Chasin' Eight (Rough Riders #11)(51)

“I think something fell outta your pocket when you took out your wallet.”

Relief swept over Ryan’s face when he saw the twenty dollars behind his equipment bag. “Gosh. Thanks. I thought I had enough.”

“No problem.” Tickled Chase to no end to see Ryan’s excitement when the lady handed him his contestant number.
Ryan grinned at Chase. “Nice meetin’ you.”

“See you behind the chutes.” Chase handed over his PRCA card and entry cash to the secretary.
“Ma’am. Is there a section reserved for family?”

“Yep. Section F, first six rows. Seating is first come, first serve.”

“Thanks. I’ll let her know.”

“Good luck.”

He glanced at his cell phone. Two hours before the performance started. He texted Ava the family section info and cut around the contestant entrance. Normally he loved being behind the chutes trash talking with the other riders. But he feared he’d give too much of himself away, so he opted to stretch out, warm up and get his head in the game by finding a remote corner by the pens.
As team roping started, Chase paced along the back fence until he heard a noise that sounded like…retching. He turned the corner and found the rookie, bent over, hands on his knees.
And Chase thought he was nervous? Poor kid. He’d been there. He leaned against the rail and waited until Ryan pushed himself upright. With his pasty-white complexion, the kid resembled a zombie. Chase didn’t say anything, merely handed him a bottle of water.
Ryan slumped next to him. Took a drink, swished it around in his mouth and spat it out. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem.”

“Did you ever…?”

“Barf before I rode? Yep. ’Course, I always told myself it was from something bad I ate or drank and definitely not from bein’ scared shitless.”

That earned Chase a wan smile.
“It’s normal. In fact, I’d think you were abnormal if you weren’t shaking in your boots.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. But the trick is to use that fear and control it, not let it control you. Make sense?”

Ryan nodded.
“What number you ridin’ tonight?”

“Fourteen.”

“I’m ridin’ sixteen. If you want, I can help pull your rope.”

“You’d do that?” Ryan asked with total surprise.
“Ain’t like we’re competing against each other. We’re tryin’ to best a bull, and in my mind, that puts us on the same side.”

“You’re right, I guess.”

Chase nudged him with his shoulder, or tried to, but the kid was a solid six inches taller than him. “I’m always right. Now come on, let’s get ready to ride us some bulls.”

Barrel racing ended. Most competitors were behind the scene, willing to lend a hand to whoever needed it. Chase watched as three of the first eight riders covered their bull. Then three more.
The kid was quick getting his hand in position and a wrap. An older guy stayed to help and released his hold on Ryan’s vest when the kid nodded his hatted head.
The gate opened and they were off. First thing Chase noticed: Ryan wasn’t spurring much, but he remained on the bull, matching his upper body movements to every jerk and twist. When the buzzer sounded, Chase whooped and hollered with the rest of the riders.
The score boomed over the loudspeaker. “How about a ride of seventy-eight for the PRCA debut of this Nebraska cowboy?”

Not a bad score for a rookie. Not bad at all.
Chase wandered down to his chute and performed a couple of stretches before he secured his headgear. Funny thing was, for as much as he’d initially bitched about wearing the helmet during the training with Cash, he’d gotten used to it.