“BRAXTON RYDER, CHUTE Master says you’re up next,” the wiry man with the tobacco-stained beard hisses at me.

My left-hand grabs the railing of the swing gate, and I hook both legs over the safety railing sitting on it.  Little Yellow Jacket #P761 charges in below me, blowing bull snot on the railing. He’s more than seventeen hundred pounds of dark red terror with a one hundred percent bucking rate. Not this time motherfucker.

My blood thunders loud through my ears, blocking out the arena noise.  My legs shake with the adrenaline rushing through me. I slide down onto his back, toes pointed forward on the railing, and hand the bull rope to my flankman, Virgil.

My gloved hand rakes over the rosin to warm it, making it sticky for a tight hold. I wrap it seven times tight around my left hand.

Be a feather in the wind. Be a feather in the wind. Be a feather in the wind.

Virgil pats my right shoulder in a three count. “You ready?”

I raise my right arm up as my intro music, Chamillionaire’s “Ridin’,” begins to play. I nod my head and the gate swings open.

****

WHY DO THE MEDIA HAVE to stand so damn close to the bucking chutes when they are on-air? Why can’t it be like football and they all get a media room high-above the ring to spout their inaccurate stats and play-by-play opinions? I can’t stand to hear their false predictions anymore. I walk away with the tension of their words twisting knots in my spine. They’re predicting second place for the night. Fuck that. “It’s first or nothing, motherfuckers.” I hold my index finger in the air to show them my number one standing that just appeared on the big screen high over the arena.

“Braxton Ryder scores a 93 on Little Yellow Jacket,” the speakers blare out over the crowd. A hellacious roar moves along the stands in a wave as people cheer my score. See, some people still care about me. I raise my hands in the air to make the crowd cheer louder and longer.

I do have loyal fans even though I’m on my downhill slope of this sport, and I thank God for them every morning I wake up. Bull riding is a younger man’s sport. Thirty-six is too old to be busting my balls on a bull’s back for money. My body won’t take much more; I already feel like I’m creeping up on eighty with the way my bones creak getting out of bed in the mornings.  I’m not delusional enough to believe I can ride the circuit forever, but until I hold that over-sized gold buckle in my hand that declares me the World Champion, I keep at it.

The world title is mine this year, and then I’ll hang my hat up.

2018 is mine to shine. It’s the Year of Braxton Ryder. Mark my words.

I pass the roughstock pen and see the demon that haunts me hanging out in the center of the ring. Funny how he looks so peaceful and serene just standing there waiting for a challenge, but that heavy-muscled bastard has a wicked twist right out of the chute. It gives him a buck off rate of 100% for right-handers.  His blond hair and ivory, stump horns might make him look like a docile angel, but it sends a flood of boiling blood through my veins. His head swivels toward me as I climb the fence to get a better view.

Hate radiates off me as he catches my heated glare and for a few brief seconds, we measure the grit and determination of each other. He snorts in disgust before looking away. At least I win the staring contest, but I feel like I lost the measure of my manhood.

The adrenaline coursing through my blood has me feeling a bit reckless being this close to him. “Bodacious. You’re gonna be sorry you ever threw me.”  He grunts and grinds his hooves into the dirt at my words. A cloud of dust rises around him, lending an evil aura to his less than intimidating stance. I’ve drawn that beast twice. “You’ve messed up my rank for the last time.  I’m coming for you.” I tip my hat to him to emphasize the truth of my words.

“Shut the fuck up, Brax. That bull’s gonna crush your skull in the dirt just like last time,” Wes Stanton laughs behind me. His voice is like the sharp teeth of a bear trap on my spine.  “I should buy him a steak dinner for securing my championship title that year.”

He climbs on the fence next to me and slaps my back, as my stomach lurches from the smell of sweat and alcohol leaching from his pores. My jaw tightens as I shoulder squelch his arm off my back.

“Alright. Alright. I get it,” he says, raising his arm off my back and wrapping his leathered knuckles around the top railing of the fence. “You’re still sore over the subject. Just know the title is mine again this year.” He hops off the fence and struts toward his cage, tipping his hat to two young blond's and winking back at me as he climbs the railing.

