Three | Harlow #2
When she was waiting at that high-top table after she went to the bathroom at the bar last night, she snapped a picture of Colson and me at the bar counter—me scowling at him and Colson smirking at me in that way that irritates me to no end.
People are obsessed with our rivalry, and with that one photo, Mel already broke our side of the internet with the caption:
Two riders. No bulls in sight. But the tension is still high.
I’ve never liked paying attention to social media, but I can’t ignore the little twinge of curiosity that keeps me checking the comments to see what people are saying about Colson and me.
I’m sure she’ll read some of them on the car ride home like she always does.
I approach the metal platform, where a few other riders and crew members are standing with cameramen and photographers nearby. Their presence, capturing this moment, my return, makes my legs wobble like jelly.
Spin Top is getting prepped by the chute crew, looking docile as he lightly moves his horns from side to side in the small, gated space. But I know better. The crew crowds him as they wrap the bull rope around his chest and the flank rope around his hindquarters.
The second they tighten it, the gleam in his black eyes instantly hardens to steel. He kicks his back legs, hitting the chute, the sound absently making me jolt backward and collide with something hard behind me.
“Whoa there,” a voice says, laced with amusement.
I turn, getting hit with Brian Sanders’ joyful smile. He must have had a killer ride, since he’s looking content and not sulking. However, he is usually in an optimistic mood.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m just—” I clamp my mouth shut, worried that if I say another word, my heart will jump out of my throat and land on his cowboy boots.
“Nervous?” he finishes for me.
“Yeah. That.”
His once bright grin shifts into a frown. He peers around us like he’s unsure what to say, but then his brown eyes settle on me. “You’re here for a reason. Trust your riding.”
My smile is soft. He’s only a year younger than I am and one hell of a rider, but even from our few brief conversations—since I officially met him this morning—he’s been kind, even in competition mode.
Other than that, everything I know about him comes from a little bit of stalking on social media and his stats.
“Alright, Harlow, you’re up,” one of the crew members yells.
“Good luck,” Brian tells me, slapping my shoulder.
“Thanks.” I give him a tight-lipped smile.
He takes off down the stairs toward the back pens, where the other riders are hanging out, with a view of the Jumbotron over the center of the arena, showing all the rides and scores.
They are all conversing except for the one brooding rider with his arms still folded, whose attention is locked on me.
I turn away from Colson, steadily breathing to calm my heart rate.
In and out.
In and out.
I slide a hand over my slicked-back low ponytail before placing my helmet on my head.
As I scale the fence and lower to mount on Spin Top’s back, the crushing weight of Colson’s stare is heavier than the panic bubbling in my gut.
I find my grip on the bull rope, at the same time zoning in on the way Spin Top’s muscles ripple below my thighs.
I rock my hips and hold my breath, getting comfortable as the pissed-off creature below me jerks in anger.
The air is thick with energy, the current pulsing through my limbs as I raise my left hand. My eyes fly open, and I give a firm nod, signaling I’m ready.
The gate flies open, Spin Top darting out so fast I slightly lose my balance as he kicks and bucks to the right. With one hand on the rope and one in the air, I attempt to adjust my body weight and position. I barely keep pace with his movements before he changes directions again.
When you’re bull riding, time slows and crawls by at a pace that feels anything but normal.
Spin Top’s thick, powerful frame flexes below my body, his grunts spurring the images of the ride that left me broken on the arena floor.
The panic boils over, and I can no longer contain the fear coursing through my body like lava that’s determined to melt me from the inside out.
The second his hind legs pierce the air and toss my body forward, I lose focus, my free hand reaching for the bull rope out of pure fear.
Everything blurs, transporting me back into that arena in Jacksonville, Florida, where my career should’ve ended.
I slam my eyes shut, willing the memories away from the forefront of my mind, but it’s too late.
The bull’s front hooves smash into the dirt, the animal launching my body into the hard ground as dirt flies up, clinging to the sheen of sweat on my face.
My vision tunnels, my body curling into a ball, utterly unaware of where the beast is. My brain can only focus on the crippling panic, seizing every muscle and controlling my thoughts. Tears stream down my cheeks, and I inhale a tattered breath.
My brain has shut off the noise.
The chaos of people around me.
When I finally manage to glance up, the red numbers on the clock appear through my blurry vision.
Three seconds.
I scan the fence line, easily locating the rider gripping the rail in front of him. I swear I see a flicker of worry pass over Colson’s features, but then his face hardens, and any trace of concern for my well-being vanishes like it was never there to begin with.
At this point, I don’t think it will only be my fear that consumes my focus and knocks me off my game this season. The infuriating man with his eyes trained on me is just as lethal.