Sixteen | Colson
Water cascades over my head, creating a shield of wet hair that falls over my eyes. I turn, allowing my muscles to relax under the liquid heat rushing over my skin.
Harlow and I worked out in my home gym in the converted hayloft yesterday, and it was …
competitive. A kind of unspoken competitiveness that silently flowed between us like a live wire.
We started with planks as a warm-up, and apparently, she took the three sets as an invitation to start a contest with me, pushing to see how long we could last—both with our gazes and with our bodies.
Which was fucking difficult, considering she was wearing a swooping neckline that exposed the valley of those soft breasts I wanted to ogle instead of those baby blues she tries to drown me in.
That wasn’t the only thing that tested my control.
It was also her ass in those leggings that clung to her curves like a second skin as she did squats.
It was the way those droplets of sweat would drift and glide to places I shouldn’t want to explore.
Places my fingers and hands shouldn’t want to touch.
Keeping my brain in check was a workout in itself.
Then, we did half an hour of easy training on the mechanical bull on the main floor in the barn.
I say easy, but I’m thirty-four. After years of giving my body over to this unrelenting sport, I feel like I’m fifty at the end of each day.
By the end of this week, I’ll be damn near close to walking like I’m eighty once I let myself be tossed around and hurled into the dirt.
I may be complaining about it, but I welcome the pain—look forward to it.
I find pleasure in the way my muscles burn and the unique form of nausea that comes with competing in a high-impact sport.
Those moments don’t happen all the time, but when they do, I sit there like a psychopath, soaking in the agony.
Like a few years ago, when I broke three ribs.
I was sprawled across the ground, clutching my side, chuckling maniacally through the pain as the medical team gathered around me, feeling closer to Paisley than I had in a long time.
Sometimes, I try to understand the pain my sister went through. At least that’s how I try to process it. Bull riders are a reckless bunch, and I couldn’t blame Paisley for wanting to get back out there and prove she was fine.
But nothing can prepare you for how fast life can change.
Paisley’s concussion when she got tossed headfirst into a fence when we were seventeen wasn’t something to mess with.
She rested. She waited. She told me she was ready to start again, and I believed her.
Never did I think that one injury could morph into something life-altering for both of us.
“Colson!”
I freeze, wondering if I heard my name being called somewhere in the house over the whizz of spray from the showerhead.
A few more moments pass, and I let it go, cupping my hand under the shampoo dispenser.
I rub it in my hands and start to scrub my hair when a knock at the door solidifies my muscles.
A fist raps against the bathroom door. “Colson!” Shit. Yep. Harlow is yelling my name, and she sounds pissed. “You need to come downstairs. You have a visitor.”
A visitor? I never get those out here; it’s one of the perks of owning a fifty-acre ranch. “If they’re trying to sell something, tell them to leave,” I holler back.
“Well, you’d better get your ass out then. I’m getting uncomfortable being alone with him.”
The fuck.
“I’ll be right down!” I growl, ducking my head under the showerhead to quickly rinse the soap out of my hair.
Harlow doesn’t say another word, so I take it as a hint that she marched away like she always does when her attitude appears and she’s annoyed with me.
I enjoy it more than I should.
When I step out of the shower and dry off, I don’t bother with a shirt and toss open the door, heading downstairs.
I’m fastening the button of my Wranglers when my eyes clash with a pair of furious green ones, stopping me in my tracks.
Matt glares at me from my living room with his hands braced on his hips.
Harlow stands at the kitchen island in a pair of sleep shorts and a T-shirt with a mug of coffee, her gaze curiously bouncing between my best friend and me. “Um, I’m going to go finish packing for this weekend.”
Without saying another word, she paces across the living room and awkwardly slips past me on her way upstairs. Even the slightest brush of her skin against my arm has my pulse accelerating.
When she’s out of earshot, he lashes out. “You want to tell me what the fuck is going on here?” Matt’s hardened glower sears into me like hot iron against steel.
I take the rest of the steps down and nod toward the front door. “Let’s take this outside.”
“You think that’s going to keep her from hearing me chew your ass out?”
“Fine, we’ll do this here,” I growl.
“At least now I know why you’ve been ignoring me the last few days!
Once I realized you weren’t going to answer, I figured our travel plans were as usual.
But when I walked in, Pbr’s Sweetheart was lounging on your couch like she owns the damn place.
I walked out and back in because I thought I was hallucinating.
” His eyes narrow. “Are you fucking her?”
Plopping onto the couch, I prop my arm over the back and blow out a breath. “No.”
Matt gives me an unconvinced look. “Then why else would Harlow be here? You hate each other, and there’s no other reason.”
