Page 11 of Eight Seconds

“Sponsors, really?” I ask, not bothering to hide my interest, all thoughts of mud-caked boots and ruined jeans forgotten. In my short career, I’ve managed to win a few minor deals with companies. The advances and residuals paid for my trailer and keeping my gear up to date. The responsibilities have mostly been wearing patches on my vest and flashing a smile for their social media. Occasionally, I drop their names when I do an interview. But the companies have been relatively small-time in this business, and aside from earning a championship buckle, a long-term contract with one of the big five ensures security even when the rodeo days are over.

“Which sponsors?” I prompt. The man across from me rubs his stubbled jaw, taking his time before he answers.

Curtis grunts out an acknowledgment, pouring the fresh brew into our mugs and joining me at the small table. I adjust, sitting taller to keep my knees from knocking against his. We both sip, and I let the hot liquid warm me from the inside out, banishing the last of the rain-soaked cold from my bones.

“Ace High and Horizon. Both want to sign a new representative this season.”

Ace High and Horizon. Two of the big five companies. One is the biggest Western clothing supplier in North America, and the other has a rope on every ranch in the United States. Both have been rodeo staples for decades. Every cowboy and cowgirl that signs with them has become the most sought-after in our sport. Their representatives' popularity transcends beyond the dirt of the arena. I’d give anything to have either company’s attention for long enough to prove I’m a good investment.

“Well, shit, Curt,” I say, drawling my cuss a little. It doesn’t charm him the same way it does women if the glare he returns is any indication. I chuckle, going on, “I better iron my good shirt for tonight.”

“Don’t know what for.” Curtis smirks, extending his arm along the back of the booth seat. “Ace High is looking for a cowgirl, and you might be pretty, but you don’t have the ass to fill their jeans.”

“My ass fills my jeans just fine, thank you.” I clutch my hand against my heart in mock-offense.

“Yeah, well, I already introduced their rep to Charlotte.”

“She does have a great ass.” I whistle low, remembering how her jeans mold to the muscular curves that bounce so enticingly when she rides.

“Watch it,” Curtis warns bitingly. “I love that girl like she’s my own.”

“Weird. You were the one talking about her ass,” I point out. Curtis’ face goes red as he leans forward.

“Not. Like.That.”

I wave a hand dismissively between us. I know damn well he didn’t mean anything in our conversationlike that. He thought he was teasing me. I can’t help that he walked into an awkward as hell moment. Plus, just because he would never think of Charlotte’s ass that way doesn’t mean I don’t.

“She deserves it. She’d make a great brand rep,” I give him, downing half my coffee to keep from looking him in the eye.

“Charlotte’s worked hard, but talent isn’t everything,” Curtis ventures. I nod along, licking my lips for any remaining drops of coffee foam, before lifting my eyes. “It’s important for her to have reliable people in her corner, supporting her. She’s had too many people try to tell her how to live her life or get in her way. She doesn’t need another.”

I can feel my friend and mentor assessing me. It’s in the slight pinch at the corner of his eyes, the subtle shift in the lift of his chin. He tried to warn me off Charlotte the night I met her, but he knows once I set my mind on something, I won’t be moved from it. I hold his stare, keeping my shoulders relaxed, trying to convey I’m not aiming to hurt her. He must see what he needs because I get the briefest nod. I let out a quiet exhale at passing his unspoken test.

“That box for her?” His eyes flick to a small rectangular box wrapped in emerald paper on the counter. I forgot it was there once I started dealing with the leak, but there’s no avoiding it now.

“Yeah,” I tell him, standing with my empty mug and reaching for his. Curtis hands it over, and I put both in the sink before picking up the box. It fits neatly in the palm of my hand, the shine of the wrapping catching the light and highlighting the corner I couldn’t get to fold properly.

“How did you know it was her birthday?” Curtis asks, rising and reaching past me for his hat. He meanders to the trailer door, leaning against the wall as he waits for my answer.

“She mentioned it in Jonesboro.” I set the box back on the counter, turning the contents over in my mind and hoping the gift I picked out isn’t a mistake. Curtis has one eyebrow lifted when I give him my attention again. He waits, and I let out a sigh. “But I promised Rayna a fifty-percent tip if she told me the exact date. That’s how I know it’s today, okay?”

“Well.” He pulls his boots on and opens the door, stepping outside where the wind blows the rain sideways under the awning. He levels me the kind of look I remember seeing when I was learning to ride: stern and unforgiving. The kind of look that conveyed how important the next words out of his mouth would be. Pulling his hat snugly on his head, his voice growls against the growing storm, “Don’t fuck it up.”

* * *

The arena is part lake, part mud pit, and all kinds of a pain in my ass.

The rain finally stopped about thirty minutes ago, in the middle of the steer wrangling, but the ground bears the scars of a messy, dangerous night for all the participants. Human and animal.

As I walk through the staging area, there are a couple of cowboys in the first aid tent getting checked out for sprained wrists and ankles, and I notice at least one steer under the supervision of a veterinarian as it limps lamely around a holding pen.

I pat my arms, checking that the lingering dampness in the air hasn’t soaked through my wraps and tape before securing the buttons at the cuff. It’s easy to assume that most rodeo athletes don’t give a shit about health and safety, given the very nature of what we do for a living. But every rodeo comes with hours of preparation and practice, from strength and cardio training to the clothes to the time I put in wrapping my arms with athletic tape to help absorb some of the shock of my ride. I pull my protective vest onto my shoulders, my fingers deftly working the zipper, securing the final piece of my minimal armor. It isn’t much, but every bit of it helps me endure the thrashing and twisting of the thousand-pound animal I have the pleasure of trying to stay on top of.

At the participants' gate, I can just make out Charlotte’s uncle, Tim, the organizer of tonight’s rodeo, waving his arms animatedly at the opening of a tent next to first aid as he speaks to whoever is inside. Tim is a good operator. His rodeos are clean, efficient, and, despite a few close calls, safe. I lean against the announcer’s tower, watching the interaction I can’t hear with detached interest until the familiar body of a red roan blocks my view.

I take in the mud-caked boots in the stirrup, following the long, lean lines of mahogany chaps over jean-clad legs to the flare of wide hips. A shockingly pink flannel shirt stretches across firm, round tits, the button straining slightly before I arrive at a plump set of lips twisted in a little smirk at me. Vibrant green eyes are narrowed playfully as Charlotte leans over her saddle horn toward me.

“Whatcha looking at, Cowboy?”

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