Chasin' Eight (Rough Riders #11)(2)

“Yes, sir.” Chase exhaled the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. “What else?”

“In the meantime…try to remember how to ride a damn bull, okay? Practice, relearn, do whatever the hell it takes to get back to the professional level where you belong. Give me your word that you’ll figure out what you’ve been doin’ wrong and try and fix it.”

Jesus. That f*cking stung. He said, “You have my word, Elroy,” and wondered how he was supposed to relearn something he’d been doing for over a decade.
“You do those two things. Prove to me you can do them and I’ll push for you to get back in as soon as the season restarts.”

Chase didn’t bother mentioning the break would put him out of contention for the world title this year because he wasn’t even close to contention. In fact, if he didn’t get his shit together, he’d soon be off the PBR tour altogether.
Helluva mess you got yourself in, McKay.
“Try to behave, and I’ll be in touch,” Elroy said.
With nothing left to say, Chase started across the parking lot toward the motel. Lost in thought, he almost bumped into Winnie when she slithered from the shadows.
She blocked him like a sentry, arms crossed over her flat chest, her eyes strangely defiant behind glasses.
“You stick around to gloat?” he taunted.
Winnie sighed. “No, I don’t enjoy this, but it’s necessary to speak my piece while I have the chance.”

“So go ahead and tell me I’m the Antichrist.”

“There you go, putting words in my mouth.” She held up her hand to stop his rebuttal. “And I don’t need to hear for the umpteenth time that you’d rather put something else in my mouth.”

“You’ve got me pegged, down to knowing exactly what I’m gonna say?”

“Yes. You aren’t all that complex, Chase.”

Low blow. “You calling me a simpleton?”

“Three things matter to you. Bull riding, sex and Chase McKay. That seems pretty simple to me.”

“Bullshit,” he spat.
“I understand athletes at the top of their game are self-centered. Privileged. I worked with a pro baseball team before I joined the PBR staff.” Winnie sneered at him. “Betcha didn’t know that. Know why? Because you didn’t bother to ask. I never expected us to become BFFs, but I deserved your cooperation. I deserved your faith that I knew how to do my job just as well as you did yours. I deserved your respect. Whenever you called me—”

“Sugar tits?” he supplied.
“Nothing about you calling me sugar tits is considered remotely respectable,” she snapped. “You know exactly where to strike to make me feel small, but that doesn’t make you a big man, Chase McKay.”

A flush rose up his neck. It’d been an assholish thing to say and he had no excuse for it, besides lashing out from sheer frustration. Before he could buck up and apologize to her for a change, Winnie lit into him.
“But here’s the thing: It’s my job to know all about you. Because of your natural riding talent early on, everyone in your ranching family cut you slack, believing you were destined for great things, and you accepted it as your due. Maybe you did work hard initially at being the best bull rider around, but I’ve seen none of that drive in the last year. Now you make excuses for your piss-poor riding averages.”

She ticked off the reasons on her fingers. “It has to be the organization that’s holding you back. Or the shitty bulls. Or the sponsorship commitments. Couldn’t be that you’ve become a slacker. Resting on your previous laurels. Using charm and your good looks to keep your sponsorships rather than utilizing the talent that should keep you at the top of the standings.”