Page 19 of One Last Rodeo
Don’t care.
Don’t care.
But my usually steady, calm hands won't stop shaking.
Chapter 6 – Jensen
“You feeling good?” Joel asks me while hanging off the side of the chute by one hand. His other is full of Nerd Ropes that he's chomping on like it's his only meal of the day.
The sad thing is it probably is.
"Just wait until you turn thirty-five next month. You won't be able to survive on candy alone anymore."
He snorts in response.
I roll my shoulder once, ignoring the bite of pain that’s been lingering there all morning. I always seem to be one of the last to ride these days. Probably to build suspense and make up for whatever our team lacks in points. I also seem to get the meanest bulls—rank, vicious, born angry with the wildest names. Sometimes it all feels orchestrated. Like maybe the league wants the crazy rides under my name so they can plasterthe footage everywhere and draw in more crowds. More wins for me, means more ticket sales for them, means more money for Craig.
Even though it’s supposed to be a lottery draw, I’d be lying if I said I never wondered whether the pick of the bull was rigged. After the last doctor stole money from the rodeo, I know Craig’s been looking for any opportunity to make up the financial loss.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, even though the rope’s rougher against my palm tonight, and my shoulder’s humming, and my head feels like I’m underwater with my ears plugged again.
Fucking Catalina Alba is in my head. That's all this is.
“Heard the doctor tried to block your ride.”
His tone’s light, but I hear the question buried under it. He’s concerned. He means well. They all do. I grip the rope tighter, wrapping it exactly how I like, not letting his words land.
“Yeah. Just a little misunderstanding. I feel great and I'm here, ready to go.”
Joel gives me that look—the one that saysyou’re full of shit, but I’m not getting involved.He slaps the gate hard and drops to the dirt.
“Alright, good luck man.”
“Thanks.”
“Dinner and drinks later tonight?”
“Of course.”
He wanders off while I inhale slow, eyes shut, waiting for the announcer to call out my name. The cameras swing toward me, lights hot on my face. I flash a grin, mouth the same words I always do before a ride—love you, Grandma—and blow her a kiss from thousands of miles away.
I’m sure she’s smiling at the TV back in Tennessee, where the mountains suffocate the noise of the city and it's currently a hot, summer day. She’s probably yelling at the screen shouting ‘keep your ass on that bull and don't go giving me a heart attack’like she’s been telling me since I was twelve. Who knew it’d be me with the heart issues.
June pops up onto the fence, fancy camera out and in my face like there isn't a pissed-off bull between my thighs ready to launch my ass. I swear, she has no sense of fear or personal space. She’s always off in her head dreaming about something. Or buried behind her phone scrolling.
“Smile Jensen,” she orders.
I force another one, she snaps a few pictures, checks the screen and then nods. “Good luck! Don't die! You better comment on these pics later tonight for reach,” she chirps before hopping down.
We both know I won’t. And then the horn goes.
Eight seconds. That’s all it ever is. Usually, it feels like water flowing through me—muscle memory, instinct, adrenaline. I perform the rides in my head the night before when I'm staring at whatever hotel room ceiling I’m sleeping in. I'm always ready, never caught off guard. But tonight, the moment the bull snaps out of the chute with me on its back, something’s wrong. And I know it.
My shoulder’s too tight. The rope pulls left, my bull kicks right, and suddenly my entire upper body is torqued the wrong damn way because I didn't anticipate it correctly. It's a rookie move, and a serious mistake I haven’t made in years.
Call it Catalina getting in my head before the ride. Call it her being fucking right about my injury that I never let healproperly. Either way, I know if I stay on this animal, something’s going to tear, and it'll be bad for me.
I let go with two seconds left, which is basically career blasphemy, and hit the dirt hard. Thankfully, because I'm the one who decided when to let go, I chose to fall on my good side. Had I forced myself to stay on for another two, I could have fallen right on my injury and been done for good.
