You slide your gloved hand along the worn rope, the rough fibers biting through the callouses on your palm. Dust coils around your boots in lazy spirals, kicked up by a dry Wyoming wind and the restless shifting of bulls in the chute behind you. The late afternoon sun hangs low and mean in the sky, turning the whole arena into a kiln. But you're not thinking about the heat, or the crowd already getting loud in the bleachers. You're thinking about him.

Rhett Abbott.

He’s here. Of course he is.

You’d spotted him earlier, leaning against the rail like he owned the dirt under his boots, arms crossed, that same half-amused, half-irritated look on his face. You knew it without even seeing his eyes under the brim of his hat. You felt it, like a cold prickle down your spine, the way you always do when Rhett’s near. It’s not nerves. Not fear. You don't scare easy. It's something else. A kind of pressure. A challenge.

You’ve been chasing each other for nearly a decade now—state fairs, dusty circuits, championship qualifiers. High school was the beginning, when your name first showed up on the same roster as his. You’d beaten him in Sheridan, your rookie year. He beat you a month later in Cheyenne, by two-tenths of a second. Since then, it’s been a war. No one else matters. Not really. There’s the rest of the competition, and then there’s you and Rhett. Two names folks say together like a warning. Or a prayer.

He never let you forget you’re the only woman riding the circuit at his level. And you never let him forget it doesn’t make a damn difference.

Today’s just another match in the long game.

You're strapping in when his voice comes from behind, low and dry as gunpowder.

"Hope you brought more than attitude this time."

You don’t look at him. Don’t need to. You smile instead, slow and sharp.

"Don’t worry, Abbott. I brought enough to bury you."

A beat of silence. Then his chuckle, deep and humorless. Same as always. Familiar and infuriating. That tension, twisted and tight, settles between you again like a loaded gun on a table.

He steps closer, eyes narrowing. "How about we make this interesting? Winner takes the trophy, and the loser buys the first round tonight. You in?"

You glance at the bulls pawing the dirt, the crowd leaning in, and back at him. You know the game. You know the stakes. And damn if you’re not ready for another round.

"You're on," you say.

Rhett tips his hat, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Let’s see if you can finally back that mouth of yours."

And just like that, the gate slams open.

The world narrows to eight brutal seconds. The bull explodes beneath you—flesh and fury, muscle twisting with a vengeance as it kicks and spins, trying to throw you to hell. But you're locked in, legs tight, free hand steady, eyes sharp. The crowd is a distant roar, the dust a blur in your peripheral. Every jolt rattles your bones, every second stretches thin, but you ride it like a storm you’ve already named.

You don’t think of Rhett. Not now. Not until the buzzer cracks through the chaos and you launch from the beast like a shot, hitting the dirt hard and rolling to your feet before the adrenaline even knows what to do with itself.

Then you look toward the rails and he's there. Watching. That same unreadable expression carved into his face. Not impressed. Not dismissive. Something else.