Chapter Twenty-Three. Case

Walker's competition intro song was "Thunderstruck" by AC/DC, which is both the best song of all time and also the worst. But he fucking loved it. Had since that very first competition when we met. He played it for me over the tinny earbuds of his iPod. Said it made him feel all prickly, which, thinking back on it, was a weird thing for a kid to say. But the truth is, Walker was a weird dude sometimes. Like, you know how kids will kind of tamp down their quirks in middle school and high school for the sake of fitting in? Walker never got into that. He was always exactly how he wanted to be, and somehow it worked for him. Everyone loved his weirdness. I think because secretly we wanted to be able to own up to our own individuality. We were all mad jealous of him.

At any rate, it could be argued strapping yourself to fifteen hundred pounds of raging, spastically bucking muscle inside a chute the size of a closet is plenty prickly enough, but as we know, Walker was a rare breed.

Most rodeos play intro music for every event under the lights, but not usually by request. I had to call in a favor for tonight. Before drawing bulls, I slipped the request to Brody and asked him to perform some county fair public relations magic for me.

Walker Gibson is gone, and he's never going to ride with me again, but that doesn't mean I'm alone. I've chosen to live my life the way I want—I've applied for nursing school and burned the list. I thought long and hard about getting into the arena again, if this was what I wanted. And I decided it is. To an extent.

I want to qualify for the NFR in Las Vegas this spring. I made a promise, and I want to see it through for Walker and me both.

But I'm not going for the pros. This isn't how I want to spend the rest of my life. I have bigger dreams now.

The crowd is thick—thicker than when Win stole everyone's hearts and second place in the barrel-racing competition. There's the familiar buzz of excitement in the air I've been missing. An energy found in the reckless abandon of people doing impossible things. The air is overly warm and heavy with grease and tobacco smoke. If there's a breeze, I can't feel it down here. I sit on a side rail a little apart from the rest of the guys. Some of them I recognize from years past; others must have jumped into the ring during my time away. The whispers are stifling. Low mutterings of the usual too-simple explanation.

Yeah, that's Case Michaels. Yeah, he and Gibson used to be inseparable. Yeah, he died. Nah, he was sick. Something with his lungs.

We weren't sure Michaels would be back.

How Walker died was one of those things that will always haunt me because it comes up constantly.

"Did he die bull riding?"

"No, he was terminally ill."

"Oh. Well, that's still sad, but at least…"

At least what? When someone dies at seventeen, is there a better way for it to happen? Is a tragic accident any less horrible than a long illness?

I'm not sure it is. For the ones missing them, they're still just as g-o-n-e.

I clasp my helmet between my knees and pretend I don't hear them, concentrating my entire focus on the printed letters of my name.

I pull out my AirPods and plug them into my ears, drowning out the crowd and the unwanted voices in my head with some heavy hip-hop. I don't pay attention to the lyrics, just practice my breathing and let the rhythm lull me into a relaxed state. I glimpse something bright orangish-pink in the stands and know Winnie's found her seat. She raises a hand in a gentle wave, and I nod in response, feeling more grounded already. Then she pulls up a big glittery sign she and Garrett made, and I see the familiar words SANS brONCHER in bold, block letters.

Don't flinch.

Just because Walker's gone doesn't mean I'm alone.

This time, I make it to the chute. It was a close thing—a hands-shaking, knees-buckling, stomach-rebelling kind of thing—but every time I felt the urge to turn out creeping along my spine, I'd look up and see Winnie. Her reassuring smile meant only for me, floating over the sea of people and tucking itself into the place inside of me where I keep track of all of Winnie's smiles.

Un-fucking-flinching.

And then I'd see Braids bouncing in her seat, still holding that sign. And my dad would lean toward Jesse, probably explaining something about the scoring, and I would swallow my panic and visualize my ride because I cannot let them down. Not again.

Walker never believed in visualization or prep work of any kind. I had to bribe him with Dr Pepper and cheese pizza to sit with me and watch films. He would say he liked to be surprised.

I would say he liked to eat sand and dodge hooves.

