“Three things in life are certain.” Manuel Lopez held three gloved fingers up, pacing in front of the group of young men as he spouted philosophy like a college professor. Except this professor wore cowboy boots, chaps, and a single glove, as did each of his eight students. He continued his diatribe, counting off the so-called certainties. “Death. Taxes. And the fact that you will be thrown from every bull every single time you ride. Pain is part of the game, gentlemen. Get used to it.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Cord muttered from his position, leaning against the wall, his bottom too sore to sit on the bench.
“Mr. Dennison…”
Cord cringed, attempting to shrink to invisibility. Why hadn’t he kept his big mouth shut?
“Thank you for volunteering to go first today, Dennison,” said Lopez, with a congenial smile. “We’ll do one more round of warmups on Bully,” he said, ambling over to the mechanical bull they’d been practicing on, a headless barrel with no resemblance to an animal. “Then it’s on to Hurricane.”
Right on cue, the live bull snorted in his stall across the arena, sending a shiver of apprehension down Cord’s back. It hurt to fall off a mechanical bull, but at least he hadn’t had to worry about being gored, kicked, or stepped on.
“What’s the first rule of bull riding?”
Cord answered in unison with his classmates, “Never take your eyes off the bull.”
“Very good. Cord, come on out here.” Lopez patted Bully’s back. “Once again, let’s go over what to do when you get hung up.”
Cord’s mouth went drier than it had when he first saw Jessica. The idea of having his hand caught in the rope, to be dragged and stomped by a furious bull, was terrifying. After a day of lessons on a bucking barrel, Cord’s respect for both Nick and Mason had doubled. Either that, or he’d decided the men were insane for pursuing the dangerous sport.
So what does that make me?
An idiot. All his fellow students were below the age of twenty-one, still young enough to feel immortal. Cord was old enough to know better, yet here he was, trying to prove his bravery at the ripe old age of twenty-seven.
Cord climbed on top of Bully and grasped the bull rope with his right hand. Then he rolled off to his left, a move which automatically twisted his hand under the rope.
“Good,” Lopez nodded. “You know how to get hung up. But now what?”
“I stay close to the bull’s shoulder and watch his head.”
Another nod. “And that’s easy to do when it’s a motionless Bully, instead of a 1500-pound twisting, bucking bull. What next?”
“I either jump up and throw my right elbow over the bull, or I find the rope tail with my left hand and push it over the top to untwist my hand.”
Justin, one of the more outspoken students, said, “Or wait for the bullfighter to grab the rope tail for you.”
Cord knew the bullfighters would risk their lives to save a bull rider. Without the seemingly fearless bullfighting crew, the riders might not make it to safety.
“The bullfighters will rescue you if you’re hung up.” Lopez gave Justin a measured look. “Eventually. Of course, you might get trampled by then.”
This elicited a round of snick
ers.
“Not me,” said Justin, with a laugh, pointing at Cord. “I was talking about Grandpa.”
“Very funny,” said Cord, who’d accepted constant teasing from the younger guys. “Just for that, I’ll let you borrow my razor… when your beard comes in.”
“Ooooo! Burn!” Lighthearted laughter rippled through the group.
“Back to business,” Lopez cut in. “I want everyone to practice these techniques with Bully bucking and turning. Then we start the rounds with Hurricane. Rotate through as many times as you like. If anyone makes it to eight seconds, dinner’s on me.”
The boys whooped their excitement at facing their first real bull. All except Cord.
Lopez leaned close, lowering his voice. “Listen, Cord. If you don’t want to ride Hurricane, I totally understand. Like I said before, your height’s going to make it harder to balance. Six feet is pretty tall for a bull rider.”
“That rider from Australia is six foot two,” Cord said, stubbornly. “I’ll fall, just like the short guys. Then I’ll run. I was a sprinter in high school.”
“A long time ago,” Lopez reminded him.