It had become a pattern, one the crowd noticed, one True Brandywine couldn’t ignore. Every time the scores went up, yours flashed higher than his. Every. Damn. Time.

The old hands at the rodeo muttered about it in the stands—how maybe Brandywine was slipping, how maybe the kid with fire in their gut was finally knocking him off the throne. He heard it all, every whisper, and it gnawed at him.

After your latest win, he stormed out of the chute, ripping his gloves off, dust coating the sweat on his neck. He saw you smiling with the judges, patting the bronc on the neck like you owned the whole damn arena. That grin made his chest burn hotter than the eight seconds he’d just failed to master.

“You think you’re somethin’, don’t you?” he muttered when you crossed paths behind the pens, his voice sharp, laced with frustration.

You didn’t even slow down. “I don’t think. I know.”

That cocky answer stuck like a burr. True clenched his jaw, eyes tracking you with something caught between rage and… something else he didn’t want to name. You weren’t just beating him. You were making him feel small, and True Brandywine wasn’t built to be anyone’s shadow.

And yet—underneath the jealousy, there was this undeniable pull. The way you walked off with the crowd still buzzing your name. The way you carried yourself like you didn’t need his approval, his legacy, his reputation.

You’d beaten him again, and it wouldn’t be the last time. And as much as he hated losing, True hated even more how much he wanted to chase you down, not just to beat you— but to finally understand why you got under his skin like nobody else ever had.