They’d built the south barn with the prize money she’d won!
The hand that had been in his pocket slid out, and with it, a business card. He offered it to her.
“Good luck out there tonight, kid. Come and see us when you’re ready to get to the next level.” He sized her up once more before adding, “A piece of advice—don’t bite at bait like Hank’s. That kind of guy wins if he gets to you. Save the angry for the bull.” He tossed the last over his shoulder as he turned away, not bothering to see how his generous advice had been received.
The suit released the brawler and joined the old-timer in following AJ back along the way they came.
Lil steamed.
More like pressure-cooked.
She had nearly been punched in the face, mistaken for a man by every single person she had encountered, mistaken for a child by a few, insulted by Hank DeRoy, and lectured by AJ Garza—and the competition hadn’t even started.
The fact that he had used her own granddad’s words against her was merely the salt in the wound.
And then the stadium horns sounded, startling her.
The twenty-minute warning.
Fantastic.
It was time to get ready to ride.
5
AJ’s mind should have been on riding a bareback bronc. Instead, it was on the kid whose head he’d saved from getting smashed in.
All of AJ’s instincts said something was off there, and not off in the sense of a skinny Black kid with a dramatically long double undercut and a Native-style vest competing at a PBRA rodeo. As a former skinny Black kid who had sported a mini fro and a vaquero shirt and had gone on to become one of the PBRA’s most decorated winners, he didn’t see any off in that whatsoever. But his instincts were telling him that something was definitely off—and one didn’t become a champion bull rider without listening to their instincts.
He, Diablo, and The Old Man had arrived at the line just in time to catch Hank’s big words and see the kid knock his hat off.
The rope skills were impressive.
The kid’s ability to weave in and out of the melee had been even more so.
AJ had almost laughed, watching as the kid nearly broke out, scot-free, from the rumble he’d created. He had been surprised when the kid had then gone back in. Following his line of sight made the reason obvious, though.
One of the registration girls had gotten stuck in the middle of the fight.
At that point, AJ didn’t think. He moved.
As if his change in energy broke through his cloak of invisibility, people simultaneously recognized him and got out of his way.
Diablo and Henry kept pace behind him, backing him up without needing to know why.
He made it just in time to stop the kid from taking a brick fist in the temple.
Using the attacking cowboy’s momentum against him, AJ knocked him on the ground at the same time as he reached out his other arm to catch the kid.
The kid couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, but he bounced back from the tumble quick, jumping to his feet with a thank-you and a scan of the area before he turned back to face AJ.
AJ read it all as the signs of someone hungry and used to fighting to eat.
Whether the hunger was for glory or something else was hard to tell. Cowboys the kid’s age tended to confuse the two.
If it was the former, CityBoyz had no place for him.
If it was the latter, there might be something there. But only if AJ could figure out why his instincts were shouting that something wasn’t quite what it seemed.
A little hotshotting could be forgiven—it was part of the game, after all. Based on the exaggerated once-over he had given AJ, the kid had that part down pat. That kind of arrogance could eventually be molded into a strength.
In its rough form, the posturing had just given AJ time to take his own measurements. Enough time to note the kid’s narrow, almost delicate frame, as well as the neon-yellow athlete’s tape peeking out from under his sleeves. His lack of height was unfortunate but could be worked with. There were plenty of short cowboys.
AJ frowned. Delicate was not usually a characteristic of the next great rodeo star. Combine delicate with hot-tempered, and it wasn’t a great recipe for a successful Black cowboy, either. One needed broad, steady shoulders to bear the yoke of being an example. And a target.
But there were plenty of skinny Black cowboys who could still get the job done. The hall of greats was peppered with the tough, rangy little bastards.
It wasn’t size or color that mattered in the arena. It was the try—the spark that signaled an unbreakable will.
A man had it, or he didn’t. The kid had it.
That had been clear from the moment their gazes had locked. It was a moment AJ couldn’t get out of his mind.
First off, no man had the right to eyes the color of the sky during a summer thunderstorm, especially not when they were framed by thick black curling eyelashes and sat beneath full, straight eyebrows.
Women would kill for eyes like that.
Behind the pretty-boy eyes, though, there was a spark that AJ had seen only twice before in his life—in the eyes of Henry Bowman, and in his own mirror.
It was the kind of spark that spoke of champions. AJ didn’t need to see him ride to know the kid had the makings of a champion, even if he was skinny and green.
The question now was whether or not the kid could master his temper.
CityBoyz had seen plenty of great potentials come and go over the years, but no amount of talent could make up for control—or lack of it. It’d taken a while, but Henry had taught him that.
Diablo’s voice trickled through his thoughts like water through the growing cracks in a dam. “No way. He’s just getting into the game.”
The Old Man’s words broke the dam down: “You ask me, he’s as far away from the game as it gets...”
As usual, The Old Man was right.
Coming back to the present, AJ looked at the leaderboard and asked, “Am I up?”
Diablo burst out laughing, and Henry gave him a searching look before answering, “Not yet. Just thought you might be interested in watching the kid from earlier.”
