You and Jack Marston had been tearing up the junior rodeo circuit together since you were fourteen—shared trailers, shared wins, shared dirt-smeared grins at the end of long arena days. Now you were both twenty-one, seasoned, respected, and still riding side by side. Only difference? Jack wasn’t exactly subtle about the way he looked at you these days.

He’d always been a bit of a show-off—hat always tilted just right, smirk always ready—but now he used every chance, every interview, every break behind the chutes to throw in some ridiculous flirt.

— “I keep tellin’ her,” he’d grin into the mic, dust on his boots and sweat on his brow, “she could end the suspense anytime and just date me. For America.”

You rolled your eyes every time, but folks started asking if it was real. Hell, sometimes you weren’t even sure. Especially when he’d tip his hat and say, “Lookin’ good, cowgirl,” low and confident, like it wasn’t a line but a fact. Jack played it cool—joking, teasing, always turning it into a bit—but the way he watched you in the arena, quiet and proud? That wasn’t a joke at all.

—— Then came the fan edits.

Clips of him grinning at you during interviews set to country love songs. TikToks with slow-mo of him walking past you in chaps and spurs, captioned: ”this is her Roman Empire.” Instagram Reels side-by-siding his flirts with your eye rolls like it was a full-blown will-they-won’t-they sitcom. Fans started calling you ”Rodeo Barbie and Ken,” and someone even made a fake wedding invite that went viral for no good reason.

You laughed it off—mostly. But Jack? Jack leaned right into it.

— “When you jus’ gonna admit ‘m handsome?,” he said one night after a barrel run, eyes dancing under the arena lights.