Page 3 of Storm Warning
Massey chuckles at my move, tipping his stark white cowboy hat in my direction. He explains to the crowd how the ride and scoring works and I resume my journey toward my opponent.
I look down and watch my feet as I walk, closing the distance between myself and the chute. I can feel the weight of the room’s stare, but I do my best not to think too heavily about anything besides the objective of the next few minutes once the gate opens. Time feels like it slows while I try to gain my focus.
This is it, this is my moment.
Massey’s voice thunders back through the speakers and regains my attention. “So, Sammy, we all know you’re well-versed in the comin’s and goin’s of the arena. What are your thoughts leadin’ into this next ride?”
Holkens clears his throat. “Most of the riders today picked their hopefuls, and not a single one chose Helfire. If that isn’t a sure sign they all fear him, I don’t know what is. What I find more interesting, though, is when a rider doesn’t toss in a bull’s name at all…like Rogers did today.” His voice is much deeper than Massey’s, but raises a bit at the sound of his surprise, almost like he just noticed my sheet was left blank. “I’m not sure if it’s lack of knowledge of today’s lineup or a general disregard for which one he ends up with. Either way, it’s risky, and, well, Bob, today we’re about to see if that decision has worked in Rogers’ favor, or if he made a rookie mistake.”
I’ve always found it funny how the announcers act like you aren’t in the room. Not really sure if they purposely try to rile up the riders before they go on or if it’s just them simply forgetting we hear every word.
Only a few more feet are left until I’m face to face with the beast, and I do my best not to shake my head at the commentary, because to an outsider looking in, he’s probably right. I bet it does look like I’m clueless as to which bull I’d have my best ride on, but the truth is, it doesn’t matter which bull I get. And honestly, I want the one that nobody else wants so I can prove, not only to them, but also to myself, that I deserve to be here.
Massey chuckles, surely loving the insult that comes along with the termrookie. For an old grandfatherly looking man, he sure does find joy in pushing people’s buttons. “From what I hear, this rider’s rapid popularity isn’t only based on the fans that he’s got, but the reason he’s got ‘em. Ain’t that right, ladies?” The crowd cheers in response. “Ladies,” he draws out. “This is a rodeo, not an NSYNC concert. Let’s act accordingly.” A round of laughter sweeps through the arena, and even a chuckle from good ol’ Sammy.
Unfortunately, what Bob doesn’t know is that I don’t really need an ego boost. Let’s face it, I know I’m good, and judging by the crowd’s reaction, they do too. It ain’t cocky if you can back it up. And I have. Time and time again.
Nearing the black steel gate, my focus narrows solely on the place I intend to plant my ass for, at least, eight seconds once that chute opens. I swing my leg over Helfire, who blows out an angry grunt, preparing himself for the exact thing he’s trained his whole life for. Turns out we both want a good score. Only problem is, he also wants me dead.
Sucking in a deep, slow breath, I slide my hand under therope. This is it. The calm before the storm. The moment of reckoning. I raise my free hand, feeling his body twitch beneath me. I release the air from my lungs and whisper to him, “Let’s give ‘em a show.”
His body sways ever so slightly, almost as though he’s silently agreeing to my notion, until I finally make eye contact with the cowboy waiting to open the gate.
And then, I nod.
Just like that, the door creaks outward and the beast bounds out into the arena. Once he clears the gate I spur him, encouraging him, hell, angering him into a whirlwind of a spin. The muscle of his big, black body contracts, and I do my best to move in tandem with him, rather than tense up and make a mistake that will cost me. His speed is unlike any I’ve ridden before, but I know the only way to win is to put on a show. So a show is what I plan to give.
Eight Seconds. That’s all I need. Eight perfect seconds.
The world around me quiets, though I’m sure in reality it’s just as loud as it’s been all day. I have one goal and thats to ride this fucker flawlessly. Each spin is swift, and each buck is harder than the last, yet we move in sync with one another—my hips fluid with the motion of his body, never fighting him, but rather flowing in the same rhythmic path. Neither of us giving up the objective we set forth to prove. Today ain’t about try, it’s about full blown talent, and lucky for me, I’ve got it.
Setting out toward the center of the arena, my knees clench around the massive beast, holding me upright as we wind each revolution he chooses to make. I hear Bob say something about my performance nearing Rodeo Royalty and I smile at the fluidity of our ride, knowing, without a doubt, that this has got to be one of my best.
The buzzer sounds. And now my only worry is avoiding getting strung up in the suicide strap as I make my escape. I slide off the bull, who is just as pissed now as he was while Iwas on top of him. He turns toward me and his horn nearly hits my neck as he lowers his head to charge. A rodeo clown taunts him, bringing his attention away from me, giving me time to find my footing and make my way over the gate and, more importantly, out of his path.
Sweat drips down my brow as fans erupt in praise. I fucking nailed it, and that’s exactly what I intended to do.
Hollering in the microphone, Bob’s voice crashes through the speakers as he spouts off about mynoteworthyride. His tone has changed from challenging my ability to acting like he knew I’d nail it from the very beginning. I’ll admit, he can sure work a crowd, get them excited and make them believe every word that passes his lips. He’s good at what he does, but so am I. He isn’t wrong about my run being incredible. Hell, it might even be legendary, and I’m fairly certain today’s prize is about to be all mine. Either way, one thing is certain, I’ve ridden a lot of bulls, but none likethat.
A few riders follow my performance and the day ends with Jordan Daily, my biggest competition, riding last. His ride is good, but not good enough, and he doesn’t hide that it pissed him the fuck off once he makes his way toward the gates and throws his hat to the ground. His girlfriend rushes to his aid, trying to calm him down so he doesn’t make a fool of himself. She grabs a cigarette from her purse and he rips it from her hand the second it’s lit. I ain’t ever found the need for them, I guess because riding itself is my drug. They might help with his attitude, but it sure as hell won’t help with his talent, or lack thereof.
Bob and Sammy saunter out into the center of the arena, prize money in hand, While a young boy follows closely behind with the belt buckles, the metals all matching the place they represent—gold, silver, and bronze. Pulling the microphone back to his mouth, Bob surveys the crowd then begins to read out the ranks. “Steve Billings in third with 80.6 points out of one hundred. Second place is our long-time reigning champ, Jordan Daily, with 83.9 points.”
I watch Jordan’s jaw clench and release as he manages a fake, forced smile. He leaves his place at the gate and heads toward the boy who is divvying up the prizes. He does better hiding his anger once he approaches him, shaking everyone’s hand, then walking back toward his posse.
“And our winner, Rhett Rogers, with 94.3. A nearly record-breaking ride, young man. We can’t wait to see what’s next from you.”
I nod, feeling damn proud I made him eat his words from earlier, while trying to behave because of all the cameras pointed in my direction.
Shaking his hand, I accept the check, astounded by the numbers I see on it.
Fifty thousand dollars.
I look away quickly, trying not to draw attention to my reaction. Winning is nothing new, but a number this high sure is. The young boy comes up to me, beaming ear to ear, and I can’t help but smile at the wonder in his eyes. The same wonder I once wore when I came to rodeos as a kid. I bend down to meet his gaze and his smile nearly doubles—something I didn’t even think was possible. I can feel the excitement radiating off of him. Reaching out, he hands me the gold buckle.
“Thanks, kid,” I say, ruffling his hair. “Won’t be long until you’re up here gettin’ the awards instead of givin’ em.”
He squeals. “You really think so?” He seems mesmerizedby me. Hanging on to every single word as if they were the gospel itself.
