He’s sitting right beside me on my bed, his teeth chomping down on his bottom lip as he stares down at the hands clasped in his lap. Every part of his body language right now is off. I’ve never seen him like this. This dejected. And I very quickly realize I don’t like it. As much as his cocky, self-assured behavior normally annoys the hell out of me, I prefer it over this version of him tenfold. The need to help him in any way that I can is overwhelming. Almost suffocating.
Going on instinct and what I would like if the roles were reversed, I place my hand on his knee, squeezing gently, hopefully relaying silently that I’m here for him whenever he’s ready. He looks up, shiny eyes meeting mine, and he offers me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. It almost looks… pained. But my touch must do the trick because after he drags in a few deep breaths, he begins.
“I’m sure you know of my dad,” he starts, a humorless chuckle leaving him. “Everybody in the rodeo world does.”
That sentence alone tells me exactly where this is probably heading, and my stomach sinks.
“Yeah, I do,” I confirm, even though I’m pretty sure he wasn’t looking for an actual answer.
“He’s always been pretty clear about his expectations of me when it comes to bronc riding. I grew up having the phrase‘second place in nothing more than being first loser,’engrained into my mind. He loves me, I don’t doubt that.” Shooter lifts his left shoulder into a shrug. “But he also loves the rodeo. Loves the win. Winning is, and always has been, the most important thing. Being the best. I know he’s proud of me, or… well, I think he is, but we come from a long line of champions, you know. I have big shoes to fill, a lot of pressure on my shoulders to uphold the Graham name. Uphold the legacy that those before me built.”
Some more tears trail down his cheeks, falling into his lap. He won’t look at me, but he keeps going anyway.
“For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to follow in his footsteps. Be the greatest like him, and my grandpa, and my uncles. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He breathes out a laugh, but it’s lacking any life. “And in my favor, I’m damn good at it.” I roll my eyes, sniggering at the cockiness that never fails to shine through, no matter what with him. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last, his mood sobering up instantly. “It’s just never enough,” he adds somberly.
My brows pinch in confusion. “What do you mean?”
Shooter leans over, elbows resting on his knees with his hands linked in front of him. “He’s always been hard on me. Always going over my rides, telling me what I could’ve done differently to score higher. Even if I won, there was always criticism he had for me. I’m usually pretty good at tuning it out, or using it as fuel to do better. This season, though…” He scratches a hand over his mouth. “It’s more. He’s almost insufferable, to the point that I’ve dreaded coming back here.”
I’m… speechless. I can’t imagine living with that much pressure on my shoulders all the time. And it explains why he’s so headstrong and competitive. I mean, we’re all competitive to a point, but he’s next level. And for good reason.
“And he’s not like that to Daisy?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m not sure if it’s because he was never a barrel racer, so the intensity isn’t there, or if it’s because she’s a woman, so he subconsciously holds her to different standards, but he’s never rode her ass the way he does me. Ever. In fact, he’s one of her biggest cheerleaders.”
“Shooter, I…”
“Please, don’t,” he cuts me off. Standing up suddenly, he starts pacing in front of the bed. “I’m just so…” He runs his palms over his head, attempting to grip the strands, but they’re too short. “I’m so fucking tired of it all. Tired of never being good enough in his eyes, you know? I have my entire family’slegacy riding on my shoulders at all times. One wrong move, and I let everybody down. It’s a lot of fucking pressure to put on one person.”
“I agree, it is. And it’s not fair to you.” He’s still pacing, and I don’t think he’s even hearing me, but I say it anyway.
He lets out a laugh. “Wanna know the most fucked-up part of it all? Sometimes, I don’t even know if I truly want to do this anymore. Like, do I actually want to pursue rodeo, or am I simply doing it to try to make my dad proud?” Shooter stops pacing, turns to face me as his eyes widen—looking very similar to how I feel hearing him admit that—and fill to the brim with fresh tears. “I’ve never said that out loud before. I can’t believe I just gave a voice to that. Holy fuck.”
Shooter laughs while tears spill over and stream down his face. In this moment, he looks a little maniacal, and I feel like if I don’t help calm him down soon, he’s going to full on spiral. This is clearly years of pent-up frustration breaching the surface.
“Hey,” I say softly, reaching out to slip my hand in with his. He stops pacing, looking down at where our hands are connected before his deep, overflowing gaze lifts and meets mine. Tugging him gently, I murmur, “Come here.”
This—whatever this is that’s going on between us—is foreign. It’s new, and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. All I know is that Shooter needs someone in his corner right now. He needs someone to lean on. And whatever his reason may be, it was me he chose to come to. Me, he chose to trust with this burden. And I’ll be damned if it isn’t me who helps him find comfort too, even if it’ll bite me in the ass later.
He steps up to the bed between my legs, gazing down at me with the saddest expression I’ve ever seen him wear. It tugs at the corners of my heart.
“I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with that,” I tell him honestly. “I’m sure you already know this, but you’re an amazing broncrider, regardless of what your dad says. You’re somebody I looked up to before I went pro. Hell, you’re somebody a lot of people look up to. And now that I’ve gone pro, you’re the benchmark for a good ride. You have such natural talent, and the stuff you’ve accomplished in the few years you’ve been in the PRCA is admirable. I mean, Jesus, you’re a three-time world champ. If he can’t see how incredible you are, and be proud of you, he’s blind.”
Reaching up, Shooter cups my face, thumb rubbing along my cheek. “Thank you. I’ve never really talked to anybody about all the shit with my dad. Daisy knows, but that’s only because she’s witnessed it.”
Why he felt like I was the best person to open up to is beyond me, but I can’t deny the warm, fuzzy feeling spreading in my chest because of it. A thick silence covers us, neither of us breaking eye contact for a moment.
Finally, clearing my throat, trying to bring back some of the moisture back to my mouth, I ask, “Do you, uh, wanna hang out? Maybe watch a movie or something?”
Shooter’s lip tilts into a sexy little crooked grin as he nods. “Sure, let’s watch a movie.”
I get up, grab the remote, and turn off the light before we both climb farther up my bed, sitting with our backs against the headboard while I turn on the TV. We end up picking some new action movie that neither of us have seen yet. It’s comfortable, us relaxing beside each other. There’s some chatter regarding actors or parts in the movie, but for the most part, we watch in silence, but it isn’t stuffy or awkward. Our bodies are turned ever so slightly toward each other, knees brushing. That simple physical connection paired with everything Shooter just shared with me makes this moment feel monumental in a way. Like the turning of a pretty big corner.
By the time the movie’s over, it’s pretty late. I don’t know how far Shooter lives from here, but I also don’t love the idea of him driving home this late either. Even though my palms are sweaty and my pulse is roaring in my ears, I ask if he wants to sleep over. I don’t want him to think I’m trying to take advantage of him, or something pervy like that, when I know he’s had an upsetting day, but I also want him to know it’s okay to stay.
Thankfully, he agrees without giving me a hard time. We both strip down to our boxers before climbing back into bed under the covers. I’m hyperaware of him so close to me in the dark, his body heat radiating off of him. It’s not like we haven’t hooked up before, so why is the idea of sleeping next to him, in the same bed, so weird?
I wonder if he’s feeling it too. Probably not. He’s probably cool as a cucumber, trying to go to sleep, completely unaware of my major inner struggle to calm the heck down.
