Page 10 of Tame Our Wild

“Yes, Coach,” I reply, hoping he doesn’t hear the anxiety slip through my tone.

He nods, and I spin around, observing as they load a brown and white bull into the chute.

My bull.

Shit. I don’t know if I’m ready for this.

As if sensing my chaotic thoughts running amok in my brain, Aaron reaches for my bicep and tugs me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me in an embrace that knocks the air from my lungs. It’s not because his hug is too constricting; it’s because the seconds are dwindling until it’s my turn. One hand hangs at my side with my helmet clutched in my fingers, but my other arm reaches around his back, holding onto him. If I let go, I’m afraid my knees might give out, and I’ll crash into the dirt before I’ve even started.

His voice has an edge. “Hold on and don’t let go. But if you do, know that when life continuously knocks you down, you’re the only one who can decide if you want to get up and keep going.”

“I have to let go of the bull at some point.” I chuckle into his chest. “I can’t just ride into the sunset with him.” Flooding the situation with humor makes me feel a little lighter.

I feel his head shake back and forth. “Smartass.” His gruff laugh temporarily quells the tension seizing my muscles. “Even if you don’t stay mounted for the eight seconds and get on the scoreboard tonight, you have another chance tomorrow in round two to stay on and collect some points for your world standings.”

I lick my dry lips, trying to wet my tongue that’s as dry as the dirt below my boots. That’s why completing every eight-second ride matters each weekend—the bull rider with the most points collected throughout the season wins the buckle.

“Harlow, let’s go,” a male voice snaps with urgency.

Aaron releases me. “Go get ’em.”

He returns to sit with my sister, who will no doubt record every moment of this ride. As my media manager, she’s been determined to document this entire journey from start to finish. I should’ve realized that she meant it when she said the whole journey. I woke up this morning to see thousands of notifications on my phone.

When she was waiting at that high-top table after she went to the bathroom at the bar last night, she snapped a picture of Colson and me at the bar counter—me scowling at him and Colson smirking at me in that way that irritates me to no end. People are obsessed with our rivalry, and with that one photo, Mel already broke our side of the internet with the caption:

Two riders. No bulls in sight. But the tension is still high.

I’ve never liked paying attention to social media, but I can’t ignore the little twinge of curiosity that keeps me checking the comments to see what people are saying about Colson and me.

I’m sure she’ll read some of them on the car ride home like she always does.

I approach the metal platform, where a few other riders and crew members are standing with cameramen and photographers nearby. Their presence, capturing this moment, my return, makes my legs wobble like jelly.

Spin Top is getting prepped by the chute crew, looking docile as he lightly moves his horns from side to side in the small, gated space. But I know better. The crew crowds him as they wrap the bull rope around his chest and the flank rope around his hindquarters.

The second they tighten it, the gleam in his black eyes instantly hardens to steel. He kicks his back legs, hitting the chute, the sound absently making me jolt backward and collide with something hard behind me.

“Whoa there,” a voice says, laced with amusement.

I turn, getting hit with Brian Sanders’ joyful smile. He must have had a killer ride, since he’s looking content and not sulking. However, he is usually in an optimistic mood.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m just—” I clamp my mouth shut, worried that if I say another word, my heart will jump out of my throat and land on his cowboy boots.

“Nervous?” he finishes for me.

“Yeah. That.”

His once bright grin shifts into a frown. He peers around us like he’s unsure what to say, but then his brown eyes settle on me. “You’re here for a reason. Trust your riding.”

My smile is soft. He’s only a year younger than I am and one hell of a rider, but even from our few brief conversations—since I officially met him this morning—he’s been kind, even in competition mode. Other than that, everything I know about him comes from a little bit of stalking on social media and his stats.

“Alright, Harlow, you’re up,” one of the crew members yells.

“Good luck,” Brian tells me, slapping my shoulder.

“Thanks.” I give him a tight-lipped smile.

He takes off down the stairs toward the back pens, where the other riders are hanging out, with a view of the Jumbotron over the center of the arena, showing all the rides and scores. They are all conversing except for the one brooding rider with his arms still folded, whose attention is locked on me.