Page 6 of Lost Trust

I hold myself back until the score hits the monitor—92.37.

For a moment, everything stands still.

“And he has done it, folks. Axle Trust is your PBR World Champion!”

Everyone in the stadium loses their mind.

I start running, leaping over gates and cowboys. Bryce makes it to him first, and I collide with the two of them a second later.

I clasp the back of his neck and pull his forehead to mine. “You fucking did it, Ax!” I choke out as pride fills my chest.

Bryce’s arms hook both of us, and us three grown-ass cowboys start jumping around like kids celebrating while cameras flash from every direction.

Tears stream down my big brother’s face.

I’d laugh at him if my own vision wasn’t suddenly blurry.

Bryce leans in and says something to Ax. I can’t hear what it is over the crowd. Don’t need to. Whatever it is makes Axle laugh through the tears.

Then Bryce lifts my brother’s hand into the air.

The greatest bull rider of our generation—the outgoing champion—passing the torch.

One legend making room for the next.

Goose bumps race down my arms.

Damn. What a moment.

A few minutes later, the rest of our team crashes into Axle from every direction, and the event’s stock contractor congratulates Axle for besting Diablo. Photographers are practically climbing over each other, trying to capture every second.

Axle looks completely overwhelmed.

His face is busted up from an earlier ride. Butterfly closures are roughly holding the skin above his eyebrow together. My face probably doesn’t look much better.

Cowboys.

We’re a mess.

I stand in the middle of the arena with our team and Axle’s girlfriend, Jovie, as pyro blasts from every corner, lighting up the dirt in flashes of gold and white. The roar from fans rattles my body harder than any bull ever has.

A stage rolls onto the arena floor while cameras swarm Axle from every direction. He tips his hat to the crowd, then starts walking across the dirt with that crooked grin of his. The same grin he wore when we were kids, running barefoot around Wildhaven Storm Ranch, pretending fence posts were championship bucking chutes.

A PBR executive places the Jerome Robinson Cup in his hands.

The thing is enormous. Sixty-seven pounds of silver and gold.

Axle grunts as he takes hold of it, then muscles it over his head anyway.

The crowd absolutely loses its mind.

Next comes the diamond-studded gold buckle, gleaming inside its display case, followed by a comically oversize check with more zeros than either of us ever dreamed we’d see.

Confetti erupts from the rafters, raining over the arena like a Texas thunderstorm, made of red, white, and blue, as he nimbly removes the buckle from the case.

Axle stares at it like he isn’t sure it’s real.

Honestly …