I'm too cerebral for that. To me, the rides have always been a problem to solve. I'll spend hours watching footage and imagining how I would have responded in each situation.

So that's how I spend my time until they announce my event. I'm still a handful of names down, so I find the bathroom and then make my way to the makeshift locker room for my bag. I buckle on my chaps, fingers brushing against the embroidered flames Walker talked me into getting. Then I grab my gloves, mouth guard, and helmet and return to the fence to watch the first few riders.

They're good. Better than my memory serves, but not as good as Walker and not as good as I am. That's not me being cocky. Well, okay, Winnie would say it is, but truthfully, I know my skills. This isn't like me bragging about having an expensive car. I didn't earn that. But when it comes to this? I'm one of the best around. I might be an emotional disaster with an overreactive upchuck reflex, but I know how to ride a bull and keep my seat. That's never been the issue.

My name is next, so I hop off the fence, and with one last lingering look to Winnie, I line up outside the chute. My heart is racing, but so far, everything is staying down. Brody's nearby, but something in my expression or maybe the green tinge to my skin must tell him I'm a loose cannon because he only slaps my shoulder once, hard, before sauntering off into the mass of coaches, bullfighters, and riders.

I hear my name over the loudspeaker, followed by the Suttons screaming for me. I slip my mouth guard between my teeth and pull down the V of my vest. I step my boot onto the rung and haul myself into the chute, hovering above the bull I've pulled for tonight. His name is Percival, and he's a fucking maniac.

Nothing like jumping right back into the deep end.

The familiar guitar riff of "Thunderstruck" plays, and the crowd instantly gets into it. I slap my vest in time with the beat before slipping my hand into the grip, face up. I carefully lower myself onto Percival, who immediately tries to rub me off, shoving my knee against the wooden chute. It doesn't feel great, but the leather chaps do their job. The chute boss grips the back of my neck and holds me steady, passing me the rope cinched through the grip and around Percival. This rope is how I stay on the bull and my ticket off when shit goes south, so I make sure I prepare it right. I wrap the rope and rewrap the cinch around my gloved hand as securely as I can manage. I double-check the feel, opening and closing my hand around it before squeezing tightly enough to lose feeling in my fingers. Not that I'll be holding on long.

And then it's time.

Let's go.

I curl myself low and tighten the one arm I'm allowed to use to hold on, and the chute pulls open.

Percival twists and bucks like he's been stung by a thousand fucking hornets, but I'm ready for him. I've studied his style. He's all over the place, so I am, too. I use my free hand to counter his movements, careful to keep it high and away from any kind of contact, and keep my center of gravity. When the buzzer sounding eight seconds rings, I flip rearward off Percival's back, midbuck, over my connected hand, and land out of the way of his hooves. It's not the prettiest ride, and I'm positive I'll see ways to improve when I watch the footage later, but I get the job done.

Garrett is screaming, and Winnie lets out a whistle I didn't know she was capable of. I remove my helmet and mouth guard in time to catch Brody as he wraps me in a firm embrace.

"He would have loved that shit."

I laugh. "He would have been bucked off in the first twist." Being left-handed, Walker would have been completely spun out by Percival's surprise left spins.

Brody beams. "That, too."

I glance back at the scoreboard. With five riders left, I'm in the lead, and because I made it to eight seconds with zero deductions, I'll be back for round two tomorrow night. Local rodeos typically only have two nights of events, which is good. More than good. I did it—I finished my ride without Walker and made it on to the leaderboard. Assuming I don't completely fall on my ass tomorrow, I'm in position to be just as good as I was before I took a year off.

But… as good as the ride was, it wasn't what it used to be. I don't think it was Walker being gone or my nerves at facing an unknown future. I think it might be… growing up. I liked it, but I didn't love it.

All I know is I will never forget the look of pure fire in Winnie's eyes as she rode this afternoon. Like racing was the only thing that mattered in the whole wide world, and the only thing worth doing with her life.

And after tonight, I know I don't feel the same about riding bulls.

And that's just fine.