Page 2 of Spurred On

Chapter 2

Maverick

“Alright, Mav, you know the drill,” my manager, Doug, chastises. His voice barely audible over the cheers of the crowd. My glove-covered hand brushes the sticky rosin over my rope, making sure it’s primed for the ride and making sure my glove gets nice and coated while I’m at it.

I stand behind the corral bars next to my designated chute, getting my head in the game. I’m getting old and the promise of another title is so damn close. My coach’s eyes stay locked on the current rider, taking in the competition. Sully’s been in this game a long time; no one knows bull riding quite like him.

“Yeah, yeah. Hold on for dear life. Squeeze my thighs, spur him a little to make him extra pissed off.” My manager and coach are both unimpressed with my lax approach but I've been doing this since I was six. I didn’t get three titles under my belt by not knowing what the fuck I was doing. “Calm down, boys. This isn’t my first rodeo.” The look Doug shoots my way could kill me. His perfectly styled hair doesn’t fit in here. Neither does the sport coat, but he always wears it anyway, sticking out like a sore thumb against our cowboy hats, boots and chaps.

“You need to score an eighty-seven. The bull you pulled is mean, but you’ll need more than that to take the leaderboard and the title tonight. Make sure you rile him up to get as many extra points as wecan,” Coach says. It’s my last ride of the National Finals Rodeo, and it needs to be my best.

The announcer’s voice booms over the PA system, “Up next, we’ve got Maverick Ryder riding Diesel.” The arena erupts in cheers as adrenaline fills my system. Getting up on the bull, the team gets me ready. We wrap the bull and my hand in, making sure I’m not going anywhere. My vision begins to tunnel as I get myself mentally prepared. This is how I do it, this is how I win time and time again. Complete and total focus. Voices in the background fade to silence. And the only thing I can see, hear, and feel is me and Diesel. The sound of the bull’s hooves stomping the ground hits my ears as dust kicks up around us. He’s one of the most ruthless bulls in the system. His snarling grunts add to the adrenaline pumping through me. My grip tightens on the rope as they open the chute, and we’re off.

I just need eight seconds. It doesn’t sound long until you’re on the back of a bull, hanging on for dear life. My body instinctively moves with his, anticipating his next move and which way he’s going to buck every time. I rattle my spur and give him a little kick. He bucks, causing me to lean all the way back, my hand in the air to counterbalance. One more kick and he swings his body left, I brace my body and hold on, squeezing my legs because I refuse to let the title slip when I’m this close. The horn goes off, and I slide off the bull, making sure to run my way to the pit before I get a horn up the ass. The bullfighters, dressed as flamboyant clowns with cheeks painted a bright shade of red and their big cowboy hats looking almost as ridiculous as their denim overalls, do a good job of distracting the angry beast.

Once I’m safe, I rip off my helmet, hop on the gate, and wait for my score. My chest is heaving with heavy pants as I try to catch my breath and settle my heart rate back down. A large board backlit withbright lights goes through the previous riders’ scores and recaps all the events until the judges submit my score. It hangs from the ceiling in four sections, making up a box so everyone from every angle can get a peek. Seconds pass before the number eighty-nine flashes across the screen. I throw my hands up in celebration. My crew circles around me with slaps on the back. That’ll be next to impossible to beat. With two riders left, I can almost taste the victory, and boy, is it sweet. This buckle is mine.

“Good job, kid,” Doug says with a wide smile. It’s rare that I get any praise from him, so I take it with a smile and nod.

Being this close to payout makes my hackles rise with every second of the other contender’s rides. It’s been my life mission to prove I’m the best, to shut up all the people who say I’m only here because of who my old man was. Every title I win, their voices get a little quieter. If I win enough, maybe I won’t have to hear them at all. The rider after me does well, but with his scores, he’s coming in fourth overall. Only one more. One more rider and the title is mine.

