Rodeos were sensory assault packaged as entertainment. Dust everywhere—in your mouth, your nose, coating your clothes. The smell of livestock mixed with fried everything—funnel cakes, corn dogs, things that definitely shouldn't be deep-fried but were anyway.
Announcer's voice booming through speakers that crackled with feedback. Crowds pressed together in metal bleachers that vibrated with stomping boots.
Manhattan galas had nothing on this chaos.
"First rodeo?" Sarah asked. We were sitting together because apparently that's what happened when the woman who used to sleep with your—whatever Jake was—decided to be curious about the situation.
"That obvious?"
"You're gripping the bleacher like it might come alive." She wasn't wrong. "Relax. The stands are safe. The arena is where things get dangerous."
Great. Comforting.
"So." Sarah shifted slightly. Casual but deliberate. "You and Jake."
Oh good. The conversation I'd been dreading. "Me and Jake what?"
"Don't play dumb. Doesn't suit you." Her smile was knowing. "You're not subtle. Neither is he."
My throat tightened. "I don't know what you—"
"The way he looks at you." She cut through my deflection clean. "I've known Jake for years. Slept with him on and off. And he's never looked at anyone the way he looks at you."
My chest did something complicated. I kept my face neutral. "You're reading too much into—"
"Am I?" She wasn't buying it. "Look, I care about him. Probably always will. But whatever's happening between you two—that's real. What he and I had was comfortable. Safe." Her eyes held mine. "He needs real. Even if it scares the shit out of him."
I couldn't confirm. Couldn't deny. "There's nothing—it's complicated."
"Everything worth having is." She squeezed my hand. Quick. "Just don't let him push you away when things get hard. He'll try. It's what he does."
"I don't—" I stopped. Couldn't finish the lie.
"Yeah." Her smile was sad and understanding. "You do.
The announcer's voice boomed. "Next up—bronc riding! First rider, Jake Sullivan!"
My heart immediately relocated to my throat.
Jake appeared in the arena—looked impossibly small next to the horse that was already trying to murder him before he even got on. The horse was massive. Pissed off. Bucking in the chute like it had personal beef with gravity.
"Is he insane?" My voice came out higher than intended. "That horse looks homicidal."
"That's kind of the point." Sarah was watching intently. Professional. "Bronc riding is about staying on something that doesn't want you on it. Eight seconds. That's all he needs."
Eight seconds. Sounded so short. Looked fucking eternal watching Jake climb onto that moving nightmare.
He settled into the saddle. One hand gripping some kind of handle. The other raised high. The horse was losing its mind in the chute—slamming against the sides, trying to scrape him off before the gate even opened.
My nails dug into Sarah's arm. Didn't realize I'd grabbed her until she covered my hand with hers. "He's done this a hundred times. He knows what he's doing."
The gate opened.
Chaos. Pure, distilled chaos.
The horse exploded out—bucking, twisting, trying every possible method to remove the human attached to its back. Jake moved with it. Anticipating. Compensating. His free hand high, body rolling with each violent jerk.
Two seconds. Three. Four.
He was still on. Crowd going insane.
Five. Six.
Then the horse did something—twisted mid-buck, changed direction in a way that didn't look physically possible. Jake's body went wrong. Off-balance. Momentum carrying him the opposite direction of the horse's next move.
He flew. Actually flew. Launched like physics had personal issues with him.
Hit the ground hard. Too hard. Shoulder first then his head whipping back. Body rolling from momentum then—nothing. Just still. Too still.
"Jake!" Didn't realize I'd screamed until my throat hurt.
The crowd noise changed. That shift from excitement to concern. The horse kept bucking, handlers trying to contain it. But Jake wasn't getting up. Wasn't moving.
"Where the fuck are the paramedics?" Sarah was on her feet. "They should be—"
Didn't wait. Didn't think. Just moved.
Down the bleachers—pushing past people, jumping barriers, ignoring security trying to stop me. The arena dirt was soft, dragging at my boots. Didn't care. Just ran.
Reached him before anyone official. Dropped to my knees beside him.
"Jake." Touched his face. Careful. "Jake, can you hear me?"
His eyes were closed. Breathing shallow but present. Pulse strong under my fingers when I checked his neck. Thank fuck for those mandatory debutante emergency response courses I'd bitched about for an entire summer.
"Don't move him!" Some cowboy was yelling. "Wait for—"
"I know." Snapped it. "I'm checking for injuries. Back off."
Quick assessment. Neck position looked okay. No obvious breaks. But his shoulder was wrong—dislocated maybe. And the way he'd hit his head—concussion for sure.
"Jake." Tried again. "If you can hear me, squeeze my hand."
Nothing. Then—weak pressure. His fingers finding mine.
Relief hit so hard I almost cried.
"Okay. Good. That's good." Kept my voice steady. Professional. Like I wasn't internally screaming. "Don't try to talk. Don't move. Paramedics are coming."
Where the fuck were they?
"Adison?" His voice was rough. Confused. Eyes cracking open. "What—"
"You got thrown. Hit hard. Stay still."
"M'fine." Tried to sit up.
"Don't you dare." Pushed him back down. Gentle but firm. "You are absolutely not fine. You're about to pass out again. I can see it."
His eyes were already closing. Consciousness slipping.
Paramedics finally appeared. Real ones with actual equipment. Started asking questions—what happened, did he lose consciousness, how long was he out.
"Bucking horse. Thrown. Hit shoulder and head. Was unconscious approximately ninety seconds before coming to briefly. Disoriented. Tried to sit up." Rattled it off. "Pulse strong, breathing steady, pupils reactive but slightly unequal. Possible concussion, possible shoulder dislocation and a possible ankle fracture."
The lead paramedic looked at me. "You medical?"
"Debutante emergency response training." Said it deadpan. "We learn to handle champagne spills and rodeo accidents. Very versatile skill set."
He almost smiled. "Okay debutante. You did good. We've got him now."
They loaded Jake onto a backboard. Careful. Efficient. Started moving toward the ambulance.
"Where are you taking him?" Followed. Wasn't a question.
"County hospital. You family?"
"Yes." Lied without hesitation. "I'm his—" Stopped. "I'm his person. I'm coming."
"Only family in the ambulance."
"Then I'm family." Met his eyes. "I'm not asking. I'm coming."
He studied me. Saw something that made him sigh. "Fine. But stay out of the way."
Climbed in. Sat where they pointed. Grabbed Jake's hand. He was conscious again—eyes open but glazed. Confused.
"Hey." Squeezed his fingers. "Still with me?"
"Adison?" His voice was rough. "Did I—the ride—"
"You lasted six seconds. Very impressive. Gold star." Tried to sound light. "Then the horse decided you needed to meet the ground more intimately."
"Fuck." He tried to laugh. Winced. "Everything hurts."
"Yeah. That's what happens when you piss off a thousand-pound animal." Kept his hand. "You're going to be okay. Probably concussed. But okay."
"You ran." He was looking at me now. More focused. "Saw you run. Through the crowd."
"Obviously I ran. You were lying there like a broken action figure. Someone had to make sure you didn't die."
"My hero." Said it soft. Genuine. "My Manhattan debutante hero."
"Shut up and don't pass out again." But my eyes were burning. "I'm not equipped to handle you dying on me."
He smiled. Weak but real. "Can't die now. Would be poor timing."
"Extremely poor timing." Squeezed his hand again. "So don't."
The ambulance ride felt eternal and instantaneous. Every bump made Jake wince. Every turn made my stomach clench. But he kept his eyes open. Kept squeezing my hand. Kept being alive and conscious and mine.