.
I should’ve realized that she meant it when she said the whole journey.
I woke up this morning to see thousands of notifications on my phone.