When he makes a locking motion in front of his lips, I mimic it, then pretend to toss the key before returning my attention to the arena.
“He’s in that chute over there,” he murmurs near my ear, his arm outstretched, pointing toward the far side of the row of metal gates. “See him?”
“Barely.”
I don’t even know what I’m looking at, but once I focus my eyes, I can make out the back of him as he lowers himself onto the horse. He’s too far away to pick up on anything else. Icouldwatch him on the jumbotron, but I’d rather watchhim,even if it’s a little hard to make out. We didn’t get a chance to see each other prior to me coming here, so this’ll be my first time seeing him in his whole done-up rodeo gear. Well, in person, that is.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer booms over the speaker, my gut twisting as nerves flutter through my body.A new song begins, one I’m not familiar with, but it’s loud, even as the man continues. “Next up, we have a bronc rider here from Copper Lake, Wyoming. His fourth time joining us here tonight, let me hear it for Copeland Murphy!”
The words barely have time to leave his mouth before the chute is ripped open by a couple of guys and Cope enters the arena on top of a huge, fierce beast. My stomach’s clear in my throat as I watch him on the edge of my seat, everything seeming to slow down. For the first time tonight, I’m actually seeing what’s happening. Chestnut brown, with a thick, long mane to match, the horse looks strong and powerful as she bucks and kicks.
Cope’s got a tight grip on the off-white rein attached to the horse’s halter with his right hand; his left up above his head. The bronco jumps up, legs coming from beneath it as it lurches forward, all while Cope moves fluidly with her. Cope’s feet move in a sweeping motion, forward to backward, from the horse’s shoulder to flank. I remember Shooter telling me something earlier about the use of spurs on his boots, and how the movement, paired with how the riders hold the reins, helps them find rhythm with the animal.
The movement looks violent at times, making me queasy just thinking about being the one on the back of the horse. When eight seconds are up, the blaring sound of the buzzer goes off, and the crowd erupts. I let out the breath I’d been holding as Cope is pulled off the animal. The moment his feet touch the dirt, he barrels over to the wall in front of us, his arms lifted above his head as he pumps them in the air victoriously. It’s only then I realize I’ve raised out of my seat, along with Shooter, and everybody else around us. My cheeks hurt from smiling so wide, and I’m cheering so loud, my throat is no doubt going to feel raw later.
That wasincredible.Confusing and kind of terrifying, but absolutely fucking incredible to watch. Holy shit.
The announcer shoots off Cope’s overall score for the night—a ninety-four—but Shooter tells me we won’t know if he won until the end. Even if he scores the highest tonight, they still have to take into account the earnings from the last ten days, add those up for all the riders, and then we’ll have our winner. With it being the final night, the winnerwillbe announced tonight, though. I know from listening to Cope talk about finals, and from what Shooter’s told me since we’ve been here, there are several different winners and a multitude of prizes that will be announced and given out, but only one from each event will take the title of world champion. It’s apparently alargecash prize, as well as a winning belt buckle, and bragging rights, of course.
After a few minutes, Cope has to go in the back so the next rider can come out. His gleaming eyes find mine once more before he does. His smirk grows, and he rips the hat off his head, giving it a swirl in the air like it’s a lasso, and I swear I fucking melt. He bites down on his bottom lip, then blows a kiss my way before leaving.
“Oooh, shit, Xan-man,” Shooter chirps in my ear, the smile evident in his tone. He saw that just as much as I did. My cheeks and the tips of my ears heat up, and I don’t even know why. It’s not like I’m unfamiliar with hooking up, or with guys giving me attention. It’s not something I normally get bashful from. But there’s something—I can’t even place what—about having Cope’s attention, specifically…knowing he wants me, and then also knowing his friends notice it too. It gets me all warm and fuzzy inside. And maybe a little turned on.
Taking our seats again, we watch as the next handful of bronc riders comes out and do their thing. Watching them is not nearly as exciting as it was watching Cope, and this honestly probably wouldn’t be anything that would pique my interest at all hadit not been for him. Watching Cope out there was exhilarating. He gave his all tonight, and it was a rewarding thing to get to witness.
Once bronc riding is finished, they move on to the next part of the rodeo. All of this is so foreign to me; it’s laughable at this point. My knowledge of the rodeo is so minute, that I thought it consisted of only bronc and bull riding. There’s apparently a whole other section with a multitude of other events that I didn’t even know about. In between events, Shooter explains everything in a way that’s almost easy for me to follow along.
“Okay, so, there’s typically seven main events that take place during a rodeo,” he says, shifting in his chair to face me better. “They can be broken down into two different categories; the rough stock events—think bareback, saddle, and bull riding—and the timed events, which are your steer wrestling, barrel racing, tie-down, and team roping. All these events are point-based.”