“I’m coaching her.”
He stills. “You’re bullshitting me.”
“He’s not.” Harlow’s loud voice carries down from somewhere upstairs.
Leaning over, I brace my elbows on my knees, lowering my voice. “Aaron Jackson died, Matt. Her coach. You and I both watched her leg break two years ago, and she’s back, still a rookie. There’s too much of this season left. She needs a coach, and you know it.”
“Last time I checked, you’re still competing.”
“I am,” I answer.
“This is fucking unbelievable. Is that even allowed? Were you even going to tell me?”
“I figured you’d react like this.” I gesture to him. “I don’t see why it would be an issue. I’m a veteran and nearly done with my career.” The admission tastes bitter on my tongue. “And I knew you’d be here this morning since our flight to Washington is this afternoon.”
“I was—” He swallows, tensely shifting his cowboy hat on his head out of nervous habit. “Shit. I was worried about you when you didn’t answer.”
Confusion pulls at my features. “Why?”
Matt shakes his head. “You know why.”
I sink further into the couch cushions, dragging my hand over my face. I should’ve told him about Harlow, but he might hate her more than I do. Did. I don’t know; we’ve only had a few days together since she got here, and we’ve been more civilized than I thought we would be.
Ever since she punched me in the jaw and split my lip the night before the ride that broke her leg, Matt hasn’t been fooled by her sweetheart persona—even though he knew that it was my fault because I had a few too many drinks.
I turned into a raging dick and crossed the line.
I should’ve known the girl before me wouldn’t have had any issue putting me back in my place.
I said things I shouldn’t have; I’ll admit that. Harlow just has this glimmer in her eyes that challenges me in ways I should be able to control at my age.
Before this arrangement, we were always in a space where we were high on competition and relished in the way it flowed through our veins and fed our determination. It will be interesting to see how things change between us the moment we get to the arena tomorrow for round one.
The sound of wheels rolling upstairs grows louder.
Matt and I both look up and see Harlow lingering at the top of the stairs with her luggage.
She’s dressed in black boot-cut jeans and a long-sleeved blue top that makes her hair look like pale sunshine over Caribbean waters.
To pull her look together, she’s wearing her taupe cowgirl hat.
She purses her lips and lifts the handle, struggling to carry it down the stairs. When she gets to the bottom, she glances between us before leaving her bag where it is and approaching my best friend.
She puts her hand up between them. “I know you’re a bullfighter, but I guess we have never officially met. I’m Harlow.”
He defiantly stares at her hand before releasing a condescending exhale. “I know who you are.” I clear my throat, and he takes the hint, placing his hand in hers like a child being forced to cooperate with another kid after a conflict. “Matt.”
She smirks and jokingly says, “I know who you are.”
A red, irritated flush creeps across his face while I try not to laugh.
Her sass is funny when it’s not directed at me.
“You guys are insane,” he mutters, releasing her hand. “This is going to blow up in your faces. Especially when people hear that a rider is coaching another rider.”
“Which is why I think we should keep this under wraps,” Harlow says to Matt, but I know it’s directed toward me, too.
A reminder of how she feels about our scheme.
“I don’t want it to cause issues with the other riders.
The media has already blown up our rivalry, and right now, it’s working to my advantage, trying to resecure sponsorships. ”
I blow out an exasperated sigh, my focus lingering on the rivalry aspect of what she said. That is something we didn’t discuss. “So, you want to act like we still hate each other whenever we’re competing?”
“Who says we don’t?” I search her gaze carefully, wondering if the brief glimmer of mischief and playfulness is there or if it’s all in my head. But it doesn’t matter.
“Fine.” My tone is firm. “We’ll part ways as soon as we get to Seattle. Wouldn’t want us to get caught being friendlier than usual and threaten your sponsorship opportunities.”
Matt’s eyes ping-pong back and forth with too much amusement.
Harlow’s chest rises and falls. “I just mean we should keep our interactions minimal when we’re on the road and in the arena—like nothing has changed.”
I rise to my feet. “Yep. I got that.” They both watch as I make my way across the living room toward the stairs. “I’m going to finish packing.”
My pissy demeanor is throwing me off.
I don’t care that she wants to keep up this competition between us when we’re on the road.
I don’t.
Keep telling yourself that.
I’m only helping her to tighten up her skills, block out her fear, and keep improving so she doesn’t end up under the hooves of a beast that doesn’t give a damn about her when it’s just the two of them on the dirt.
If Harlow wants to keep our rivalry perfectly intact, I’ll give her what she wants, but I’m not taking it easy on her.
After all, she thinks I’m the biggest asshole in the Pbr. It’s only fair that I act like one.