I walk through the crowd, pulling on my worn leather gloves on as I make my way toward the cage. The bystanders move aside for me, quiet murmurs of recognition and awe filtering through my awareness, barely registering. I’m totally focused on the twenty-five hundred pounds of beast I’m about to ride as it paws the dirt and rattles the gate that’ll be thrown open as soon as I’m seated on its back.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins, a surge I used to live for. Now, the high is laced with something else. Not fear. Experience. The knowledge that things can, and sometimes do, go wrong.
This will be my first ride since the accident. The fall, the broken ribs, the severe concussion, the six weeks in a hospital bed—all of it is revisiting me now in excruciating detail. You’ll bounce back, they said. Time to get back in the saddle, cowboy. You’re too good to quit. Think of the money. The glory.
Eight seconds, that’s all I need. No one has bested my record since I’ve been away and none of the amateurs here today have even made it past the four-second mark.
My name booms through the loudspeaker.
Here he is, ladies and gentleman! Will Finn is back! Six feet and three inches of grit and muscle. Just look at him! Tall. Lean. Hard. Sun-bronzed. He certainly looks up to the task at hand.
Sun-bronzed? I guess I’ve been called worse. Jimmy Hogan has been the announcer here at the Bozeman rodeo for as long as I can remember. The guy has a flair for the dramatic, sometimes to the point of endangering his own well-being. He’s taken a beating more than once for his overly-descriptive play-by-plays. Some riders get touchy about stuff like that, but it never seems to curb Hogan’s style. And the audience loves it. Our rodeo attracts the biggest crowds in the state. For the bulls, for the riders, for the quality of the show, and possibly, for the unfiltered commentary.
Six month ago, ladies and gentlemen, Will Finn would have strode through his adoring crowd, tipping his hat at the girls, self-assurance radiating off him like waves. Not today, folks. No, sir. Today he’s stoic and contemplative, fully focused on the ride that will either make or break him. He can still feel the pain of that bone-splintering fall that’s kept him out of the ring for more than half a year. No one could weather the blow of a two-ton bull stomping on their chest twice and walk away unscathed, ladies and gentlemen. Not even the mighty Finn.
Fuck that jerk. He’s messing with my concentration. Maybe I’d been too sure of myself last time. Too fucking cocky. Now, I’m wiser.
I won’t make the same mistake twice.
Tuning Hogan out, I focus on the two girls walking up to me. They smile. The blond slips a folded piece of paper into my jeans pocket with two deft fingers. “Call us after your ride, Will,” she says. “We’ll come and ease your aches and pains.”
I recognize them. Sure I do. Local girls I’ve partied with before. Hell, I’ve partied with too many local girls to count. Before my fall. Before I became a recluse and discovered things about myself I never knew.
I can’t quite name the feeling that thuds along with my heartbeat as I push past the girls, my eyes glued to the enormous black beast with my name on it. I feel like brushing them off, taking the piece of paper with their phone number on it and throwing it on the ground, grinding it into the dirt with the heel of my boot. I’m not sure what’s changed in me but something has. For the first time in my life, the invitation for meaningless sex appeals to me about as much as a faceplant in the middle of the rodeo ring.
I don’t like it one bit, but there it is.
And Hogan’s at it again. Can Will Finn rebound to his former glory? Or will he eat dirt and end his career in a double-whammy of skull-cracking agony? Let’s find out, ladies and gentlemen! Let’s see if the middle Finn brother has what it takes to ride Montana’s biggest, baddest rodeo steer, The King of Spades.
Maybe the guy does have a flair for the dramatic but it’s annoying as fuck to hear my own internal challenge trumpeting out through the airwaves purely for the crowd’s banal entertainment.
Then again, that’s what I’m here to do: to ride, to be seen, to wow, to entertain. That’s my job. I might as well stop churning like a goddamn pussy and cowboy up.
It’s time.
Three of my brothers are here, waiting for me, sitting at the top of the cage to help me get a secure seat. Luke is four years older, the oldest of my four brothers and my manager. “You got this, Will,” he says, taking my hat off and putting it on his own head. Luke’s hair is blond, like my father’s was. Mine’s jet-black, and wavy, like my mother’s was, now stuck to my head with sweat where the hat circled.
Nathan, second oldest, hands me a bottle of water. I take a quick drink before handing it back. “Don’t take any notice of Hogan’s bullshit, Will,” Nathan says. “This old brute’s past his prime. Eight seconds’ll be a cakewalk.”
“Just relax into it,” Jack adds. Jack is two years younger than me, also blond. His hair gleams in the sun. “Roll with him. Get the rhythm, just like you’ve been doing since you were five years old. You got this.” I can tell they’re worried for me, the accident still fresh in their minds. It was the kind of fall that could—and almost did—unhinge a career. The kind that could get under a rider’s skin, if he let it. But I’ve been riding horses since before I could walk and riding bulls since before I could talk. I can read an animal through a kind of telepathy honed and trained almost daily over my twenty-six years. Yeah, I fucked up once but I can feel it in my bones: this ride is mine. The King of Spades is a massive hunk of power, but that’s to my advantage. The bull is huge, not nimble and overly-quick, like the bull that unseated me. This is a ride I can own.
I ease myself onto the animal and lace my leather glove under the rope that’s wound tight around the beast’s shoulders and chest.
“Eight seconds, Will,” Luke says, the words echoing in my concentration.
Eight seconds.
“You ready, Will?”
“Ready.”
The signal’s given, and the gate swings open. The King of Spades lunges out of the cage and into the ring, bucking, springing, twisting. I relax into it, finding my rhythm. After the second lunge, and the third, predicting the bull’s next move becomes easier, instinctive. A twinge in my rib reminds me of the impact, the pain of going down. My left fist clenches tighter around the rope, my right arm up, guiding my balance.
Four seconds.
The jarring, jolting glide of the dance becomes easier, almost beautiful. Like anything is beautiful when talent, practice and courage converge. I can feel it all, burning through my veins along with the rush of the ride.
Six seconds. He’s almost there! The clock is ticking but the question remains: can he hold on? The King is showing no signs of slowing down. But Finn seems almost back to his old form! He wants glory! He can practically taste it! Can he best Montana’s finest?
I can hear the roar of the crowd. Hell, I can feel the roar of the crowd. The hum brings it all back to me. The reason I kept on riding. The thrill of victory.
And there it is. The bell. The cheers and pounding boom of the crowd on its feet.