POV: Colton
The air tastes like dirt and a cocktail of bad decisions.
Honestly, I shouldn't even be here. I should be back in Nashville, icing my shoulder, reviewing game tape, doing literally anything but standing in some dusty Tennessee rodeo arena, clutching a bull rope like it's my last lifeline—and feeling like I've got a death wish pounding in my chest.
But here I am.
The crowd is roaring, metal beams rattling from their hollers. Dust hangs heavy, thick enough to choke on, mixed with the smell of manure and sweat and that electric buzz of adrenaline that makes guys do dumb things. The overhead lights blaze down like fire, turning the dirt into something almost sacred.
Cowboys cluster by the chutes, their hands wrapped in worn leather, boots dug in like they own the ground. Some scan the stands for their girls; others are hunting for trouble, the kind you only find in dive bars after midnight.
I'm not here for any of that.
I'm staring down the bull.
"You sure about this, Colt?" Jack Mercer leans against the rail beside me, arms folded, face carved from pure disapproval. "If Coach finds out you're here, it's over for both of us."
"Coach won't find out." I tighten my grip on the rope, feeling the familiar sting of rosin on my palms. "Nobody knows that Colton Hayes is dumb enough to ride bulls in the off-season."
"Except me. And I'm telling you, this is insane."
"Then get lost." I don't even look at him. If I do, I'll see my father's face, the night he climbed on that bull that killed him. "Nobody's forcing you to stick around."
Jack stays put. He always does. That's what loyalty gets you—watching someone walk right into a disaster you can see coming a mile away.
Nearby, the rodeo clown prances along the fence in a rainbow tutu, tossing t-shirts into the crowd. People laugh; tension loosens. But the bulls don't care about jokes. Behind the chutes, they snort, shift, eyes wild and sharp.
One wrong move and they'll remind you exactly what you are.
Nothing.
"Rider up!" Jimmy, the chute boss, barks, voice rough as gravel. "Hayes, you're in four!"
My pulse spikes.
Chute four holds Tornado. Fifteen hundred pounds of pure rage and muscle. A bull with more bodies on his record than some heavyweight champs. The kind of ride that makes legends, or funerals.
The kind that took my father.
"Colt." Jack's hand lands on my shoulder. "You don't have to prove anything."
"Yeah, I do." I shrug him off and walk toward the chute.
Three other riders move with me, pulling on gloves, brushing off dirt like it might change their fate. We're all chasing something, money, glory, the thrill of eight seconds of chaos.
Or maybe we're all running from something worse.
I climb the rails and lock eyes with Tornado. It's not a glance, it's a stare, fierce and personal.
The bull lunges, horns slicing the air so close I feel the breeze rip past my jeans.
"Easy, you bastard." I don't flinch. Bulls smell fear like blood in the water.
The chute crew moves with practiced silence, the rope sliding under Tornado's belly. The loop passes like a loaded gun.
Nobody says it, but we all know.
This isn't a ride. It's reckoning.
I zip up my protective vest, mouthguard sliding in, rubber and rosin dust, the taste of every dumb choice I've ever made.
Jack appears, rosin block in hand. "Last chance to bail."
"Not happening."
"Your funeral." He burns the rope one last time. "Just don't die before the playoffs, I need assists, remember?"
I almost smile.
I settle onto Tornado's back. Heat radiates up my legs as his muscles coil beneath me. Power vibrates through my thighs and nerves light up.
This is what I came for.
Not the crowd. Not the cheers. Just this moment, the calm before the gate swings open, just me and fifteen hundred pounds of fury.
Tornado jerks his head, spitting dust in my face. I stay still. Years of hockey taught me to read violence before it hits. Rodeo taught me how to ride it.
I wrap my hand tight, check my grip, my balance, my seat.
Jack grabs the rope's tail. "Ready?"
I nod.
He burns it in and lets go.
The world shrinks to a dot.
"Gate!" I yell.
The metal clangs open. Tornado explodes out like a bomb.
The bull bellows, twisting and thrashing. I roll with him, hips loose but core locked. Every lesson from my father floods back.
Ride the storm by becoming part of it.
Tornado bucks left, then drops and spins. The arena blurs. Dust boils. The crowd roars like thunder.
I tuck my chin, free arm slicing air, legs clamped tight, anticipating every move.
"Ride him, Colt!" Jack shouts.
Four seconds.
Tornado kicks, legs snapping like a whip. My spine compresses, but I stay centered.
Six seconds.
He spins hard right. My shoulder screams, still sore from last night's game. I ignore it. Pain is just info, you file it and keep going.
Seven seconds.
Almost there.
Eight seconds.
The buzzer screams.
The arena erupts.
I did it.
But then—
I look down.
And time freezes.
My hand's still caught in the rope. The leather's biting deep. My wrist is bent wrong. My stomach drops.
"Oh hell."
Tornado senses the weight and snaps sideways. My body flails, whipped by a hurricane. The crowd's roar cuts off into dead silence.
The announcer cracks over the PA: "He's hung up!"
Two words that might as well be a death sentence.
I yank the rope, twisting, burning skin. My mind fractures, not thinking about hockey, contracts, or headlines. Just survival. And dirt rushing up fast.
The bullfighters rush in, three men with more guts than sense, dancing around Tornado, trying to pull his attention away from me.
At the rails, riders swarm the chute, working the knot that's become a noose.
Jack's face appears, pale as a ghost. "Hold on!"
I don't have a choice.
Tornado spins again, pain erupting through my shoulder, white-hot, searing. I can't breathe. Can't think.
The bullfighters move like dancers, feinting and slapping. One gets too close, Tornado's horn catches him square in the chest, launching him airborne.
Then the bull pivots.
Back at me.
His eyes lock with mine. I see my father in that gaze. The moment the bull that killed him made the same choice.
This ride isn't over.
Tornado charges, horns low.
All I can do is watch.
The crowd screams.
Jack yells something I can't hear.
And then—
Everything goes black.