Page 27 of Unleashed
The barn we converted into a training facility sits at the back of the ranch, far enough from the house that Hunter doesn't have to listen to me swear for three hours straight. It's nothing fancy. Just a dirt floor, steel-beam ceiling, and a rack of ropes along the back wall. A weight station Jett built himself. And in the center, bolted to a concrete pad, the drop barrel. A fifty-five-gallon drum rigged to cables and springs that mimics the spin and kick of a live bull.
It's ugly. It's brutal. It's where champions are made. Paulie took me mutton bustin’ when I was four, and I’m pretty sure it’s my first memory ingrained into my head. I ain’t looked back since.
Jett is just as good a bull rider as I am, better, maybe, on his best day, not that I'd ever say that to his face. Except two years ago, a bull called Reaper threw him so hard he shattered his left leg in three places and cracked his hip clean through. He was unconscious before he hit the dirt. They dragged him out, andI watched from behind the chutes with my heart in my throat, convinced I was watching my cousin die.
He didn't die. But he retired. And now I have the joy of being trained by this lunatic, who coaches the way he rode.
I lost some rankings after Dad died. Couldn't focus. Couldn't sleep. Kept seeing his face every time I wrapped my hand into the rope, and all I could think was, if this bull stomps on my head, who's carrying my coffin next? So I pulled back. Let the standings slip.
But over the last year, I've clawed my way back. Second in the world championship standings currently. One spot away from the title.
I tip my hat and toss down my bag. Jett's hanging off the pull-up bar, shirtless and drenched, knocking out reps as if it’s nothing.
"What's the plan today?" I ask as he drops down onto the dirt.
He shrugs. "Ace, you just gotta keep doing whatever the fuck it is you're doing. You're killin' it."
I chuckle. "So, your expert advice is, hold on for eight seconds?"
"Yeah. Don't change anything. Everyone's talkin' about your comeback. Everyone wants to watch you; you're selling the tickets. Probably your pretty face and the fact you look like a monster riding a beast."
I burst into laughter. "Gee, thanks."
He slaps his hand on the drop barrel. "Up you get. Ride the bull."
I take a step forward.
"Wait," he says. "Hundred push-ups."
I blink at him. "I've already fucking warmed up."
That’s the first thing I do when I get up.
He pulls out his phone and points to the floor.
"Hundred push-ups for the fans. You know that stupid fuckin' routine you do with one hand, then the other? All that fancy shit."
I roll my eyes. I couldn't give a shit about posts and engagement on social media. But apparently that's part of the gig now. Sponsors want reach. Promoters want content. And Jett, who has somehow appointed himself my social media manager despite not knowing how to spell algorithm, wants me to flex for the internet every chance I get.
I grunt and get down into position. Jett's hollering above me, filming while I burn through the set. One-handed switches, clapping push-ups, the whole circus. My muscles scream. The dirt grinds into my palms. A few thousand likes, bought with sweat and ego.
"Ladies! This one is single," he announces to the camera.
I pause. Mid push-up, my arms locked.
What if Harper watches these?
The thought hits me sideways, the way it always does. Does she scroll past my face on her phone while she's lying in bed?
Does she read the comments where women want to climb me like a tree? If I see ‘save a horse’ mentioned one more time, I swear.
Nope. I can't. Not today.
I carry on the set, performing just like he asked. Rep after rep until my chest is on fire and my arms are shaking, and the only thing in my head is the count.
When I'm done, I wipe the dirt off my hands and stand.
"Ain't he got a pretty face?" Jett says to the camera, tapping his hand on my cheek.
