Nineteen | Colson
Tearing off another piece of the muffin, I toss it into my mouth, nearly groaning at the way it melts on my tongue. The lemon-and-blueberry flavor dances on my taste buds, and I’m not one to exaggerate and shit, but they are magic.
There were four muffins in the container Harlow brought me. I’m devouring my third.
They’re addicting as hell and quench my hunger from working all morning since I was avoiding the house. Her. Whatever.
Fine. I’ve been avoiding her for days and have done a pretty damn good job of it.
I shouldn’t have been such an ass about her request to keep up with our animosity toward each other in the arena, but I said what I said, and the regret that filled me after was unexpected. I wanted to take it back, but it was too late.
“Maybe this crowd will think you can keep up with us, even though each ride, you’re securing your place at the bottom.”
As much as I hate it, she’s right. It took me days after we got home to figure out that keeping up this rivalry is beneficial for both of us.
There are no official rules against a rider coaching another rider, but it doesn’t mean it wouldn’t raise hell if our situation came to light.
We need to keep our distance, but I went overboard with teasing her in front of the guys.
I’m supposed to be helping her avoid distraction, but that night, I was the cause of it.
I affected her riding.
I’m glad we’ve cleared the air, but I can’t help but feel like some things are being left unsaid.
It’s like batting a hand around to clear those tiny black gnats that are a nuisance in the summer.
Waving them away only works for so long before they come back and hover, reminding you they’re there and there’s no getting rid of them.
“Hey! Are you even watching me?” Harlow stands, dusting the dirt off her chaps.
Marching over to her bull rope, she bends over and snatches it off the ground as Hank and his horse chase down Teddy, the bull, in the practice arena I built outside the stable years ago with the winnings from my first World Finals win.
I’ve never been able to use the old one in the pasture again, below the small barn, after Paisley’s accident.
I watch as Hank secures the lasso around the bull’s neck, gently guiding him back to the chutes. Don’t let his name fool you—that beast is far from a teddy bear.
“I was watching.”
“Uh-huh. Sure, you were,” Harlow grumbles, taking off her helmet with that sass that has my blood thickening in my veins while I ignore the small amount that flows to my cock.
It’s been misbehaving a lot more lately, and not even fucking my fist in the shower or in my room at night can stop her face from appearing in my fantasies.
Her long blonde hair is in a low ponytail today, with wisps tousled and sticking up from where her helmet was. I’m glad she wears one when she’s competing, because I don’t.
She approaches the fence I’m sitting on, glaring up at me. “You’re way too interested in my muffins to pay attention.”
“These are fucking delicious. It’s your fault for distracting me with food.
I’m only a man, dust bunny.” She chuckles and shakes her head.
I put the rest of the muffin in my mouth, dusting off my hands on my jeans.
“Fine. You have to stay centered and move with the animal, not against it. It’s easy to see that you’re trying to overpredict the bull’s future movements because you’re terrified of what will happen if you don’t. Your brain goes to the accident.”
She toes the dirt with her brown cowgirl boots.
“That’s what Aaron always said, too.” I don’t miss the hint of sadness seeping through her tone.
“But even when I try not to think about it, I forget everything the moment the gate flies open.” When her head lifts, her brows are furrowed. “And I am not terrified.”
My head slants, not believing her. It may be festering below the surface, but I know the signs.
“You’ve got to block that shit out, Harlow.
Your fear of the past doesn’t belong on the dirt.
I see what happens to your mental game and body language the moment those three seconds hit.
” One of the powers of being a rider is the ability to evaluate body language.
The bulls. My own. I hop off the fence and tap my pointer finger against her temple. “This is the issue.”
A rush of wind blows a lock of hair over her lips. She doesn’t tuck it behind her ear as I expect her to. For some reason, I’m clenching my fingers at my side to keep myself from doing it.
She stares at me thoughtfully. “I don’t know how to stop it. When those three seconds hit, I feel like I’m starting to black out.”
“Then, the moment you find yourself slipping there, to that night of your injury, think of something else. Anything else.” My tone shouldn’t sound as harsh as it is.
“Like what?”
“You’ve had only one scoring eight-second ride this season, and it was in Jacksonville. If any place should’ve broken you, it should have been that one. What were you thinking about then?”
She rolls her lips. “I was thinking about you.” My heart fucking stops in my chest before she stammers, “I mean, I was thinking the tip you gave me when you said I was leaning back too much.”
