"Next up, from Gritstone, Colorado, riding Midnight Express—Wyatt Halloway!” the announcer's voice booms across the arena, and my heart drops straight into my boots.
The crowd erupts, and I realize that people know his name. People expect him to do something spectacular.
No pressure or anything.
The chute gate appears on the big screen, and there he is—calm as if he's sitting on a porch swing instead of atop a literally murderous animal. Midnight Express is everything the name suggests: black as midnight, built like a freight train, and currently trying his best to demolish the metal chute around him.
Beneath the helmet, Wyatt’s face fills the screen as he adjusts his grip. I suck in a breath. He nods.
The chute gate flies open, and Midnight Express explodes into the arena with the kind of violence that makes the laws of physics seem like gentle suggestions.
Oh God, oh please, oh God—I'm praying nonsense and it's the most honest prayer of my life.
Wyatt rides the first buck, his free arm moving in time while his riding hand stays locked in position. The bull spins hard left, and for a heartbeat they look like they're dancing—some deadly waltz between man and beast that's terrifying.
Then Midnight Express changes tactics.
He launches skyward, back hooves kicking toward the arena lights, and Wyatt gets snapped forward like a rag doll. My breath catches in my throat as he fights to stay centered, his body absorbing impact that would break a normal person in half.
Stay on stay on stay on—.
"Three seconds," someone announces nearby. It feels like we've been in this nightmare for hours.
The bull lands hard and immediately spins right. Wyatt shifts, trying to adjust to the new speed. He’s coming dangerously close to the bull’s massive shoulders with each rotation.
"Six seconds!"
My hand finds June's arm, fingers digging into her leather jacket as Midnight Express throws himself into another jarring series of bucks. Each jolt rattles through Wyatt’s frame, his face tight with the effort of holding on.
The bull's pattern shifts again—a vicious spin that seems designed to fling Wyatt into the nearest fence post. Wyatt's body whips sideways, his balance compromised for one terrible moment that makes my heart stop completely.
No no no—.
Somehow, he finds his center just as the eight-second buzzer shrieks across the arena.
He did it.
Wyatt releases his rope and jumps free, but his boot catches in the rope. Instead of falling clear, he's dragged alongside the still-bucking bull, his body bouncing against Midnight Express's massive flank like a broken toy.
My nails dig into June's arm so hard she winces, but Ican't make myself let go. I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but watch.
Get him off. GET HIM OFF.
The bullfighters surge into action, distracting Midnight Express with shouts and movement, keeping him from turning in on Wyatt. His boot finally comes free. He hits the dirt hard, rolling away from the bull's rear hooves. He stops motionless in the arena sand.
The crowd gasps.
June throws her arm around my shoulders to hold me together.
We wait. … We wait. …
He lifts a hand, and I let out the breath that was about to explode inside of me. He pushes himself up to sitting, shaking his head like he's clearing the arena dirt out of his ears.
“Let’s pay him off, ladies and gentlemen. Wyatt Halloway is on his feet!” The crowd roars its approval as he stands and waves to acknowledge their cheers.
I sink against June. Exhausted as if I was the one who’d been on the bull.
“He's walking. That's good.” June says in my ear. “Walking is good. Walking means nothing's broken.”