Page 23 of The Wildest Ride

That had to be what was screamingoffat him, too. Like recognizing like or matching poles of a magnet repelling each other.

AJ shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if he’s shit on the horse, though.”

Henry said, “You don’t think he will be.”

AJ agreed, “I don’t.”

Diablo said, “Well, he’s definitely not afraid. He went right back in there for the girl.”

Henry chuckled, “Not sure that’s a lack of fear. Not much a boy his age won’t do for a girl...”

Grinning, AJ added, “And what’s a little brawl when you’re about to get your ass handed to you on a bareback bronco?”

All three knew the answer to that intimately: not a whole lot.

The Closed Circuit qualifier consisted of just a single ride on a bareback bronc. Disqualify, and you were out—no rerides. Score below 80, and you were out. It was straightforward and brutal, but an effective way to sift through two-hundred cowboys in a single night.

The circuit had chosen bareback bronc riding as the kickoff to cull out the weak. No other event beat you to shit quite like it. And if you wanted to score over 80, you better be ready to feel the pain.

Even with the protective gear and neck brace, the experience was like taking on an NFL defensive line all on your own.

The contest organizers said their goal was to pit man against nature, and the bareback bronc was the perfect kickoff to do just that. In this event, nature was smarter, stronger, and had more hooves.

AJ, Diablo, and Henry walked up the stairs to the stand on the platform at the top of the bucking chute. The area was usually reserved for staff and coaches, but rules didn’t apply when you were AJ Garza at a rodeo.

From where they stood, they had a clear view of the arena and the chutes. But, although they were just feet away, they might as well have been in a different world.

The kid was in position on the horse in the chute, left hand resting on the top bar of the gate.

AJ frowned. The hand was tiny—not promising as far as grip potential went.

The kid’s right hand was in place in his itty bitty riggin’. His back was to them, so while AJ couldn’t see his face, he did get a closer look at the kid’s vest.

Thousands of tiny beads glinted in the fluorescent lighting of the arena. Iridescent black beads covered most of the upper portion of the vest, which was edged with three rows of circular forms made from cream, blue, and orange. The ribbons that lined and dangled from the vest’s front matched the shades of blue, cream, and orange in the beads.

There didn’t seem to be anyone on the platform there with the kid. No coach, no family, nobody nervous and expectant on the sidelines, rooting him on. Nobody wringing their hands and praying he didn’t get hurt.

That was bad luck.

The CityBoyz always made sure their crew had support, from each other, and from family, which was often one and the same.

His own mother had watched all of his early competitions, and Henry hadn’t missed a single one during his professional career.

The previous rider cleared the arena, and the kid was up.

The announcer rang out: “From Muskogee, Oklahoma, rider one-thirty-seven, Lil Sorrow!”

AJ grimaced. They would have to talk him out of that name.

They always did. Every kid who came through CityBoyz wanted some kind of stage name like it made them scary, or hard, or whatever image it was those young boys cared about presenting to the world.

In reality, it just made them harder to separate from the clowns—real and figurative.

The horn sounded, the chute flew open, and kid and bronc came roaring out. The young man marked out perfectly, keeping his spurs in constant contact with the horse as he exited, his left arm raised high overhead with a slight bend in the elbow.

Good.

A stiff arm didn’t disperse energy as well.