Eleven | Harlow
“Are you crazy?” Mel reaches into one of my suitcases, snatches a pair of my jeans, and tosses them clear across my bedroom with the force of a pitcher for a major-league baseball team.
They nearly knock over the framed photo of my mom, dad, Melanie, and me from a family camping trip we took a few summers ago.
They hit the wall, plopping on the ground beside my closet door.
To prove her point—and because she’s in full-blown sass mode—she bends, picks up a stack of folded clothes, and gives me a disapproving stare before walking to the closet and tossing them inside.
They hit my shirts and sweaters dangling on hangers before they drop onto the floor.
The hangers squeak on the old metal rod, feathering my arms in gooseflesh at the obnoxious high-pitched noise that seems to echo through the otherwise silent room.
My hands find my hips, and I shake my head at her. She’s trying to protect me, but still. “You were there for both of my rides in Milwaukee, Mel. I didn’t score either time. I need a coach.”
She glares. Hard. “But Colson Fucking Payne?”
My eyes widen. My sister doesn’t curse often, let alone use the F word, so the profanity falling from her mouth sinks into my chest like a dull blade. She’s more upset than I thought she would be.
“But you lasted eight seconds in Jacksonville,” she whines. “I believe in you. You can do it without a coach.”
I’ve always loved Mel’s faith in me, but it’s not that simple. “And that’s the only time I’ve scored this season. I can’t keep up with this streak of getting tossed into the dirt when three seconds hit.”
I’m starting to think Florida was a fluke.
Well, that, or whatever higher power is watching over me, knew that I was about to find out about Aaron’s heart attack and wanted to take it easier on me.
Milwaukee was brutal. I got my ass handed to me, and everyone noticed.
Especially Colson, because he would say or mouth, “Offer still stands,” with one of his cocky brows raised whenever my eyes found his.
I made up my mind to accept his offer on the plane after rewatching my rides on YouTube. I am a damn good rider, but I have no intention of stalling my skills because, clearly, they aren’t doing me any good right now.
I’m still hesitant about whether I’m making the right choice, spending nearly half a year with the man who makes my blood simmer from his mere presence. But I can always leave, right? Try it out and see if it would even work.
If we would work.
I don’t doubt Colson’s skills as a rider; there’s a reason why he has been competing for the last sixteen years. He is talented. Hardworking. Focused.
And that’s exactly what I need if I’m going to move up in the rankings.
I have no time to sit around contemplating my choices or other alternatives; this has to be an impulsive decision, or else I will come up with a million reasons not to do it.
As of right now, I’m already behind and need to catch up while it’s still early enough in the season.
I told Mom, Dad, and Mel over dinner last night.
I thought my confession caused a time glitch.
Nobody moved. Nobody said a word. They just peered at me with vacant expressions like I was starting to grow a pair of bull horns out of my head.
It probably didn’t help that Mel and I had just gotten home around lunch yesterday, and we barely had time to catch up with our parents.
Now it’s Tuesday, and my red-eye flight to Tennessee is tonight. Like I said, no time to waste. Getting out tonight means I’ll have a few days of training with Colson before our next event to find out if this arrangement will even work.
Melanie’s pathetic puppy-dog eyes slowly shift back into a full-on scowl as I walk back into my closet, picking up the clothes she tossed like I wasn’t going to refold them and put them back in my suitcase.
“Will it make you feel better if I tell you that I’m more vulnerable now every time I hit the dirt than taking a risk and going to Tennessee to let Colson coach me?”
She flops onto my bed like a fish, letting out a loud sigh.
“Not even a little bit.” Mel pushes up on her elbows.
“It’s just that it’s—him. Why couldn’t it be anyone else?
” She bolts upright, pressing her finger to her lips in thought.
“What about that cute guy with the mustache who you’re becoming friends with? ”
Creases form between my brows. “Brian?”
“Yeah, him! He’s been riding well.”
“Brian is a year younger than I am. Colson, on the other hand, is considered a veteran in the Pbr—”
“Yeah, because he’s old.”
A giggle tickles my throat.
Honestly, an eleven-year difference between us doesn’t feel like much since we’re both adults.