Damn the hate that burns in me for that man would cause a 4-alarm fire if I let it. He’s a liar, a cheat, an alcoholic, and from what I understand, a thief although no one can prove it.

I glance over my shoulder again and watch him slide down into the pen onto Tahonta. He’s got an overall buck off rate of 94%. I can’t see it happening, but I know the drill. Wes is tightening his grip on the rope and pressing his knees into the tender part of the bull’s shoulders. His free hand goes up, and with a sharp snap of his wrist and the “ready” nod of this head, the gate is pulled open sideways. As soon as Tahonta’s hip clears the gate, the clock starts.

My eyes glare as each green digit counts higher to the end of the ride. Every second feels like a punch to the gut,  and all I can do is watch the numbers turn into the next one until it stops.

7.0...7.3...7.7 My breath hitches and the mental defeat burrows into my soul.

7.9 and the deafening “oh” of the crowd brings me back into focus. I blink rapidly, and it still reads 7.9.  A small break in the crowd opens a peephole into the fence for me to watch Wes roll to get away from the hind legs of Tahonta just before they crash down and spiral a dust mote where his shoulder was. The bullfighters finally draw the massive beast farther away from him, as Wes jumps to his feet. He stumbles to safety with a slight limp in his gait, but it’s nothing we haven’t all felt hitting the dirt hard at awkward angles.

I jump off the fence and make my way to the trailer with a slight smile of satisfaction on my face knowing that his zero score is gonna bolster my ranking. Now I can enjoy my half-hour break to its fullest and stretch my shoulder muscles.

“Braxton Ryder.” A male voice calls out to me from behind causing my steps to slow before I turn to see the man approaching me. “Mr. Ryder,” he clears his throat with the change in volume before stopping to let another child pass between us as the mother gives chase to her loose child. This man is as tall as me, but his shoulders are much wider to carry the load he’s lifting. His son is riding on his shoulders trying desperately to see me over his father’s cowboy hat.

Big blue eyes as wide as the ocean peer down the brim of his daddy’s hat at me. His shirt and vest bring an even wider smile to my face. He’s dressed just like me in my signature red t-shirt with an almost exact duplicate of my black suede vest with my sponsor logos sewn on. “Hey, Buddy. How’re you doing all the way up there?” Tiny white knuckles grip the small book he’s holding tighter.

“Jordan, can you say hello?” Jordan simply tightens his legs around his daddy’s shoulders. “Sorry. He’s nervous. He’s never been to the rodeo before.”

“How old is he?” He can’t be any more than four, I’m guessing. Maybe five.

“He’ll be four tomorrow. The fun we have tonight is one of his birthday presents.” I watch him tug on his son’s legs to loosen them a bit from the uncomfortably, tight squeeze they are providing. The small cowboy boots he’s sportin’ are probably digging into his collarbone the way he’s hanging off him. 

“Well, Happy Birthday.” I reach up and tug on the fringes of his vest, and he beams a heartfelt, crooked smile at me. “I like your vest, little man.” He thrust the book he was holding at me.

“His mama sewed those patches on after she went to six different stores to collect them so that he could wear it tonight.”  The man’s pride shines through his eyes as a very pretty brunette enters the conversation and hooks her arm around his.

“Aww. I’d do anything for my boys, and you know it.” She reaches up and kisses his cheek and the hand of her son quickly.  “Mr. Ryder,  you’ve got a fan for life in Jordan. Has he asked you to sign his book yet?” She eyeballs the book in my hand and winks.

“I’d be honored too.” I take the pen from his father’s hand and open the book to the very first page, noticing the rest are blank. “So, I’m the first to sign here, huh?” I catch the glint of excitement in his eyes as I give a few extra swirls to my signature on the page. I even draw a rough sketch of a bull’s head with horns for him at the bottom of the page, and underneath it, I write “Bodacious 2018” before handing it back to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Ryder,” his mom says sweetly before pulling him off his high perch and offering him some cotton candy as she settles him on her hip.

