My boots slammed into the grass. My knees buckled for a second, and I stumbled, chest heaving.
I straightened up, rolled my left shoulder, and pulled in a deep, burning breath of air. The wild, electric high of the ride tore through my veins as the announcer’s voice boomed across the field.
“Eighty-nine and a half points!” the announcer bellowed. “Brock Wilder is on top of the leaderboard!”
The stadium erupted into a deafening wall of sound.
I yanked my glove off and wiped sweat from my brow with my forearm. I grabbed my hat out of the grass, knocked the green smears off the brim, and gave the screaming crowd a quick tip.
But I wasn’t watching them.
I turned straight toward the fence. Sienna was pressed against the chain-link. Colt and Wren had run down from the stands and stood right behind her, yelling their heads off.
Sienna dropped her hands and laughed, pointing frantically up at the digital scoreboard.
It wasn’t over yet. The math wasn't final, and I still had work to do before Vegas was officially locked in. But that was the best ride I’d had in weeks.
I glanced back at Sienna, that huge smile on her face, and felt something lock into place in my chest.
One step closer.
Two weeks later, I was about to lose my mind.
Rain hammered the roof of Wild Sage. Dad had a fire going in the stone fireplace for hours, and now the living room was hot as a furnace. All seven of us were crammed in there, trapped by the storm and waiting on midnight.
The PRCA season was done, and the final rodeos had wrapped. But the association wouldn't post the audited world standings until twelve.
Colt wore a path across the braided rug, boots thumping the same ten-foot stretch over and over. "If this storm knocks out the internet, I'm driving my truck straight through the nearest cell tower."
Wren was balled up in the armchair, strangling a throw pillow. "Sit down, Colt. You're making me dizzy."
"I can't sit. Too excited."
"Then pace outside. In the rain."
"Hey." Dad's voice cut through from his recliner. They both shut up. He took a slow sip of coffee, eyes on the flames. "Pacing won't change the numbers."
Wyatt sat on the floor by the fire, letting Maisie weave pink yarn through his hair. She'd been at it for twenty minutes, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth.
I leaned in the doorway between the hallway and the living room, arms crossed.
Sienna sat cross-legged on the rug, swallowed up in my gray hoodie. The hood had slipped back, her dark hair spilling out. Her laptop screen lit her face in the dim room. Every thirty seconds, her finger tapped the trackpad.
She chewed her bottom lip. The same tab had been open for the last twenty minutes.
Colt held his wrist up. "11:58. Sienna, hit it again."
"I'm hitting it. It hasn't updated."
"Hit it harder."
"That's not how the internet works."
"11:59."
I pushed off the doorframe and crossed to Sienna. I set my hand on top of her head. She leaned back, resting against my belt, and let out a breath.
“Whatever it says,” I said, quiet enough that only she’d catch it over the rain, “we did enough.”