Baby Makes Three

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.

Chapter 3: Flynn

“Congratulations, Flynn!”

“You broke your record; how does that feel!?”

“Is this your official declaration of coming back to the sport, Flynn!?”

“That was a hell of a ride, buddy. Way to go.”

The people were chanting behind me in the stadium as I walked through the white hallways of the horse stalls and bullpens, and every time I rounded a corner someone wanted to shake my hand. People were thrusting microphones in my face and tape recorders to my mouth, all wanting a statement that confirmed for them that I was coming back to bull riding full time.

But I had no intentions of coming back to the sport full time. I just needed a ride every so often to get my rush of adrenaline.

“Mr. Flynn!? Is it true?! Are you back!?”

That’s the thing with the media: if you don’t give them an answer, they just make up one to get you to confirm or deny. I enjoyed owning the animals I did, especially the horses and bulls. I had a couple of dogs that helped me run around and field the few chickens I had, but my main animals were the rough stock for the exact rodeos I used to ride in. I’d had a few close calls in my time, and although it never stopped me from riding, I also knew that I didn’t wanna die with the last thing I saw was some bull’s balls in my face.

Who the hell wants to die with balls in their face?

So, I took to raising rough stock and training new riders. I took on horse riders and bull riders, and trained them on the same rough stock they would then use in the rodeos and roping contests. Some people tried to challenge and say that was illegal, like giving a member of a baseball team the chance to play with their competitors before the actual game. But all I did to navigate around that was enter in different livestock animals than the ones they trained on during the off-season.

Problem solved, and I got to keep my lucrative business.