“And what’s next?” I ask, feeling about as dumb as a box of rocks.
“Steer wrestling.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
I wince when Shooter huffs out a laugh. “You may have heard it be called bulldogging. It’s where a horse-mounted rider chases a steer—which is a male cow with his nuts cut off—and then wrestles it to the ground by grabbing its horns and pulling it off-balance.”
My eyes, I’m sure, are wide as saucers as I gape at Shooter before peering next to him at Whit. “Holy fuck, that sounds awful. Doesn’t the bull get hurt?”
Trying to hide his laughter, Shooter drags a hand over his mouth. It’s an unsuccessful move because I totally see it. I’ve never felt so out of my element. Not even when I milked Tootsie for the first time. There’s so much to this world I had no ideaeven existed. The rules, the events…everything. I don’t think I could ever truly grasp the extent of it even if I tried.
“The bull’s fine,” Shooter replies to my previous question. “The livestock that are used in events like this are bred specifically for this. This is their job, and what they’ve been raised to do. And they’re actually very well taken care of. The association has a ton of animal welfare rules to ensure the animals are receiving the best care. Honestly, a lot of these animals are treated better than even most dogs and cats in people’s homes.”
The three of us watch the rest of the events, with Shooter delving out more information each time. My head is spinning. When the barrel racers come out, I recognize Shooter’s sister, Daisy, and their other friend, Jessie. Watching that was fun. By the time the last event wraps up, my head is crammed full of new information, and I feel like I could maybe hold my own in a conversation about the rodeo.Bigmaybe. I could at least pretend and half-follow along, and that’s saying something.
The end of the night seems to drag on, but I think it’s mostly because I’m so anxious to see Cope and congratulate him. I’m antsy to be near him. Knowing he’s in this arena too, but I can’t see him makes me feel stir crazy. Which is wild to even think, given that we’ve only known each other for a short while.
Not for the first time, I wonder how tonight’s going to go once we all leave here. Will we kiss again? Do more? Maybe. Maybe not. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that kiss since the night it happened. It’s a continuous slideshow in my mind, the star of the show in my dreams every night. The way his lips went from timid and shy to hungry and sure, the taste of his tongue ravishing every corner of my mouth like he couldn’t get enough. His large hands on my body, roaming and feeling and massaging.
I wanted more. So much more. It’s a miracle I had enough sense to stop it before it went further.
The desire and the need to explore his body in great detail is immense, and it’s only getting stronger as the days pass. Even from outside of his clothes, I can tell his body is a work of art. His muscles defined, skin taut over them. If I close my eyes, I can picture how the expanse of his naked back would look, the ridges between his abs, the firmness of his pecks. I can even imagine the tightness of his nipples. Would they be a pale pink like mine, or a darker shade. Images of me running my tongue all across his flesh. Through every divot and dip. The way his flavor would erupt on my taste buds. The slight musky taste from his sweat, mixed with the saltiness of his skin and the sweetness of whatever fresh soap he uses. It would be heady. My head would be swimming, and my groin would be aching.
Pulled from my very inappropriate thoughts when the crowd cheers vibrate through the bleachers, I shake my head free of what was running through it, bringing my attention back to the center of the arena, where they’ve started their announcements. They go through the scores in bareback, getting to the world champ title, and when ‘Sterling Addams’ is announced over the speaker, Shooter goes fucking apeshit next to me, cheering and hollering and making someverydirty promises to Sterling about later tonight. Laughter spills out of my mouth as I cheer right alongside him, feeling ecstatic for him even though we barely know each other. This is his first year pro, so it must be quite an accomplishment to take that title so early on in your career.
The energy all around us, and even just between Shooter, Whit, and I, is intense, and it only grows as the announcers move on to the saddle bronc portion. Sweating palms and shaky legs, I watch and listen eagerly as they go through everything, a level of nervousness eating at my gut as if it were me down there, waiting to find out how I did. He’s won the title before;he told me as much when he was explaining the whole process. Last year, he won the average score, but missed out on the world champ title by a hair.
Watching him down there in the dirt, he looks confident. His shoulders are back, and he’s standing tall. If he’s nervous at all, he doesn’t show it. He looks sexy as hell in his cowboy get-up, and I make no attempts at hiding my shameless perusal of his body, not that he can even see me up here. His tawny brown cowboy hat looks well-worn, and he’s got on some type of leather vest over his black long-sleeve button-up shirt. The chaps hugging his thighs are black leather with a fringe that matches his hat, and his boots are covered in dirt, looking equally as worn as his hat. His vest, shirt, and chaps all have patches on them from his sponsors.
