I grab my helmet and lean against the chute rail, letting the familiar rituals wash the outside world away. Dirty Bucker snorts again in the chute, hooves shifting against steel, rattling the whole structure like he’s bored of waiting to destroy something. Nobody’s made the eight on him this season. Not once.
Which is exactly why I want him.
I’m third in the world right now, gunning for Vegas, and a clean ride on Dirty Bucker could sling me into first.
Jake hops up next to me, his grin just wide enough to hide the nerves. "That bull looks like he eats egos for breakfast."
I hand him my phone.
The chute boss yells, “Chute three!” and everything else disappears. The crowd, the noise, even the heat bleeding through my vest.
Biting down on my mouth guard, I pull on my helmet and swing a leg over to settle in. Dirty Bucker shifts, testing me already, jerking against the gate like he knows I’m not just here to survive him—I’m here to beat him. He throws himself into the wall and then the gate and back at the wall, already trying to get me off.
Jake reaches down and slaps my helmet. “Go get ‘em, Wyatt!”
I lower my head and breathe in. My hand tightens in the rope, locked. I nod and the gate flies.
Dirty Bucker explodes out like a cannon, backlegs kicking toward the sky. I ride forward, then back, every movement synced to his, not fighting, just adjusting. We spin hard left, then he fakes right and kicks again, a blur of hide and lightning beneath me.
Time bends.
My spurs hit the sweet spot behind his shoulder. Even the ghost of my father’s disappointment goes silent. I’m here to dance with this devil. There’s only the ride.
And I am good at it.
Dirty Bucker makes one final lurch, a high rear and hard twist, but I hold. I’m flying and grounded all at once.
The buzzer shrieks.
I release and kick free—almost. My hand is stuck in the rope. I twist my wrist. Dirty Bucker bucks again, and I’m airborne, twisting sideways, slamming into the dirt shoulder-first. White-hot pain sears down my arm. I don’t stay down. Not in front of twenty thousand people. Not ever. Hollaway’s are never beat.
I roll and try to scramble to my feet, but the ground sways and my left shoulder gives out and doesn't work like I want it to. I taste blood, copper and grit.
Bull fighters rush in, cutting off Dirty Bucker before he circles back. My shoulder’s not right. Might be a sprain. Maybe worse. Can’t tell. Doesn't matter.
I pull my legs under me and stand up. My left arm hangs heavy, useless, but I nod to the crowd like nothing’s wrong.
Applause rolls like thunder. The score flashes on the screen—88.5.
I wave my good arm. The crowd's losing their minds, but I’m only watching one face. Kinsley’s standing stiff near the rail, lips parted, eyes wide, and drinking me in.The primal pride that surges through me is wicked. I feel like I just baptized a rodeo virgin with dust and sweat and eight seconds of glory. She’s leaving here a Wyatt Halloway fan.
The arena director meets me at the gate, concern etched deep. "You’re seeing the doc. Non-negotiable."
I nod, not because I agree, but because I’m too dizzy to argue.
I’ve seen the inside of enough rodeo med tents to know how this works. There’s always a cooler full of warm sports drinks nobody wants, a pile of crumpled gauze that never quite makes it into the trash, and an exam table that looks like it’s held more pain than a church pew.
Doc Mackey doesn’t even pretend to be surprised. “Well,” he mutters as I duck inside. “If it isn’t my favorite repeat offender.”
“Doc,” I say in greeting, biting back the grimace as I lower myself onto the table. “Miss me?” He’s patched me up in four states.
“You know you’re allowed to show up without bleeding,” he says, cutting my shirt away.
Dang it. I liked this shirt. “Where’s the fun in that?”
His fingers prod along my shoulder, hitting every nerve like they owe him money. I suck in a breath through my nose and grit my teeth. Pain like this has a color. Bright, white-hot.
“Thought so,” he says, frowning. “Pulled a ligament, right where the clavicle meets the shoulder joint.”