Battle

The volume of the sold out arena hurts my ears. Somehow Marty managed to score seats adjacent to one of the three steel chutes. It’s exciting to be close to the riders as they mount the bulls; each one with a different routine. Some praying for victory, although most falling short of eight seconds and subsequently cussing out the Heavens.

I pay no attention to the barrelmen entertaining the crowd in between riders. Instead, my mind drifts to Wyatt. I wonder who he’s with, and what he’s doing. I always do this, like I have a sick, twisted need to punish myself. My heart feels heavy as regret sinks in. I want to be strong and stand by what I said. Wanting and doing are a long ways apart, though. I’m afraid to be without him.

As the next rider enters the chute, the crowd noise rises to near deafening levels, distracting my thoughts of Wyatt. Every fan in the arena jumps to their feet, including myself, Marty, and Ginger. While I’ve seen him ride many times, I’ve never been this close to Battle McCoy.

He’s tall and lean, his chest covered with a tight fitting leather riding vest for protection. I blush, remembering his shirtless perfect abs last year in a calendar the tour did for charity. The crowd chants his name as he mounts the bull effortlessly. As he adjust, the beast bucks and snorts before finally settling down. Ginger’s fingernails dig into my skin as she jumps up and down, screaming.

I lift my head, meeting the penetrating gaze of Battle. He stares at me through the metal cage in front of his helmet, his eyes so pure and so blue they should shine with the warmth of a summertime sky, but they chill my blood and send goose bumps up my arms. It’s the focused scrutiny behind his gaze that makes me shiver and melt at the same time.

I pull my eyes from his freezing regard, twisting my head right then left. He can’t be staring at me. At least fifty of us line the side of the chute. He must be staring at someone directly behind me. Hell if I didn’t wish it was me.

“Oh, my God. Battle McCoy’s totally starin’ at you,” Ginger squeals in my ear. She continues, but I can’t hear her over the roar of the crowd as the announcer introduces the night’s final rider. I meet his gaze again, my heart fluttering wildly as he studies me. My palms break out in a sweat.

“Ladies and Gents … Last up in the arena … The man you’re all here to see. Kansas City’s hometown hero. Are you ready for Battle—the one-man army—McCoyyyyyy?”

I can’t pull my eyes away from his. While I don’t believe in love at first sight, I do think a silent connection can occur between two people who have never met. One that draws you in until you can’t breathe.

There’s something brewing between me and Battle. Something strange, and fiercely private, sweeping over me like an unexpected storm. As if he’s claiming me out of the thousands of people in the stands. His devouring eyes scream, I want you. Wants me for what? I’m clearly in need of psychological help.

He winds the coarse rope around his gloved hand. Pine tar stains the worn, yellow suede. The crowd continues to chant, “Bat—tle … Bat—tle … Bat—tle.”

When the horn sounds, Battle winks at me before the chute opens, and he’s gone. The bull charges through the arena, bucking violently. Battle holds on tight. His upper body whips around uncontrollably like a rag doll.

My eyes stay on him as I silently count the seconds. One … Two … Three … Four ... Five … Six ... Seven ... Eight … When Battle makes it eight seconds, he doesn’t stop … Nine ... Ten ... Eleven ... I’ve seen Battle ride many times. He always pushes his luck. Braving the bull has become his trademark.

The bull bucks, kicking his back legs at the same time Battle leaps from the animal. Instead of running, he stares at the bull, daring it to come after him. The crowd cheers louder, exploding into fanatic chaos. His fans mistake Battle’s heroics as bravery. Without question, he’s bold, perhaps even fearless. However, I can’t help think his audacity stems from a deeply rooted need to hide something he doesn’t want seen by his fans. Something painful. Only a man wanting to punish himself would test his limits the way Battle McCoy does.

Battle holds his ground as the bull swipes its front hoof against the dirt in warning, grunting through his nostrils. A second later, the animal becomes distracted by a bull fighter, and chases off after him, before being wrangled through a gate and into a holding pen.

With his eyes trained on mine, Battle leaps up the side of the cage in front of me, hoisting his helmet in the air. The crowd erupts again, people shouting how he’s the man, and no bull can hold him.

He won’t stop staring at me. While I feel incredibly self-conscious, I find the courage to smile at him. Only when I do, he frowns, and jumps down from the gate.

What the hell happened? I feel as rejected by this complete stranger as I did earlier this evening by Wyatt. Maybe I give off some undiscovered man-repellent pheromone, or I’m the human equivalent of a porcupine.

The crowd calms as they begin heading toward the exits. Ginger grabs my arm, yelling, “That was so freakin’ hot!”

I fake a smile, not wanting to show my friends how bothered I am by Battle’s reaction to me. “It was nothin’.”

“The way he looked at you was not nothin’! Tell her, Marty.”

Marty nods, smiling with giddy enthusiasm. “He wants you.”

“He does not!” I insist.

I’m beginning to believe Marty was right about Battle being a head case. The entire exchange felt deranged.

Thanks to Battle McCoy, the minuscule amount of confidence I had left after Wyatt is completely shattered.

Dakota’s lives up to its seedy reputation—peeling paint, grimy surfaces, rowdy crowd. I can’t even fathom what condition the restrooms are in. I pray I don’t need to use them. Being here did get me out of Burlingame and away from Wyatt for the evening, which is a plus.

The bar may be a dump, but I have a spectacular view from where I sit with Marty and Ginger. Hotties from the St. Louis Bull Riding Circuit line the bar, exactly like Marty said they would. Smack in the middle—Battle McCoy.

I half hoped he wouldn’t be here after the strange way he responded to me earlier. With dark, loose jeans and a faded plain black t-shirt, he stands out in the row of men wearing Wranglers, shit kickers and shiny buckles. It’s part of his appeal—he’s not your typical boot scootin’ cowboy, regardless of what Marty thinks.

He’s the reason I began following the tour several years ago. His looks and body alone launched the tour’s popularity, among women at least.

“I dare ya to go talk to him,” Ginger says, grinning with a challenging smirk.