Flawless (Chestnut Springs #1) (32)

I also know he’s reveling in my current scandal. He sees it as an opportunity rather than something shitty that’s happened to a friend or teammate.

Yeah, I trust this fucker about as far as I can throw him. Which, considering the current state of my shoulder, is not at all.

“She’s not a new piece,” I reply, my tone sharper than I intend as I tape my hands without bothering to glance up at him.

He chuckles, like he knows he’s struck a chord I didn’t even know was there. “So, fair game then?”

“She’s my agent. So, no. Not fair game.”

Emmett props a booted foot across his knee, knowing that he has the attention of the other guys in the room now too. “I thought Kip Hamilton was your agent?”

“Yeah. And she’s his daughter.”

“Hooo boy!” He slaps his knee and laughs, his hillbilly accent really shining through right now. “So not fair game for you. But fair game for me.”

I hum in response. I’m pretty sure Summer could handle this fuckboy without my help, but I don’t like the thought of it. Not at all.

“Just ignore him.” Theo elbows me and mumbles, “You know he’s trying to throw you off.”

“You’re smart for a baby, Theo.”

He smiles and elbows me a little harder. His dad, a world-famous bull rider from Brazil, was my mentor, until a bull took him from us. So, I’ve taken Theo under my wing, and I make it my business to see him succeed. To give him all the support his old man gave to me once upon a time.

“Ready, old man?” He removes his ear buds and comes to stand in front of me. He pulls me up and then we’re off, walking through the staging area toward the din of the crowd and the flashing lights in the ring.

I drew another good bull for tonight. A real jumper. A vicious spinner. He’ll toss me like a lawn dart or give me the ride of my life. Later Gator is just that kind of bull. I’ve ridden him before, and he hated it. But I loved my score. So, here’s hoping he hates the feel of my spurs against his ribs again tonight because after that exchange, I sure as shit don’t want Emmett Bush leaping me in the standings.

People say hello, but it’s all in my periphery. This always happens to me before I step into the ring. The world melts away, and I hear nothing else. I see nothing else. My focus is singular, and I love this feeling.

Other riders take their turns. The cheering and color from the crowd becomes a backdrop for me and what I’m about to do.

Do I know a bull can kill me? Yeah. But I don’t think about that. Half the battle in this sport is mental toughness. If I think that way, who knows what will happen. I’ve always told myself as soon as I look down at a bull and feel fear rather than anticipation, that’s when I’ll know my career is done.

So instead, I turn up the swagger. The confidence. The devil-may-care smile. It’s a mask meant for the fans and competitors just as much as it’s meant for me.

When my name is called, I shove my mouth guard in and swap my favorite brown hat for my favorite black helmet to climb up the fence while Later Gator makes his way down the chute.

My shoulder is sore, really fucking sore, but not like it was before Summer got her hands on it. She didn’t even try to stop me from getting onto a bull tonight, something I appreciate more than she even realizes.

My chin turns momentarily to the stands where she sat last night. Exact same spot. A muscle in my chest twists when my eyes linger on her, leaned forward in her seat, elbows propped on her knees, one hand on each cheek. She looks nervous. And not because she thinks I’ll get hurt. She looks like you do when your favorite hockey team is in a shootout for the win.

She looks invested.

And it makes me grin down at the vibrating two-thousand-pound bull beneath me.

Within moments, I jump down and rub at the bull rope, the rosin warms and softens as I do so that I can wrap it just the way I like.

It’s going to be a good ride. Sometimes I have this gut feeling, and I roll with that feeling, letting it seep into every bone.

Theo says something to me, but I’m not sure what. He smacks my shoulder, and I sink down, finding my center of balance. I don’t even register the pain.

Then I nod.

And the gate flies open.

The angry bull instantly drops his right shoulder into a spin. Dirt pelts my vest, and I find my balance, leaning away from the hole he creates in that turn. I definitely do not want to fall down in there.

Eight seconds feels like it lasts forever when all you want to do is stay on and keep your arm in the perfect L shape. Because of my size, my form needs to be textbook for all the angles to work in my favor. And it is—that’s sort of what I’m known for. I’m an anomaly.

I keep my chin dipped to my chest, because I know this fucker is going to veer left at some point.

And I know it’s going to hurt.

A few breaths later, it comes to fruition. He leaps in the air, twisting like the athlete he is before dropping and turning. My shoulder screams, and I focus on keeping my fingers tight on the rope and my elbow tucked tight against my ribs. It’s all I can do for now.

My body riots, but I force it into position, cursing under my breath as the bull continues his tour of destruction.

The buzzer sounds, and relief hits me.

I used to feel like I could go forever on the back of a bull bucking like this, but lately, the minute that buzzer goes, I want off. There’s this little part of me that knows the statistics are less in my favor every time I hop on a bull. Something is bound to happen after how long I’ve been at it.