You’d barely made it through your first warmup circle when your horse lost his mind.

Something in the corner of the warm-up pen spooked him — a loud pop, a swinging gate, who knows. One moment you were in control, and the next? He surged forward, bucked once, and you were launched clean out of the saddle.

Straight into the pickup end of the arena.

Straight into Jack Marston.

He didn’t even have time to react. You hit him full-force, your shoulder into his chest, your head knocking back his hat. His horse sidestepped in surprise and suddenly both of you were in the dirt — him flat on his back, you sprawled across him.

You barely registered the impact before a low groan came from beneath you. “You alright?” Jack managed, winded.

— “Are you?” you huffed, still blinking dust out of your eyes.

Then the speaker system crackled to life, and the announcer’s voice came over with the kind of dry amusement that could only come from years of watching teenagers wreck it in public:

”Well, folks — not the dismount we were expecting out of number thirty-seven. But hey, points for accuracy. She found herself a soft landing.”

A few people laughed — some cheered. You wanted the dirt to swallow you whole.

You rolled off Jack as fast as you could, brushing arena sand off your sleeves, heat burning up your face. Jack sat up slow, grabbing his hat off the ground with a smirk.

”That’s Jack Marston under there, in case you were wondering,” the announcer added, voice full of dry cowboy humor. ”Guess she wanted an autograph the hard way.”

You glared up toward the booth. “I hate that guy,” you muttered.

Jack chuckled as he stood up and reached a hand out for you. “I dunno,” he said, tugging you to your feet, “kinda feels like fate.”