Page 42 of Tame Our Wild

Damn, Brian and Dalton are both extremely attractive. Just picturing them together is enough to warm my skin and make me feel like I need to shed layers.

I hope my question doesn’t make him uncomfortable, but I’m curious. “You said you thought you were being obvious. Have you told anyone else on the circuit?”

His Adam’s apple bobs, and he shakes his head. “Dalton and I have only been officially dating for a few months, so it’s still new to us. We’re still figuring us out and need to know what that looks like first before the media gets involved.”

Sadly, I get where he is coming from.

The second my fist flew at Colson’s face, I solidified our rivalry in blood, and since that night at the bar, not once has the media let it go. They hungrily wait for more. They followed my rise back in the minor leagues after my injury, gauging Colson’s response to my increasing scores whenever they could.

Even when he was in the professional league and I was in the minors, they still followed us, keeping the rivalry alive.

I can’t imagine what buzz and rumors would circulate if they found out he’s coaching me. I thought our hatred for each other was the pinnacle, but this news of Colson and my arrangement might trigger an explosion of chaos neither of us could recover from. It could end both of our careers if we aren’t careful, which is why we’ve injected this distance between us.

I smile but then furrow my brows. “You guys are always so supportive, cheering each other on when you compete. How are you not insanely competitive with each other?”

“Oh, we are.” Brian nods. “But unlike your rivalry, ours thrives behind closed doors. It makes for one hell of a time when we’re alone.” He smirks.

His easy admission has my core throbbing as I think about how beautifully intense their intimacy must be.

“Not that I’m suggesting that’s what should happen with you and Colson,” he exclaims. I nervously laugh. I don’t want to even entertain that idea. “Your rivalry is on a completely different level than ours is. Even just the way you look at each other is dangerous.”

“I thought you were trying to convince me to go out with you guys tonight. You’re just proving my point now.” I chuckle.

“You still should. If you’re worried about it, I’ll put Dalton and me between you and Colson,” Brian encourages as we walk toward the line of riders waiting to walk out. “The only way to make this situation feel less awkward is to prove that it can be normal. I didn’t make it into the PBR the first year you did, but I’m assuming it was just as weird then as it is now. As I said, just—”

“Own it,” I finish for him.

He gives me that handsome grin that entices my own. “Exactly.”

“I’ll think about it.” Going out with them may not be the worst thing.

Colson and I can be around each other without our little secret getting out. This doesn’t have to be as hard as I’m making it out to be. It’s going to be a long season if each weekend is as awkward and tension-filled as this one.

At the end of the day, this pressure isn’t good for my riding. Colson can fill my mind with everything he knows over the next several months, but if I can’t relax on the weekends and am worried about us avoiding each other the entire time, those two things will clash and leave me permanently at the bottom of the ranks.

I need points—lots of them.

Brian takes a step, and I blurt, “Thank you for sharing that side of you and Dalton with me.”

He gives me that big smile and a friendly tip of his hat before he moves to his spot in the lineup, and I go to mine, squeezing between two other riders. I lean forward, looking up and down the line, my breath solidifying in my lungs when I catch Colson staring at me from the back of the line since we’re in alphabetical order.

He gives me a wicked grin, shouting over all the noise. “Probably a good thing you drew the bull Easy Rider, Harlow.” I ignore the tightness in my muscles that he used my real name instead of Dust Bunny, like he always does. It feels less intimate for some reason, as if there’s a valley of distance between the two. “Maybe this crowd will think you can keep up with us, even though each ride, you’re securing your place at the bottom.”

My stomach drops at the uncalled-for remark. A few of our competitors snicker, including Jax Bowman, who is near the front of the line. It’s not like Colson was trying to keep his voice low. He wanted it to be heard.

One of the crew members yells out something, and the front of the line starts pacing out into the arena as they introduce us all to the crowd. I twist my hands in front of me anxiously, blowing out a long breath before I inhale the heavy scent of dust and manure lingering in the air. I do that over and over again all night, but it doesn’t calm the thudding in my chest as I lower myself onto the back of Easy Rider, trying to ignore what Colson said.

I can’t shake his comment. It bounces around my skull as a shoe does in a dryer. It continues to stick with me when I get tossed into the dirt by the red-haired bull that has a reputation for being soft—but not to me.

I march off, clinging to my bull rope and helmet as if I can inject my irritation into both and give my body relief after failing to get a scoring ride. A reporter tries to stop me, but I blow past them and head to the locker room to grab my phone before heading to the back of the bull pens at the edge of the stadium to get my bearings.

I lean against the fence, deciding to hang out with a brown bull named Buttercup. I don’t want to face anyone. I’ll feel like they’re scrutinizing me, wondering how I even made it as a professional bull rider to begin with. Buttercup is lying in the dirt, watching me with steady eyes that make me feel more comfortable than I did before.

Sure, out in the arena, they are relentless and unpredictable—strong forces of nature testing our limits. But back here, when they aren’t put to work, they’re just big hunks of pure muscle that want to bask in the peace they are given.

I take my phone out of my back pocket and decide to text Colson for the first time this weekend. There’s no hesitation in sending this one.

Me: What the hell was that?