“No fucking kidding.” I put my food down on the paper-bowl-type thing. My appetite is gone.
“I’m thinking I should have gotten a beer now. You want to move closer?” I ask Trace.
“Nah, if we get any closer, the bars will be in our way.” My eyes close, and a silent prayer leaves my lips, not having a great feeling about this at all. When I open them, Knox is in the chute, the bull not happy at all if the way it’s bucking is anything to go by.
“I’m not sure I can watch this.” My elbows go to my legs, head tipped down in thought.
“Sure, you can. Come on, Blake, he’s about to ride.” I lift my head, watch as the chute door is thrown open. Knox has one muscular arm up in the air, his other holding the rope around the bull, his muscular forearm shown with veins traveling up the length. Knox’s white cowboy hat is still on for now, black chest protector and what I’m sure is a mouth guard firmly in place. Those two things still don’t make it any easier for me to watch. The buzzer doesn’t seem to go off. It might only be for eight seconds, but it sure as hell feels like eight hours.
Knox’s legs are moving seamlessly with the way the bull is bucking, trying to get him off his back, but he holds on, and when I finally look at the timer, that’s when it buzzes.
“He did it, Trace!” I’m jumping up, clapping my hands, whistling like a banshee.
“Fuck.” That’s all Trace says, and I know it, in the pit of my stomach, I know something happened. I look over, thankful I missed seeing what happened because the bull is pinned back up, but there are people surrounding Knox.
“Come on, they won’t let us down there with him, but you and I can get into the medic station,” I say, my hand grabbing his, the two of us high-stepping it down the bleachers, rounding the arena, and barging into the back rooms without any trouble. The entire time we wait for Knox, I’m saying a silent prayer that he’s okay, he has to be, and I promise silently that I’ll never turn my back on him again like I did earlier today.
Eleven
Knox
“God damn it, I’m okay. I can fucking walk,” I tell the onsite medic. He doesn’t listen to me; instead, he’s putting a neck collar on me and is talking to someone on the other line of his walkie-talkie about a back board.
“It’s my knee, not my damn neck,” I grumble, knowing full well what’s really going on with my body.
“Mr. McCray, sit tight. Not sure if you’re aware, but that bull charged you. All we saw was your head snap and you going down. This is all a precaution.” I close my eyes because I’ll be damned if I look out into the audience and see it full of concerned people.
“Yeah, okay, but I’m telling you my head’s fine. You clearly didn’t see that fucking bull mangle the side of my knee.” I’ll be lucky if they don’t insist on me taking a trip to the hospital.
“We’ll have that looked at.” I’m not so sure if that will actually happen.
“Finally. Johnson, where the hell were you?” he says to the other medic.
“Listen, let me at least attempt to stand up. You can even help me, and then we’ll see how things go. I have a brother and someone else here. The last thing they need to see is me on a damn gurney.” I look up. Johnson is the one nodding his head in understanding.
“I’m good with that. What do you say, Jerry, want to let this cowboy have some god damn dignity?” He’s already helping me up though, my leg nearly giving out on me, but I hold steady as I put my arm around his shoulder, my uninjured leg bearing the brunt of my weight.
“Fine, but if he’s concussed, it’s on you.” Jerry moves to the other side, helps me, and instead of being on a gurney, they help me walk out of here. A rodeo clown brings me my hat. I make sure to tip my fingers to the crowd and give them a smile, allowing them to see I’m okay and for them to clap in applause.
A few more steps, and we’re in the back triage area where, of course, Trace and Blakely are already waiting. Trace is pissed as hell, readable even with the paint he has on his face. It’s Blake who has me worried though. She’s pacing the length of the room, mumbling something under her breath and biting her thumbnail. I don’t even deserve to be in the same damn room as her, yet here she is, in my corner.
“How bad is it?” Trace demands. He knows before I do.