Chapter 2: Flynn

I saw the angry bull off to my side as I stood on the railing of the cage. The barrelmen were lined along the opposite wall, and I couldn’t help but feel a tremor begin in my legs. I took a few deeps breaths to slow my breathing, but I couldn’t help but get angry at the nerves I was feeling. It had been a few years since I’d ridden a bull, but it’s like riding a fucking bike: you just get back up there and do it. There ain’t no practicing or trial runs or nothing like that, you just hop up, jump on, and feel the bull underneath your legs.

See, that’s the thing about bull riding: everyone always thinks you gotta tame the bull. Somehow control its rage. But you can’t control the rage of a bull any more than you can control the path of a tornado: it just takes off, and all you can do is protect yourself and move your body in contrary motion to how the bull is bucking. I picked my eyes up and looked around the stadium, and I realized every single seat was full. Sure, I’d been advertised a bit around town with getting back into the swing of things, but I didn’t think this many people would show up just to watch the ride.

It calmed my nerves a bit, seeing all them out there.

I love performing for a crowd. Yeah, sure, I got myself my own ranch and all, but there ain’t nothing like riding for a crowd. Making people smile has always been a thing I’ve enjoyed, and if I can make them smile while doing something that makes me smile, then even better.

“Mr. Rawlings? Time to go.”

One thing I’ve always prided myself in was, I never had a re-ride. Even if I knew something had gone wrong with the equipment, I always knew I could hang on. I never needed the barrelmen to dig me outta trouble, and I always felt confident at the draws before the competition. Bull riding ain’t ever about the animal you get. It’s always about how you can cope with the situation handed to you for eight solid seconds.

Don’t sound like much time, but when that rough stock drops for the first time and that bull takes off, it sure as hell begins to feel like a lot of time.

Of course, the draw this time around for my homecoming ride, they had to give me the bull that almost killed its last rider. When any rough stock ends up wounding or killing its rider, there’s usually some sort of investigation that happens to determine whether the animal should be retired or not. After this bull’s investigation, they decided that the rider didn’t do everything he could’ve to roll right off the bull, and it put his body in the bull’s way.

I had to keep that in mind when finally rolling off this bull after my ride.

I took a deep breath and hopped onto the bull, and I felt his muscles start to twitch beneath my legs. When I did not get off his back, he began flinging me around in the pin, and I adjusted my body weight not to slide off. That usually frightens even the best of bull riders, but to me, it’s a little sneak peek into what’s to come… a little practice run to see how the bull will move. I can tell a lot about a bull by those preliminary shakes in the cage: where it likes to throw its weight, which hooves are more dominant, whether the bulls likes to rear backward or forwards. It’s like a little cheat sheet for the next eight seconds.

My name was announced over the intercom, and the crowd went wild, and I wrung my hand in the rope before I set myself. My shoulders were back, my head was high, and I watched the assistant open the gate before the bull I was riding shot outta the cage like a piston in a car. He leapt forward, tossing me with him, and I shifted my weight just before he dodged to the right.

I kept my breath even with his kicks, making sure never to try and take in a breath while he was rearing up on his haunches, and when he dropped his front shoulders down to the ground, I flung my weight back as far as I could. This bull was volatile; I’d give him that. Most bulls I rode kept their weight centered while they jumped in the air and bent their backs out, but this bull was dropping every side of him into the ground to try and get me off.

But just as he was out of control, I was in control, and I had to relinquish the muscle tension in my arms and legs in favor of contracting my core and making sure my torso stayed as stable as it could.

With every breath I took, I counted the seconds up. My last ride had been just shy of eight seconds, and I was determined to go the full eight. My tan rawhide hat went flying through the stadium, and I saw it hit the ground beside me. But, so did the bull, and when he sharply turned his body, I felt my entire ass slide off to the right.

I tugged at the rope as far as I could, but I couldn’t get my body back up on the back of that thing. His hooves stomped my hat, and I felt my chaps riding off to the side, and part of me began to panic because I just knew I was about to fall. The clock was only at four seconds, and I had to find a way to hang on for another four while this bull dropped and dodged to try and get me off.

But I wasn’t losing to him today.

I closed my eyes and felt the bull’s muscles shift dominance underneath my legs, and when his hind legs made contact with the ground I swung my torso back to the left, and it forced the saddle to slide back into place. I heard the crowd go wild before the bull lunged forward, and when my nose connected with his back, I heard a large gasp from the crowd. My nose ached, and my body felt like it was being pulled joint by joint, but when I caught a glimpse of the clock, I realized we’d just passed six seconds.

Two more to go, and I’d officially beat my own record.

My hand was starting to swell, and I was pretty sure I’d dislocated one of my fingers, and as my grip began to slip I clenched my thighs around the bull’s strong back, and he didn’t like that one bit. He flung himself around in a circle, making my body slowly lean off to the side again, and just when I thought my hand was going to give way and throw me to the mercy of this bull’s hooves, I heard that telltale air horn that every bull rider loves to hear.

I’d made it the full eight seconds.

I loosened my grip from the rope, and the bull felt me shift. The barrelmen came running out to capture the bull’s attention, and with a swift kick of his back legs, I went flying through the air. I tucked my head and protected my neck, trying to get a good idea of where the ground was before I came down on it, and when I rolled my body away from the bull I heard the stamping hooves of the pickup men.

But then, the crowd began to scream, and I opened my eyes and saw the bull’s hooves hovering right above my face.

I threw my body off to the right and rolled out from underneath him just as his legs came down where my neck would’ve been, and I felt someone grab my arms and drag me off to the side before I could scramble to my feet. That bull had come after me and almost crushed my skull, and I knew as I stood up and looked that bull in his eyes that I would be the last person that ever rode it. If it wasn’t clear with the last rider that the bull had intentions of hurting us, it was very clear now.

“You alright, Mr. Rawlings!?” the barrelman yelled.

The crowd was roaring and chanting my name, and I panned my gaze around before I jogged out of the ring. My heart was racing, and my hand was aching, but when I hopped the fence, I turned towards the countdown clock one last time before I smiled and shook my head.

8.4 seconds.

I’d stayed on that damned bull for 8.4 seconds.

The barrelman brought me my crushed rawhide hat, and I hooked my legs into the large pen fence before I dusted it off. I put it back on my head, saluted the crowd, and hopped back down before I started towards the back of the stadium.

And the crowd chanted my name until I got back to my trailer.