He didn’t add, since that’s where your mind is anyway, even though AJ knew he knew. The Old Man was psychic.
AJ pushed off the wall he was leaning against.
It was a move that took effort. At six-five and two hundred fifty pounds, he was a large man—and that was before adding the vest, leather chaps, brace, and spurs.
The chaps were molded perfectly to his legs, broken in from frequent use. His jeans were belted and buckled, and his riggin’ hung lightly in his left hand. He’d tossed a plain, fitted navy blue button-up on over his T-shirt and wore his Stetson low on his brow.
All of it was as familiar as a wife of forty years—as ardently adored.
And his mother worried he was afraid of commitment.
Wasn’t he here, the same place he’d been a million times before, eager as if it were brand-new? What was that, if not commitment?
Probably something different.
After all, each rodeo offered a little something different—something brand-new.
He felt a thrill of excitement at the prospect of watching the kid ride. It was the first time he could remember feeling that way in a long time. But the kid had the scent of the next generation all over him. A generation AJ intended to shape.
If the kid was good enough, he would have him under his wing in no time—of that he had no doubt.
He just needed to know if the kid was good enough.
“Awfully quiet over there, AJ. Getting scared?” Diablo asked it dryly, his lack of effort in delivery the real insult.
“He’s thinking about the kid,” Henry observed.
D
iablo mock considered, “Oh yeah? Well, I would say there was definite interest on the little guy’s side, just didn’t think AJ swung that way...”
AJ ignored him. “There’s something about him.”
Henry snorted. “He reminds you of you.”
“Maybe.” AJ grinned. “Probably.”
That had to be what was screaming off at him, too. Like recognizing like or matching poles of a magnet repelling each other.
AJ shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if he’s shit on the horse, though.”
Henry said, “You don’t think he will be.”
AJ agreed, “I don’t.”
Diablo said, “Well, he’s definitely not afraid. He went right back in there for the girl.”
Henry chuckled, “Not sure that’s a lack of fear. Not much a boy his age won’t do for a girl...”
Grinning, AJ added, “And what’s a little brawl when you’re about to get your ass handed to you on a bareback bronco?”
All three knew the answer to that intimately: not a whole lot.
The Closed Circuit qualifier consisted of just a single ride on a bareback bronc. Disqualify, and you were out—no rerides. Score below 80, and you were out. It was straightforward and brutal, but an effective way to sift through two-hundred cowboys in a single night.
The circuit had chosen bareback bronc riding as the kickoff to cull out the weak. No other event beat you to shit quite like it. And if you wanted to score over 80, you better be ready to feel the pain.
Even with the protective gear and neck brace, the experience was like taking on an NFL defensive line all on your own.
The contest organizers said their goal was to pit man against nature, and the bareback bronc was the perfect kickoff to do just that. In this event, nature was smarter, stronger, and had more hooves.
AJ, Diablo, and Henry walked up the stairs to the stand on the platform at the top of the bucking chute. The area was usually reserved for staff and coaches, but rules didn’t apply when you were AJ Garza at a rodeo.
From where they stood, they had a clear view of the arena and the chutes. But, although they were just feet away, they might as well have been in a different world.
The kid was in position on the horse in the chute, left hand resting on the top bar of the gate.
AJ frowned. The hand was tiny—not promising as far as grip potential went.
The kid’s right hand was in place in his itty bitty riggin’. His back was to them, so while AJ couldn’t see his face, he did get a closer look at the kid’s vest.
Thousands of tiny beads glinted in the fluorescent lighting of the arena. Iridescent black beads covered most of the upper portion of the vest, which was edged with three rows of circular forms made from cream, blue, and orange. The ribbons that lined and dangled from the vest’s front matched the shades of blue, cream, and orange in the beads.
There didn’t seem to be anyone on the platform there with the kid. No coach, no family, nobody nervous and expectant on the sidelines, rooting him on. Nobody wringing their hands and praying he didn’t get hurt.
That was bad luck.
The CityBoyz always made sure their crew had support, from each other, and from family, which was often one and the same.
His own mother had watched all of his early competitions, and Henry hadn’t missed a single one during his professional career.
The previous rider cleared the arena, and the kid was up.
The announcer rang out: “From Muskogee, Oklahoma, rider one-thirty-seven, Lil Sorrow!”
AJ grimaced. They would have to talk him out of that name.
They always did. Every kid who came through CityBoyz wanted some kind of stage name like it made them scary, or hard, or whatever image it was those young boys cared about presenting to the world.
In reality, it just made them harder to separate from the clowns—real and figurative.
The horn sounded, the chute flew open, and kid and bronc came roaring out. The young man marked out perfectly, keeping his spurs in constant contact with the horse as he exited, his left arm raised high overhead with a slight bend in the elbow.
Good.
A stiff arm didn’t disperse energy as well.
The kid was off to a great start.
Centered on the bronc, grip firm, heels down, toes out, and spurs pressed continuously against the flanks of the horse. The kid looked like an instructional video for the event. His upper body slammed against the horse’s back in time to its wild bucking like a paddle ball with perfect rhythm. His legs bent and extended with each seesaw as the horse reared and descended.