Yeah. That makes more sense.
I hate to admit that I was watching her ride like a hawk that weekend. I saw the subtle cues, the slight hints in her body movement, knowing she had somehow pulled herself together. It made me relax more than I usually do when I watch her ride.
“Now let’s talk about the physical side. Why do you think you did better on that ride than all the others?”
Her jaw clenches. “I don’t know.”
“You do,” I respond unequivocally.
She rolls her eyes in that same way I used to when I’d be at the dinner table, letting my dad help me with math. He would explain my issue of not paying attention to detail repeatedly, and Paisley would sit next to me, smugly smiling because she was always better at school than I was.
With Harlow, there are two issues. I’m just targeting the main one first because it could determine whether she suffers the same fate—or worse. Out there on the dirt, we’re at the mercy of beasts we know we’ll never tame, yet we find contentment in the ride anyway.
“Do you want me to tell you?”
She gestures to me. “You are my coach. I figured you would.”
My suppressed laugh stiffens her shoulders. “You came out of the chute relaxed. I think you found enough of a distraction that you didn’t let your fear take dominance.”
Her eyes brighten, the look making a flicker of satisfaction fire off in my chest. I like this look—a lot. “I was also focused on my breathing. All the other times when the panic started, I realized I was holding my breath.”
“And you moved more fluidly with the bull, keeping your gravity centered.” Harlow’s features lighten at the comment. “I mean, if I’m being technical and honest, even though you had one hell of a ride, your movements were still a little jerky,” I joke.
“Couldn’t just stop at the compliment.” She shakes her head.
I raise my hands in defense. “I’m your coach, and the Pbr’s biggest asshole for a reason.” I lightly slap the brim of her hat. “I’m a damn good rider, so you might want to listen.”
Her baby blues roll so far back in her head in response to my mischievous tone that my cock stirs in my jeans. “Yes, sir.”
Oh fuck.
I shouldn’t test the waters more, especially since I don’t know if there was any sexual connotation behind her reply, but I wade in deeper anyway. “When you listen to me this well, it makes me want to reward you.”
It’s as if every pint of blood in her body floods into her face at the praise. Should I be noting that she reacts to me this way? Probably not. But I mentally tuck that back into the recesses of my mind.
Never know when I might need it later.
For verbal praise when she’s riding well, of course.
Yep. That’s what I’m going to tell myself.
The clanking of metal has us both turning our heads to see Hank loading the next bull into the chute.
“The next event isn’t until after New Year’s,” I remind. “So that gives us a few weeks to get you mentally in shape to keep up with your physical stamina.”
She considers my words. “About that, I think I’m going to go home for Christmas and New Year’s. I’m sure you want to spend it with your family, too.”
I haven’t thought about my family much over the last few days, but the knot in my chest returns when I think about how different the holidays are now. Paisley’s accident may have been seventeen years ago, but it rewired our family in ways we’ll never change.
“This happened because of you.”
“She’ll never be the same after this.”
“You’re irresponsible, Colson. You shouldn’t have let her ride.”
“It’s your fault.”
“It’s your fault.”
“It’s your fault.”
Those are the kinds of comments that stick with you.
Words that cling to the soles of my boots like mud I track everywhere.
My soul is already aching, but the past lingers, like a rusty, jagged nail that digs deeper each time I visit.
Seeing my family only heightens the sting. Amplifies my inner self-loathing.
Paisley may be with them, but even I know that’s not the same. It will never be the same.
Of course, Harlow would want to spend the holidays with her family. What did I expect—her to stay here and keep me company?
“I expected you to go home,” I lie.
“But I won’t be taking it off,” she rushes out. “Do you think you could—”
“I’ll give you a list of things to work on and a workout plan that you can do at home. Until then, we’ll keep up with fundamentals, our individual workout plans, and I’ll work out some more training days with Hank.”
Her warm smile should hit my bloodstream, but it doesn’t.
I realized in my early twenties that my parents were better off without me around.
I’m the scar—the physical reminder that no matter how much time passes, the things that changed between us are permanent.
I’m the embedded and raised tissue that attempts to blend in with the surrounding skin, only to remain an impostor with each passing year.
Paisley begged me to consider going to my parents, but my mind was made up the moment she asked. Looks like I’ll be spending another holiday alone, downing a few bottles of whiskey to numb the unbearable loneliness I always feel this time of year.