“It’s my pleasure, ma’am. I love seeing the kids at the rodeo, especially my fans.” I didn’t grow up around anything like this although I still got skinned knees. It was just on concrete instead of grass and dirt. “Do me a favor tomorrow, Jordan, and blow out all of the candles on your birthday cake so that all of your wishes come true. Will you do that for me?” He shakes his head enthusiastically as he stuffs blue spun-sugar into his mouth. “It was nice to meet you, folks. Take care.”

I turn to walk away and encounter six or seven more high-spirited fans pushing autograph books, pictures, and other mementos into my hands. I sign them all with a quick flick of my wrist before pressing my way through the crowd. My fans are my energy, but right now I need to take care of me, or they won’t be happy fans for very long. I step onto my trailer steps and fumble for my keys with a few loud pops of my knuckles. My hands and shoulders are already getting stiff.

Once inside, I go straight for the bathroom entryway and hang from my chin-up bar to stretch and elongate my trapezius muscles. Counting to sixty seconds while my muscles burn a hole in my skin is not an ideal way to spend a break, but it’s a necessary evil in this sport. I close my eyes and watch Wade’s fall from grace play on the back of my eyelids like a movie reel on repeat, over and over, pushing me through the searing pain.

I loosen my grip and stand straight for a minute to relax. Shrugging my shoulders and finishing it off with a thirty-second neck stretch before repeating the process a few more times works wonders on my body.

Now if I could only relax my mind as easily. I’ve tried meditation, but I keep hearing the noises that I’m supposed to block out. My mind never shuts off; it’s the bane of my existence. I’ve got too many problems and not enough time or money to solve them.

My thoughts are interrupted by loud voices outside the window. Men are bickering in the politest tone I’ve ever heard in an argument. I take a few steps into my kitchen and try to listen without being seen. “Let Braxton finish his ride before you approach him about this.” That sounds like Bill Turner; he’s the manager that oversees the riders for this leg of the tour. “What’s another thirty minutes gonna hurt?”

“Now, Bill. I know you’ve got a soft spot in your heart for Braxton, but we have to question everyone and everything. That’s gonna take a lot of time that we don’t have. There’s been a major theft— that’s grand larceny, Bill and I need to report it to the authorities before we leave town.” I move slightly to the left to see a silver-haired man in a blazer stepping up to my door, while Bill stands behind him waiting nervously. Sweat forms on his brow and he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe it. 

Bang. Bang. Bang, he knocks on my flimsy door like there’s a mob riot taking place. The pictures of Rowan that hang on the walls shake and one even falls to the floor but doesn’t shatter, thank God.  I don’t know what they want, but I do know I’m not in the mood to hear accusations of something I didn’t do. I grab my hat and keys and leave through my back door without anyone noticing. I don’t need that bullshit before my last ride.

I amble over to the roughstock and scope out the bulls again, ignoring the few reporters that are using this part of the circuit as their lead story. I need two more wins to rank, and then I can start selecting my bulls from the bull draft.

Staring up at the roster, I see that Young Gun is my assigned beast. Fuck. He’s gonna tear my shoulder up. He’s got a wicked left twist on him that some of the riders are still recovering from. I need to find a quiet place to relax for a solitary moment. I start walking to nowhere in particular and end up on the far side of the arena that faces the bay.

The sun is starting to go down here in Los Angeles. The pinkish, orange clouds stretch out over Santa Monica Bay and light up my cold soul. The bright golden hues of the sun still break through those same clouds casting an orange halo over the city skyline. I’ve seen some beautiful sunsets traveling across this country, but this one tonight is calling to me.

My thoughts go back to Bill and the unknown man in the tailored blazer. Who is he and what was stolen around here that makes it grand larceny? C’mon Brax. Turn it off. You need to concentrate on relaxing and winning. I start repeating my mantra and fall into the steady rhythm of repeating its words.

“F.E.A.R. has two meanings — Forget Everything And Run or Face Everything And Rise; I choose to Rise. I trust in Divine timing. I can do anything that I put my energy and mind to.  I am following my soul, as it knows the way to what is right for me...”