My luck feels just a bit shy; he drew the best bull out there. If he rides him well, he’s guaranteed a high score. My hands grip the corral gates as he spins out of the chute, the bull putting on a show for everyone in attendance. The crowd roars as he holds on. Fuck. I’m going to lose.With three seconds left, the bull rears, back legs in full extension, and the rider slips. Not off the bull’s back but enough to lose some points in multiple categories. I let out a small breath of relief, at least now I still have a chance. His ride ends and he’s back on the safe side of the corral, ready to see how badly his slip costs him.

We all wait with bated breath for the score to flash up. My eyes squeeze shut, almost terrified of what I’ll see when I open them. My hands shake at my sides from the nerves I can’t seem to calm. Somehow, riding the bull was the most relaxing part of my night. The crowd roars, and I steel my nerves and peel my eyes open. My eyes scan the jumbotron, reading the scores. He came in one point under me. That’s way too damn close. I like competition and all, but I like a bit of cushion so I don’t have to sweat bullets like I did tonight. I’ve got to step up my game next ride.

Coach Sully pulls me down and into a bear hug. On the outside, I look pretty careless. But inside. I’m constantly trying to beat who I was yesterday—constantly trying to live up to the expectations others have set for me. Having a Dad who was a legend in rodeo is sometimes more of a curse than a blessing. Knowing I made Coach proud eases a little bit of the nagging voice in my head telling me I’ll never be as good as my old man.

The grin that stretches across my face almost hurts. Winning feels so damn good. Hopping over the bars, I hit the dirt and make my way to the center of the arena. I pull my cowboy hat off my head, waving it to the arena of fans. The seats are full; my gaze catches on random fans, the joy on their faces make me feel mine tenfold. The screams rattle my eardrums; it’s so loud in here from the cheering, the windows are probably shaking. I love this shit. This moment right here makes it all worth it.

My team rushes behind me as the media coverage team starts to fill the arena. Holy shit, I can’t believe I won. I mean, I can, I’ve worked my ass off this year. It’s been my best run yet and I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon.

Hands, who knows whose, start clapping as cameras start being pointed at my face. The announcer, Sandy, comes to my side, a microphone in her hand. Her boots are way too shiny to be on this dirt,but she doesn’t seem to care. She’s interviewed me multiple times, so I know she never asks shit questions.

“Maverick, tell us how you are feeling right now.” She moves the cordless microphone in front of my face, smiling at me, waiting for a response.

“Really good. This is a huge win for me and my team. A big thank you goes out to my coach for making sure I put in the work. And to the founding members of the NFR for putting on such a great event. The bulls were excellent this year.”

The crowd's cheers are so loud that I have to lean in and angle my head down to be able to hear her questions. “That’s great to hear. Any big plans or goals for the next year that we need to know about?”

Easiest question of the night. “I’ll be on the back of the bull, that’s my plans. This has been a great year, but next year will be even better.”

She smiles as she looks at the camera. “We love to hear it.” Turning back to me, she says, “Well, congratulations on your big win. We were all rooting for you.”

Nodding my head, I smile at her words, “Thanks, Sandy.”

The interviews and media go on forever, and I have to say that this part of the lifestyle is the worst. I don’t enjoy the cameras in my face, and I sure as shit don’t like having to act a certain way just to keep my sponsorships happy. Say the wrong thing at the wrong time, and that hundred-thousand-dollar deal is going down the shitter.

It finally calms down enough that I can sneak off the dirt, my best friends are waiting for me. This part is fun, the celebration.

“So, what’s the plan? We going to the NFR after-party or are we hitting the town?” Weston says. Rhett, always the quiet and reasonable one of us, leans against the corral bar.

“You know it’ll piss Doug off if I skip that party,” I say, gathering my bag from the side.

“So, what I am hearing is we have even more reason to skip the party?” Weston slaps my arm and I shake my head.

“Yup.” Doug is such a pain in the ass, you’d think he pays me with the way he walks around. The only thing he’s good for is keeping my sponsors happy and making sure my image stays squeaky clean.

Even Rhett gets excited. He claps and rubs his hands together. Both my boys showed up for me tonight. “Fuck yeah! Let's get out of here before Doug finds another camera to shove you in front of.”

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