I call him old because it gets on his nerves, and he gets on mine by calling me a dust bunny.
He thinks I don’t know the real connotation behind it, but I do.
Buckle bunnies, and I couldn’t be more different—I’m chasing the buckle for an entirely different reason.
Colson also infuriated me when he didn’t remember who I was during our second interaction ever at the kickoff event, my first year making it to the Pbr.
He shook my hand, and to this day, he still doesn’t recognize me.
It was easier to think he had amnesia because a part of me was hoping he would remember who I was.
That he would remember the girl standing in front of him after he told her that trying to make it as a professional bull rider wasn’t worth proving a point.
I had put in so much work and finally stood in front of the man who pushed me to accomplish one of my goals.
I keep going with the nickname Old Man because I’m petty like that.
And I’m still pissed the identification has never crossed his mind.
Sure, I could’ve told him at any point in the last several years, but the thought of him coming to that lightbulb moment on his own sounds absolutely delicious and rewarding.
Folding one of my sleep sets, I place it in my bag on top of the others.
“Exactly. So, Colson has more experience than any other rider,” I try to reassure her.
“I may not like him, but I like his riding skills. We’re already into the season, and the chances of finding another coach as good as Aaron are slim.
Plus, Colson’s nearing the end of his career, and if anyone finds out, it might not be a big deal. ” Or so I hope.
When I messaged him on Instagram, giving in to his ridiculous plan, I made it very clear that I wanted this only to remain between us. I don’t want anyone in the league finding out that he’s coaching me.
She squints, studying me.
I swallow. “What?”
“You realize if you go, a bull won’t be the only thing he’s teaching you to ride.”
Blood floods my cheeks, heating my skin. Of course, because Mel always seems to have impeccable timing with things like this, my mother, Amelia, stops in the hallway, stilling with a laundry basket in her hands.
“Melanie Anne Hartt,” my mom scolds.
I drag a hand over my face, cursing the universe and Mel’s keen ability to say certain things at the worst timing.
“Ugh. You guys know I’m right!” Mel complains.
Mom’s eyes roll to the ceiling, and she shakes her head. “Those thoughts were already going on in my head; I didn’t need to hear you say them out loud.”
“See.” Mel gestures to our mother. “I’m not the only one thinking it.” She turns toward Mom. “So why are you okay with letting her go?”
Mom leans against the doorway, propping the laundry basket under one arm.
“You girls are adults. I may not like something, but in the end, you make your own decisions.” My mom swallows.
“We’ve watched your last few rides live, and I’d rather you work and train with someone who knows what they’re doing than risk going out there every time where your panic takes hold of you.
” Her blue eyes glaze over as she stares at me.
“Colson may not be Aaron, but he seems like he knows what he’s doing, and if working with him makes you safer out there, then I am all for it. ”
I can see the gears turning in her gaze.
Her thoughts are circling back to the night of my injury, as if her eyes are small screens replaying the accident two years ago.
My parents used to come and watch me ride more than they do now.
But when I was at the event in Jacksonville, Mel and my parents watched everything unfold on the live stream thousands of miles away.
I’m sure my screaming made it seem like I was in the room with them.
Even weeks later, after my surgery, as my parents wheeled me around in a wheelchair, I knew I would be working my way back to the professional league. My parents understood that most injuries wouldn’t keep me from riding, but a part of me thinks they were hoping a shattered leg would.
They were at that appointment when the doctors told me I would make a complete recovery if I kept up with physical therapy, but riding again would be a risk.
I didn’t tell them I was officially going to train and work my way back into the Pbr until four months later.
That’s the thing about my parents, though.
They didn’t have to voice their concerns or opinions because their silence and sidelong glances spoke louder than words ever could.
I don’t think any amount of time could have made them feel comfortable about letting me get back on a bull. They always knew I was stubborn and that I was not myself unless my hardheadedness affected every part of my life. I get that from my dad.
He knows it, which is why he doesn’t say anything.
She blinks the memories away, clearing her throat. “Do we need to have a conversation about protection?”
I catch the humor seeping through her tone, lightening the heavy moment.
Playing along, a corner of my mouth lifts. “I won’t forget my protective vest, Mom. I wouldn’t be allowed to ride without it.”