The driver read the back of the number. “‘If you love something enough, it's worth fighting for. Can’t wait to see you on the track. Love T.M. Moore’.” The driver choked up a little. “She’ll love that. Thanks Ma’am.”
I nodded, taking my bag from him as he hauled it out of the trunk. “We’ll be watching you ride tonight on the TV,” he yelled and I smiled and waved over my shoulder.
I was going to forget the drama and focus on what mattered. Doing what I loved. The rest I would deal with later.
8
I hit the dirt in just over two seconds, but I didn’t care. It had been a shit night for everyone, the bulls feeling extra ornery or something. Might be the full moon or some shit, but what that meant is that I was still ranked high. My 85.6 from last night had me in at number three. That was a cool ten thousand and even better, the points. Dylan had come off last night, but he was on an easier bull today. There was no way he wasn’t going to ride his bull unless something crazy happened. Branch had ridden his bull last night too, but he was on the rankest bull on the books tonight. If he could ride it, he’d take out this round easily. He was too stubborn not to make the eight, but shit happened. You could be the best rider in the world, and you were still going to get tossed every now and then.
I hobbled out the back, and noticed Calypso was still chatting to the guy before me who’d made his eight so I slunk by. It would be nice just to catch my breath without having to think of shit to say. I’d landed good, although I still hopped a bit from yesterday's injury to my thigh. It was turning an ugly eggplant purple, but it wasn't too bad at all.
I was kind of glad to skip the medics tent and go straight back to my bags. I’d grab a shower, put on some fresh clothes and get pretty for the autograph section of the night. I was kind of nervous. Was it weird that I’d been practicing my signature for like a month?
It was one thing for me to front with the other riders. My riding spoke for itself with them. But the general public? The weight of their disapproval could cripple me.
So I put on a little bit of makeup, nothing noticeable. I brushed out my blonde curls until they hung in tight spirals around my shoulders.
I stepped out of the bathroom and into the locker room. “Cover your junk, boys. The piranha has arrived.”
Fuck. Me.
I sighed and looked over at Junior. I also noted the faces of the riders who chuckled along with him, either because they were pieces of shit, or because his daddy had them by the balls.
“Junior. I thought a bull had stomped on your head and left you brain dead.” I paused dramatically. “Oh shit, is it because there wasn’t a brain in there in the first place? My bad.”
There were more than a few sniggers around the room at that. Damn Junior. I’d just gained some respect, but if he was here, he’d undermine me at every turn. I contemplated going full Tonya and nailing him in the knee with a baseball bat in a darkened parking lot.
“Fuck you, bitch,” Junior growled, prowling toward me like the big man he was. I stood tall, my chin raised. I wasn’t scared of this shit stain. Suddenly, two of the stockier Brazilians were in front of me. Miguel was at the end of his career, his body all but broken by riding, but damn he could ride. He was tough as nails and had like a bajillion kids. Davi was young, broad, and his eyes blazed.
It was Davi who spoke. “Não. You do not threaten women,” he said in stilted English.
Junior sneered. “She gave up that right when she stuck her ass in where it had no right to be. Bull riding is a man’s sport. She doesn’t belong here.”
Holding my tongue had never been my forte. “If being a man was a prerequisite, you should probably tuck up your micropenis and turn around and go home too,” I snarked from between Miguel and Davi. The former looked at me disapprovingly, but I smiled and shrugged. He shook his head, but glared back at Junior.
“She can ride. She belongs,” he said, his English even worse than Davi’s but in that moment I wanted to hug him. Then hug his wife, and probably his mama.
Junior spat on the ground at Miguel's feet. He lowered his voice. “If I had my way, you fuckers wouldn’t be in this sport either.”
This time I pushed in front of Miguel and Davi, getting right up in Junior’s face. He could talk crap about me, but I wouldn’t stand for this racist bullshit. “If you had your way, Daddy would hand you the gold buckle and you’d never have to get on a bull. You’re mad that they are better riders than you, but newsflash fuckface, everyone in this room is a better rider than you. Now get the fuck out of my face before I put my boot so far up your ass, you’ll cry and call me mamãe.”
Davi snorted, but he had one arm across my front so he could pull me out of the way of a rampaging Junior. I could have told them all this was unnecessary; Junior didn’t have the balls to do anything.
He scowled and turned away, looking at the others in the room. “This is why women don’t belong in bull riding. They cause fights.”
I rolled my eyes at him as he went and sat down next to another young rider who looked vaguely uncomfortable. He didn’t have his cronies with him, so he was going to have to source a whole bunch of new yes men. I didn’t doubt he would though. His family’s money had clout in this industry.
I turned my back on him like he meant nothing, which he did. He was an irritation.
Davi herded me over to where all the Brazilians sat together. There was segregation even here, and it was more than the language barrier. There was a lot of ill will about them being let into the sport here in the US way back when, but that was decades ago. It was time to let it go. You don’t like competition? Get out of the arena.
Davi plopped me between him and another young rider. I mean, they were both young, nineteen and fresh off the amateur circuit. I guess so was I, but some of these kids had been on bulls since they were three. I’d had a bit of catching up to do.
I didn’t know the other kid’s name, hadn’t caught it last week, but when he put out his fist, I grinned as I bumped it. The conversation back in the room picked up, and I settled into the flow of Portuguese around me as they talked bulls and women, the two favorite topics of young riders. Miguel wandered over, pushing his hat on his head. “You are crazy, angering him like that. His family could get you thrown off the tour.”
I shrugged with a nonchalance I didn’t feel. If I got kicked off, my world would crumble. But if I stood by and let that shit stand? Then I may as well say goodbye to my soul now.
Davi laughed. “We are just excited that there is an outsider even more outside than us now.”
They all laughed and I laughed along with them. It was just one of those situations, where you laughed or you cried. And if it made you cry, you may as well quit now, because it wasn’t ever going to be any less tough.
As the last riders finished up, I was nudged out of fourth place by another young rider, but it didn’t matter. I got a payday and I rode a bull. That was a successful week in my book. Branch took out first, riding his bull for the full eight seconds, and got himself a gold buckle, Dylan coming in second. I didn’t mind that either. They were great riders who had good rides.
I followed the rest of the riders who were scrubbed and in clean jeans up to the foyer where we would sign pictures of ourselves. It was freaking surreal that I was even here.