PROLOGUE
GRAYSON
4 YEARS AGO
“Are you ready for this, man?” I ask Rueben, clapping him on the back as I reach past him to grab myself a beer from the cooler we keep stashed in the back of my truck. It’s likely a bad idea to be drinking before we’ve even made it inside the arena, but I’m not the dumb-ass about to climb onto a thousand-pound provoked bull and ride it.
“Been ready, man. Tonight’s been a long time in the making,” Rueben responds, hauling his bag over his shoulder and placing his cowboy hat on his head.
Tonight, my best friend of twenty-years, is competing in professional bull-riding for the first time in his career and to say it’s been a long time in the making is an understatement. I’ve never known anyone to work as hard as Rueben has to get to where he is now, and I’m damn proud of him.
For a while, we were worried he was barrelling down a path of pure destruction. One that was going to earn him a one-way ticket to prison.
On more than one occasion, I’ve had to bail him out for fighting or criminal damage – nine times out of ten the criminal damage was a result of fighting. Until two years ago, after one of many one-night stands, he found out he was going to be a dad.
None of us expected him to step up the way he did, but Rueben proved all of us wrong when he completely changed his ways, turning his childhood hobby into a career and taking on the role of a devoted father to his daughter, Sapphire.
I’ve never seen him as proud as he was the day he walked out into the hospital waiting room with his newborn daughter cradled in his arms. From that day onwards, he made it his life’s mission to make her proud and be the man she needed him to be.
He’s come through on his promise, worked his ass off and climbed the ranks in bull riding quicker than most people his age to get to where he is today. Living out his dream of going pro.
“You can say that again,” I respond as I fall into step beside him.
We meet up with my brothers, Hunter and Noah, and Noah’s best friend, Killian, in the makeshift alley leading towards the individual bays where they are holding the bulls for tonight’s event. The lingering scent of literal bull shit taints the air, but when you grow up on a cattle ranch and attend as many events like this as we have, you become accustomed to the smell.
The three of them greet us with claps on the back, wishing Rueben good luck before informing us they’re going to take their seats in the stands. Usually, I would stay behind with Rueben and watch him compete from the chute but tonight I want to be out there in the audience,watching from the front row as my best friend lives out his dream.
The crowd roars for other competitors, the ground vibrating beneath our feet as they cheer over the sound of the commentator announcing the score in the distance. I remain quiet, sipping my beer while Rueben gets in his zone and runs through his typical warmups.
His phone rings, and he glances at it, his face softening and I know without looking that it’s Sapphire calling to wish him good luck. There is only one female that can make his face light up like that and that’s his daughter.
This sort of became his ritual before every competition. He calls her his good luck charm. Swears that the only reason he wins every time is because of this phone call right before he climbs on that bull. I don’t really believe in all that stuff. I’ve never been the superstitious type, but I know there are many out there in every kind of sport who believe the same thing.
For some it may be a pair of lucky socks or making sure they kiss their wife right before they go out and do what they love. For Rueben, it’s hearing his daughter tell him good luck before he climbs onto a thousand-pound bull and makes the eight.
Not wanting to intrude on his private moment with his daughter, I stand, pulling him into a brief hug. “Good luck out there, man.”
Rueben nods, “Thanks, Gray. I’ll see you after.”
“Go and win it,” I say, before turning and going in search of my brothers.
I pass other bull riders, some returning from their turn, others waiting to go out, and I tip my hat at them as I pass. The grunts and stomps of angry bulls grow louder as I near the alley. They bang their heads against the metal cages surrounding them, searching for a way out, and nervessettle low in my belly as I glance at each and every one of them, wondering which one Rue will ride in just a few minutes.
I find Hunter, Noah and Killian in the front row, the floor in front of them lined with beers and I roll my eyes, already knowing who is responsible for the collection gathering at their feet. “Seriously?”
“Dude, did you see the line at the bar? We should’ve just smuggled our own in,” Noah says in exasperation.
I knock his hat off his head. “You’re not even old enough to drink, fuck head.”
“I’m twenty, not twelve, dick,” Noah retorts, his eyes narrowed, and I shake my head with a laugh, picking up one of the beers and taking my seat next to Hunter, the oldest of the three of us.
The overhead speakers crackle, drawing the attention of the crowd and the arena becomes eerily silent as they await the announcement of the next rider. The lights lower and my stomach plummets with nerves for my best friend when I see his distinctive grey cowboy hat lower behind the chute.
“And we have a newcomer tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Competing professionally for the first time, riding the hard to beat Titan, we have Rueben Delaney!” The audience cheer as the gate is yanked open, and my best friend comes flying out.
The brown and white bull bucks and turns viciously, sending his body sideways, almost unnaturally. Rueben holds on, his right arm high in the air as the seconds run down on the clock. I hold my breath, flicking my eyes between him and the clock.
Five seconds.
