Page 9 of Tame Our Wild

Whenever Colson and I are in proximity, fuses are lit, waiting for that perfect moment until it escalates and we’re both detonating. The aftermath is usually a chaotic explosion of heated words and actions that are bound to get us both in trouble.

Our rivalry is a source of entertainment for everyone else. To me, it’s survival. A way to keep me in my place, keep my head on straight, and remind me why I’m doing this.

As if he senses my mind conjuring up thoughts of him, his stoic gaze settles on me from where he’s leaning against the fence enclosing the bulls waiting to be loaded into the chutes. He’s with a few other riders, but it’s like the neon lights flashing above in the dark arena are highlighting only his annoying glower.

Our eyes are locked for a moment before Colson knits his arms over his broad chest. His tattooed forearms look massive. The sleeves of his tan button-down are rolled up, the material stretching across his biceps. He somehow looks bigger and more threatening whenever his protective riding vest expands across the hard planes of his abdomen. He’s motionless. Not even the strands of his black leather chaps over his Wranglers sway.

My focus drops to his buckle that I covet, along with all the other riders here. I suddenly realize I’m staring a little too long when his mouth morphs into a shit-eating grin. Great. He probably thinks I was staring at his dick.

My eyes roll.

He had one hell of a ride, effortlessly hitting the eight seconds. Okay, even I know it’s not effortless. It’s hard. Physically demanding. But sometimes I forget how good he is at this sport.

He may be a veteran, but he hasn’t stalled yet.

I’ll never tell him that, though. His ego is big enough, and I don’t think there’s space for much else.

Honestly, Colson was lucky with his draw tonight, getting Tumbleweed. I’m surprised the bull didn’t roll over on his back and let Colson scratch his stomach. They were two peas in a pod with Colson’s tan shirt matching Tumbleweed’s hide. Sometimes, when you throw two monsters together, they’ve got a way of taming one another.

There is one more rider ahead of me, so I attempt to regain my composure and calm my racing heart. I tighten my fingers around my helmet, drawing in deep breaths.

Don’t let Colson get in your head. Focus, Harlow.

“Harlow,” a deep voice I know all too well calls over the announcer and music blaring through the speakers.

I turn to see my coach, Aaron Jackson, in the distance near the wall. They let coaches in briefly to give us encouragement or last-minute advice, so he must have left Melanie sitting alone in the front row while he came to motivate me.

Seeing his bearded face and bright green eyes dampens the stressful commotion swirling behind my ribs. He’s been my coach since I was eighteen—saw something in me that so many other coaches and riders looked past, just because of my sex. But Aaron gave me a chance and has been with me since the beginning.

He’s my hero and a three-time world champ, which is rare in this sport. Aaron may be my coach, but he’s also my fifty-six-year-old friend, who is like a second father.

He motions me over, and I hustle, knowing my bull will be loaded into the chute any moment.

Aaron glances over my attire—studying my black and burgundy suede chaps and protective vest over my flannel. All bull riders are required to wear a vest, which is made of tough material that protects a rider’s ribs, torso, and vital organs from major impacts out on the dirt.

If only I had had something like that for my legs.

Dear Lord. What are you doing? You can’t think about that right now.

Aaron pulls me out of my dark thoughts. “Are you ready, kid?”

I give a nervous smile. “It’s about damn time we both found ourselves back here.”

“I didn’t doubt you for a minute.” His confession warms my skin. He always knows exactly what I need to hear.

I’m lucky to have a coach as kind and zealous as he is. Aaron is just the right amount of sweet when the moment calls for it, but he can also be a hard-ass when he knows I’m being an idiot and need to be called out or put in my place.

“Remember to stay centered and control your movements,” he tells me.

Aaron’s brown cowboy hat casts a shadow across his eyes, making them appear dark and ominous. His jaw flexes, his fingers clenching the papers with my stats and notes in his hand from practice and my previous minor league rides. He’s nervous for me.

“Spin Top will do everything he can to catch you off guard. There’s a reason they gave him the name—just as you get comfortable and adjust your body and weight to the position he’s spinning in, he will change it up and go the opposite way.”

I swallow, nodding. I hate that Spin Top is the bull I drew on my first event back. However, this is the hand I was drawn. I have no choice but to hold on for dear life and hope that the eight seconds hit before the PTSD does.

I’ve been able to keep it in check thus far. Well, mostly. Practicing on a bull out on my family ranch or back at Aaron’s with the sun beating down on my back and surrounded by nature is one thing. But being back here, with the thick air, screaming fans, and a dark arena flashing with lights and the booming voice of the announcer relaying every second of my ride, is entirely different.

“Stay sharp. Stay in shape. Be innovative, and don’t be afraid to get hurt because you’ve already been through a lot, kid. No scratch or bruise will compare to what you’ve been through, so give it your all tonight. You hear me?”