Twenty-Five | Harlow
For the longest time, the top of the roster felt untouchable. I never thought I’d see my name creeping toward it. Not that I didn’t believe in myself, but I got in such a repetitive motion getting used to being on the bottom that I thought I’d stay there all season.
Dallas.
Palm Springs.
Madison Square Garden.
Indianapolis.
Each state and event came and went so fast that I could barely keep up.
Sure, I haven’t won an event yet, but I’ve come so close that I feel it in my bones.
And now that I have Ariat back as my sponsor, I proudly wear their logo on my riding vest. The last two weeks, I’ve made it to the championship round—the last round of the weekend that features the top twelve riders.
Colson placed second, and I placed eighth.
It’s an improvement I can’t be mad about. Progress is progress, and I have to accept it with a smile because it means I’m trying. Pushing myself.
I had a few toss-offs here and there, but my score is steadily jumping my name up in the rankings, and it’s all thanks to the man who I thought thrived on watching my failures.
We still keep our distance at events, but now, our glances are followed by a grin or smirk when we think nobody will notice.
I’ve started going out to the bars with them, tagging along with Brian and Dalton.
And when the other riders think Colson and I are avoiding each other, they don’t know that we are texting back and forth.
Back at the ranch in Tennessee, things are cozier. We often engage in easy conversations that are almost always marked by more laughter and smiles than not. I help him with daily chores when we’re not training, but most of the time I’m in the practice area working to earn Cosmos’ trust.
We watch movies and spend nights in the hot tub, relaxing our sore muscles. Colson taught me a card game called cribbage that we play over a beer, and he has way too much fun kicking my ass.
I’ve learned he’s competitive at everything.
Lately, I’ve been trying to ignore this festering ache weaving through my ribs and around my stomach like frayed twine.
At first, I thought it was nerves about a comeback.
I know I’m capable, but then I realized it has nothing to do with riding and everything to do with the man who I might have judged too quickly.
I said things are starting to feel normal, but there’s a thick storm of sexual tension hanging heavy over our heads, ready to break at any moment.
Usually, he wears a shirt around the house—the winter weather helps with that.
However, when we get into the hot tub, my eyes lock onto his strong chest, uniquely marked with battle scars from years of riding.
Then I follow that beautiful, happy trail and V-line that leads to the place that wets places other than just my mouth.
I’ve seen it. When he’s aroused, it’s tough not to notice that package he lugs around.
My vibrator has worked overtime to ensure I stop thinking about jumping the man’s bones, and it has failed me miserably.
Something has shifted in the air, and saying I want him feels like a bullet to the core of my feminism.
As I said, things are comfortable at the ranch, but the second we land in a new state, we part and go our separate ways. At least we talk now. Texting each other through it all has become the norm.
Every time I finished my ride, I would walk off the dirt to see him standing there, with a perfect view to watch me.
The times I lasted all eight, there was no mistaking the pride in his eyes.
Whether it was for his apparent coaching skills or my riding abilities, I’m not sure.
Then he’d tip his hat at me, his mouth briefly lifting into the smile that now holds the power to turn my legs to jelly.
“You’re up, Harlow. Good luck!” Dave, one of the chute crew members, says, shaking me out of my thoughts that have no place here.
It’s the second round before the top twelve have their spots for the championship to end the event in Salt Lake City. I need to be in those top positions, and all I need to do is hold on for this ride, and it’s guaranteed. My ride yesterday was an 87.75, but I can’t think about that.
As Colson said, past rides don’t matter.
The arena is bright, the atmosphere lively and loud as the rodeo clown dancing on the dirt floor has the crowd singing “Wagon Wheel” by Darius Rucker, their excitement feeding mine.
I climb the chute and lower onto the back of Bushwhacker.
Pulling on the rope at my side, I coat my gloved hand with rosin to improve my grip as I situate the bull rope exactly how I like it.
Without warning, Bushwhacker bucks, sending my body flying forward at a pace that not even the chute staff can protect me from.
My helmet-protected head is slammed into the pad in front of me, whipping my ponytail against my face.
They get the bull to calm, but my adrenaline surges tenfold as I try to quickly reposition myself.
Blowing out a breath with my eyes closed as I have every ride lately, I lower the shield of determination and flood my mind with everything I need to remember and locate that one distraction to keep the panic at bay.
When my eyes fly open, I nod, and the gate is released.
Bushwhacker bolts out, kicking his hind legs to heaven. His muscles tense beneath my thighs, my body telling me he’s about to shift directions. He does, and I’m with him every step of the way. The rush of blood in my ears blocks out the roars of the crowd, a sign I’m getting close.
Breathe in and out.
Center yourself.
How does he feel below you?
Those thoughts are repetitive on their own track, and before I know it, the buzzer sounds, and I release the rope, hopping off.
I land, somersaulting on the ground as I kick up dirt in my face while the bullfighters, including Matt, guide him back into the chutes. The cheers from the arena only make my smile bigger.
“Alright, folks,” the announcer booms. “If there’s anything we’ve learned from Harlow Hartt from these last several events, it is that she may be on the verge of one of the biggest comebacks we’ve seen in years!”
Damn straight.
I rip off my helmet and wait for the score. The stands quiet, as if the arena holds its breath as we wait for my score to appear on the Jumbotron.
The announcer’s voice could blow the speakers. “There it is, an 89.5! Almost a 90, and it’s now the highest score of this round so far and her highest score of the season.”
I don’t think I run. My feet carry me out of the arena, through the open gate to the bull pens, and straight for the cocky bull rider standing with a smile that has the power to liquify me and turn the dirt to mud below my boots.
My core happily volunteers to melt instead as my center throbs, my panties instantly dampening at the pride shining in his eyes.
Our surroundings hit me like a wall. I screech to a stop, glancing around and thanking the other riders as they congratulate me.
Shit. I want to hug Colson, but there are eyes everywhere.
He tilts his head in challenge—I’m never one to walk away from one, but this one I do.