The kid was excellent, giving the impression of a perfectly balanced, if manic, teeter-totter, even as the horse jumped and twisted.
He had drawn a particularly wild bronc, too. Extra points.
The seconds came and went, and the kid showed no sign of losing his grip or alignment. When the buzzer rang out at eight, the pickup men rode out to rein in the bronc.
The kid dismounted with a flourish, and the crowd went wild.
“Ay, Dios mío, folks! Have you seen a ride like that?” The Closed Circuit hostess, none other than world-famous rodeo queen and eternal mild itch in AJ’s boots, Sierra Quintanilla, shouted, her voice and the mic more than a match for the thunderous crowd. “Give it up for Lil Sorrow and that absolutely pristine ride! Who would have expected such a display from a PBRA newcomer! We promised you drama, folks, and we delivered!”
As she finished her announcement, Lil Sorrow tore off his hat, black braid shining in the arena lights, and threw it in the air, letting out the loudest whistle AJ’d ever heard—and he’d once spent the holidays with his cousins in Oaxaca.
“You look about as pleased as if that was your ride out there,” The Old Man observed.
AJ started. He hadn’t felt the Cheshire cat grin spreading across his face, but it’d appeared sometime in the last eight seconds.
Diablo grinned. “Isn’t often AJ sees someone as good as he is.”
Henry shook his head. “That kid’s better.”
AJ laughed as Sierra shouted, “Unbelievable! We have a score to beat for the night, and it’s a doozy! At 97 points—it’s a near-perfect ride!”
The kid’s scream at the announcement was high-pitched and girlish enough to make AJ wonder if he’d lied about his age in order to qualify. No grown man could hit those notes.
“We’ll be seeing a lot more of Lil Sorrow in the Closed Circuit future, folks! And you can take that to the bank!” Sierra squealed, her voice dripping with homespun sweetness about as deep as cotton candy.
Even from the safe distance of the chute, AJ shivered. As far as he’d traveled, rodeo was a small world, and his and Sierra’s paths had crossed many a time. Every time he walked away, grateful the encounter was over. It was just his luck, then, that as the hostess of the Closed Circuit, she was going to be along for the long haul.
She and the full host of cameras rushed the kid as he left the arena.
AJ’s eyebrows drew together.
Reporters were sharks, but that was something the kid was going to have to figure out for himself, probably the hard way, which was why he was surprised to find himself turning in that direction.
“Where are you going?” Diablo asked after him.
“Checking on the kid. He doesn’t have anybody with him.”
“And you think adding yourself to the herd of strangers about to stampede him is going to help with that?” The Old Man lifted a brow, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He’d been to many a rodeo with AJ and had never seen him pull this stunt before—the expression on his face said as much.
AJ grinned, turned around, and did what he was going to do anyway—just like he always did.
He arrived just in time to hear the reporter from ESPN2 ask the kid, “Are you single?”
&nb
sp; He heaved a mental sigh.
The ESPN2 field team was the worst. Each and every one of their reporters was new to the business and hungry to climb the cable sports ladder. They went for blood.
But in truth, they merely had the balls to ask what all of the other reporters wanted to know and were too repressed to ask for—whether by network, class, respect for journalism, shame, or some combination thereof.
With the question out, each and every one of them leaned in closer to catch the kid’s response.
The kid blushed, opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again.
They were going to eat him alive.
Smiling his TV smile, AJ stepped in before the kid could say something he’d regret, “He’s married to rodeo, of course.”
Every camera and outstretched mic spun around to face him.
“AJ Garza! How long have you known Lil Sorrow?”
“Do you train together?”
“Are you his coach?”
AJ’s easy smile never faltered. “No. We’ve only just met tonight, in fact. I’m just coming over to offer my congratulations on a great ride.”
The kid snorted, likely remembering exactly how they met, and the cameras flipped back around to him.
AJ sent the kid an almost imperceptible shake of his head, but it was too late. Scenting the potential for drama, the sharks were back to circling the kid, and the kid had no idea.
“Lil Sorrow, do you know AJ Garza?” The reporters had become a pack, united in their scent for a story. This was another question they all wanted to know the answer to.
Finally becoming alert to a trap, even if he still didn’t quite get it, the kid quickly shot a glance at AJ, uncertainty churning in his storm-cloud eyes, before saying cautiously, “Everybody knows AJ Garza.”
AJ barely held back a scowl. The kid’s hedging was obvious enough to imply bad blood. Had his tone been just a shade warmer, it would have put an end to any rumors before they started. At this rate, though, they’d have a manufactured rivalry on their hands by the end of the night.
AJ drew the attention back to himself, saying, “I’m trying to recruit him to CityBoyz, the nonprofit I’m riding for tonight. We partner young cowboys from underserved backgrounds with more experienced pro rodeo mentors. With the help of an old-timer, our boys go from wild, raw talent to the top of the rodeo game. I went through the program myself.”
The Wildest Ride--A Novel Page 6
