There was only a smattering of applause as I walked out of the arena. I was used to it, but still, this was not how nine year old me thought my first major ride would go. In my dreams, I rode the eight and there was thunderous applause and Branch and Beau would rush out onto the dirt and kiss me.
The thought made me smile and I lifted my hand and waved to the silent crowd. I walked through the exit and a woman dressed in a white suit jacket over tight jeans ambled over with a camera.
“T.M.” she shouts. “Good ride, Lancelot spinning away from your hand, and just shifted your seat.”
“Yeah, he’s a good bull,” I said as I smiled and nodded, because I don’t know what I was supposed to reply to that. I was panting hard, because even though I was only on that bull for a few seconds, the physical toll was huge.
“First woman in the WBRP. A lot of pressure right? What are you looking to prove?”
I looked hard at the pretty blonde commentator, who was probably picked more for her looks than her skills. There was a shrewdness in her eyes, but no hostility. I shook my head. “I’m not here to prove anything. I just wanna do what I love, and have fun doing it.”
A small smile curled her lips as she nodded. “You gotta admit though, you being here certainly shakes things up.” She was full on smiling at me now, and I couldn’t help but grin back.
“Maybe it's time for a shake up for the toughest sport on dirt.”
With that, the camera swings back to the pretty blonde, who crosses back to the commentators. When the cameraman drops the lens, she thrusts out a hand. “Calypso Martinez. Friends call me Caly. Me and you have to do drinks real soon. We gotta stick together in this man's world, right?”
Her face seemed guileless, so I shrugged. “Sure. Sounds good.”
Calypso Martinez bustled off to talk to the next rider coming through the exit. I walked down the tunnel toward the back, and Frankie appeared. He scooped me up in his arms. “Congratulations, Querida!”
I rolled my eyes at him, but I was laughing. I wiggled from his arms, and I looked around to see if anyone saw. “I didn’t score.”
He ushered me into the back room and I started shucking off my gear. Beau appeared, a frown warring with his grin. “Good ride, Tessa. You landed hard on that shoulder though. You okay?”
I resisted the urge to shrug it off. “Yeah. Old injury. Dislocated it last year.”
He grabbed an ice pack and a roll of tape, motioning for me to take off my shirt so he could wrap it. I winced a little as I unbuttoned my shirt, but I toughed it out. Aches and pain were part of the job. Beau grabbed my arm, flexing it around, watching my face for indications of pain or strain. “Seems alright. I think we’ll ice it, but you should be good for tomorrow.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is it still attached, Beau? Because if it’s still attached, I’m good to ride.”
Beau pressed the bag of ice to my shoulder making me hiss, taping around it so it was secure. “I swear, it doesn’t matter if you’re man or woman, bull riders are all so fucking crazy.” I laughed along with him, because he isn’t wrong. “But maybe I’m the crazy one, because I love them still.”
I made a rude noise. “You’ve been friends with Branch since we were all in diapers. Pretty sure that means you are definitely crazy.”
He held up my shirt so I could slip it back over one arm. “We were friends once too, and you were just as crazy. Hell, you are still as crazy. It's why you two fight so much.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s just an asshole.”
Beau laughed again, and stood. “Better go and watch Branch ride. He’s coming up soon.”
I waved him away. “Thanks, Beau.”
“Anytime, Nugget.” His eyes dropped to my chest, and he gave me that damn smile. “Not chicken nuggets anymore, hey Tessa? You are looking real good.”
My face flushed bright pink as he winked and swaggered out of the room.
My ride the next day was a wreck too, and I tried not to let it get me down. A lot of riders got a zero weekend, riders ranked higher than me, but I’d wanted to make an impression. As I packed up my stuff into my suitcase, I couldn’t wait to get out of my strapping and into a pair of soft sleep shorts and a shirt that was miles too big. I was so damn exhausted, and the disappointment was making my mood dark.
Unsurprisingly, Dylan came in second after one of the legends of the sport, someone I hadn’t even grown the lady balls to talk to yet, but I was happy for Dylan. He was a hell of a rider. Even Branch managed to ride one bull, leaving him in the top ten.
Frankie was talking to some of the Brazilian riders, laughing and happy. He missed home, I knew he did. But when I asked him why he didn’t just head back to Brazil, he’d always just shrug. He used to say he wasn’t done here yet, but he’d basically set aside his bullfighting career to follow me up to the big leagues and babysit. I was holding him back, and under the big black cloud that was following me around today, guilt hit me like a truck.
Dylan strode into the room, looking sexy as hell. Like Branch, he was quite tall for a rider, and on some of the smaller bulls, he looked a little ridiculous. He caught my eye and strolled over to me. “How's it going, Moore? Shit luck on that last bull.”
Yeah it had been. He’d been a high jumper straight out of the gate, and I’d slapped his shoulder on the way back down. You can only defy gravity so much before she’ll either put you on your ass or under the feet of an irate beast.
“It is what it is. Least you’ll be able to get a top pick at the draw in the championships.” Dylan nodded and grinned, slipping his hat back on his head. Dylan rode with a hat only, but like me, Branch wore the full helmet. It was how we were raised, how we were trained. Buy the best protective gear, because you couldn’t ride anything with an acquired brain injury. The helmets were banged up and scuffed, and this headgear told its own story.
“You coming to the cookout tonight?” Dylan asked, stripping off his shirt because why not? This was essentially a men’s locker room. I was the odd one out in here. But I’d tasted that skin intimately. In the light of day, not hampered by the darkness of a bar parking lot, I realized a lot more of his body was tattooed than I thought. He was young, twenty-three, but he had more ink than I could ever imagine. He caught me staring and waggled his brows, stepping closer casually. “Like what you see, Tessa?”
My face flushed and I hid my embarrassment in a scowl. “Just appreciating the art you obviously spent most of your winnings on. No point being a storybook if there's no one around to read you.”
“You can read me anytime you so want,” he murmured beneath his breath, and my face went impossibly red.
Instead of replying, I cleared my throat. “Cookout?”
Dylan raised both his eyebrows. “The one hosted by South West Motors? Happens every year after the first round.”
I ground my jaw. “They must have forgotten to let me know.” Dylan’s eyes went from violet blue to something stormier. “It’s all good. Might have a quiet night anyway. Tired, you know?”
Frankie wandered over, hovering at my back like a golden angel. “What’s up?”
“I was just telling Dylan here that I was tired and couldn’t possibly go to the WBRP Sponsor event that I wasn’t invited to.”