Dylan’s eyebrows rose too. “No shit, you’re T.M.? There wasn’t even a whisper that you were a woman. How does that happen?”
Because I was the industry's dirty little secret. If I didn’t advertise that I was a woman, they didn’t want to advertise it either. Until now.
“Luck I guess?” I said instead. He was well and truly in my space now, and I held my breath. He reached up and traced his knuckles down my cheek. My eyes fluttered closed of their own volition, and I swallowed back a sigh.
This couldn’t happen.
I took a step away, and Dylan let his hand fall. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. We can’t.”
“Is the Brazilian guy more than a friend after all?” He sounded jealous and I frowned.
I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression, but then, maybe I was safer using Frankie as a patsy? I contemplated it for a second, but disregarded the idea. I didn’t want to lie, especially when it could hamper Frankie’s chances. “No, we are just friends, like I said. But I don’t sleep with bull riders, Dylan. It's never a good idea, especially not when we are competing against each other. Especially when I’m the first woman to make it to this level.”
I could blow it all, and as much as I craved Dylan’s touch again, I would not waste this chance on a man.
He sighed. “If you change your mind, I’d love to take you out.” I went to protest again, but he raised a hand. “Offer stands, whether you take it up or not. And even if you don’t, I’ll try and run interference with Branch. Is he the reason you don’t date bull riders?”
Was he? No. He was the reason I didn’t date full stop. But I’d never tell Dylan that. I shook my head. “No. Branch and I go back to when we were kids. We were all raised on neighboring farms. Our Dads were business partners.”
Dylan reared back. “Wait. You’re Nugget? The Nugget?”
When it sounded like that, it sounded ridiculous. “Uh yes? My dad,” I swallowed hard, “he called me his Gold Nugget because of the hair. They shortened it to Nugget and it kind of stuck. For them at least, no one else calls me Nugget anymore.”
Dylan was shaking his head, a small smirk on his face. “Branch’s craziness makes sense now. He’s usually cool as hell, nothing ruffles him. But you swagger in and he’s a mess.” He laughed then, planting a tiny kiss on the corner of my mouth, before straightening and stepping away. “Remember, my offer stands. You can name the time and the place and I’ll be there. Have a good ride tonight,” he said with a wink that threatened to make my panties combust.
“You too,” I said weakly, and then he was gone.
I was left alone in the room to pull my shit together. What a goddamn mess.
4
Walking back into that dressing room after Branch’s little outburst had been tough, but I planted a cocky grin on my face and strode in like I owned it, rolling my eyes and shrugging. Frankie took me over and introduced me to the Brazilians. Loads of fans didn’t like how they dominated the sport, but I thought the competition was good. You can’t claim to be the best in the world, unless you were riding against the best. And these guys? Some of them have lived and breathed this sport since birth. The bulls they learned to ride on back in Brazil were rank as hell, and it made them better riders right off the bat. They were young, fit, and it was no surprise that they dominated so much.
They spoke in rapid Portuguese, some of which I could keep up with, enough that I could reply haltingly in return, but they still seemed to appreciate it.
Anything I missed, Frankie caught me up on. Still, as it got closer to show time, the more nervous I got. I bounced around, pulling on my gear to do the walk on. I didn’t have many sponsorship patches, even though arguably my daddy’s company sponsored me by default. I tried not to dip into that money, even though it was rightfully mine.
But I figured this wasn’t a job you were in for a long time. You either ended up injured out or dead. I wanted to have enough money squirrelled away in case it was the former. And so I’d have money for a nice funeral if it was the latter. I still used it to pay entrance fees and medical bills, so I wasn’t as hard off as a lot of rookies on the circuit, scrabbling to make an impression and get some dollars.
I braided my hair tight to my head and let Frankie help strap on my chaps.
I slid on my flak vest, and pulled on my hat, shoving it low on my head. At a casual glance, you wouldn’t know I was a woman. I was just your normal wiry bull rider.
Frankie came to stand in front of me, his hands resting on my shoulders. “You good?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. I left the rest of my gear in the locker, walking over to brush my rope. It was the small rituals that you gathered on the way up that really made you feel like you belonged. The fact they put these fencing panels in the locker room showed how much this small ritual meant to a lot of riders.
I blocked out the rest of the riders as I thought about my bull for the night, Lancelot. He wasn’t super high ranking, but he got good air and liked to do sudden shifts in direction. He’d get a good ride score if I could stick the eight seconds. I tried to run over every scenario in my head, but bull riding wasn’t a thinking person's game. Obviously. If you were a thinker, you’d definitely take one look at the matchup between man and beast and say, “Screw this shit.”
No, when it came down to riding bulls, it was all muscle memory. You didn’t think. You reacted. Excellent reaction times were what separated the mediocre from the greats in this sport.
A guy in Wranglers that were a size too small came and collected us, ready to parade us onto the stage at the center of the arena.
We all stood huddled at the entrance gate, waiting for our names to be called as lasers and smoke machines made the darkness more interesting.
I tried not to pay too much attention, keeping myself calm and in my own head so I didn’t run out of there screaming. Name after name got called up, and when the announcer called Branch, I lifted my head to watch him stride out, waving to the fans, his dimples deep and his smile wide and disarming. “This young rider was runner up for Rookie of the year two years ago, and he looks set to climb his way right to the top of the standings this year, folks.” The crowd went crazy, and I might have been a little paranoid that the pitch of the crowd seemed to be mostly women.
“He came runner up to this rider, Dylan Montaigne, 2018’s Rookie of the year, and a real contender for the finals this year, folks.”
It had occurred to me that I’d run into Dylan here. After all, I’d googled him after our night and knew he was well and truly a rising star in the sport. I just figured he wouldn’t remember me. It was a year ago and that guy would get pussy thrown at him like a cream pie at a clown. Straight for the face.
Apparently, I’d been wrong.
“T.M. Moore,” the announcer called. “This young rider has just come up from the minor competition. She also happens to be the first woman to ride in the WBRP competition.”
The arena literally went completely silent. You could have heard a pin drop. Fucking announcer just had to out me like that, and when I shook his hand, I could see the faint shadow of disapproval in his eyes.