Page 82 of The Last Goodbye

Music thumped through the speakers, announcers called out names in a rolling drawl, and the crowd’s chatter rose and fell in waves that built toward each rider.

Beside me, Jovi sat rigid, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

“I can’t believe he’s riding injured,” she said, her eyes locked on the chutes.

“It’s not his first time riding injured,” I reminded her quietly.

Down below, the crew moved with practiced precision around the gate. Dirt was kicked up under boots, ropes were checked, and a massive bull snorted and stamped inside his chute, shaking the metal walls like he was already angry at the world.

Cannon had taken a bad fall yesterday—two broken ribs and a broken hand—and still he was going into the finals, but that didn’t matter to him. It never had. Win or lose, he was the kind of man who went down fighting.

We were all on the edge of our seats watching everything unfold, the kind of tension that sits heavy in your chest and doesn’t let up because out there, under those lights, there was no undoing what was about to happen.

We were going to be here cheering him on, regardless of the outcome.

Always had been, always would be.

“I’m looking at the points—and it’s going to be tough to pull it off,” Phoenix grumped. “Everyone online is saying that he’s most likely out because of last night’s score. They don’t think he’s going to finish in the top five at this point.”

“He doesn’t have to win the individual event to be the world champion,” I reminded him, though we all knew that, so maybe I was just trying to reassure myself. He’d come into the finals strong, but last night had been rough, and he’d lost his lead to Sebastian Lee, a guy he’d competed against for years. Several dudes were right there with him now, as far as points were concerned.

“Hey, he can only do what he can do. It’ll come down to points.” Cutler exhaled as he took Gracie’s hand in his. “Let’s see what he can pull off today.”

We continued going back and forth on every scenario until his name was called. And I was quite certain that the next 8 seconds were the longest of my life.

I’d watched this man ride a bull more times than I could count, but this time was different.

Everything was on the line.

I’d worried that he’d be thrown off and injured even worse.

He’d won the individual event last year, but he hadn’t had the points to be the overall world champ.

He wanted to achieve both, and last night might have derailed his chances of getting this last one that he wanted so badly.

Everything blurred, and we were all on our feet.

Lights were flashing and people screamed, and the sound of the buzzer going off to signal that he’d finished had us all losing our shit.

He’d stayed on somehow. I wasn’t sure how he’d pulled that off with broken bones and bruises from head to toe.

We waited for the scores, and Phoenix frantically typed into the calculator on his phone.

I could see how much pain Cannon was in as he held his hand up and waved to the crowd, limping as he walked out.

“He’s hurt,” Jovi said as I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and gave her a half hug.

“He can rest now. He left it all fucking out there,” I said.

Next up was Sebastian Lee. He’d need a perfect score to keep his lead.

I’d thought the last 8 seconds had moved in slow motion—but this was no different.

We all sat in silence as we took in his scores.

Phoenix stopped typing into his phone, hanging his head low.

Sebastian Lee was the PBR World Champion.