Page 18

A s we pull into Red Rock Arena, I can feel the old familiar buzz under my skin. It's a cocktail of adrenaline and dread that I've come to associate with competition days. The massive parking lot is already crowded with trucks and trailers, fans milling around with their boots kicking up dust that catches in the early afternoon sun.

The Savage 8 rolls in like a storm front—three trucks in formation, pulling trailers worth more than most people's homes.

People turn, cameras out as we drive through to the back of the arena. I can see the fans trying to get just the slightest glimpse of us through the tinted windows.

Staff meets us at the gates, rushing over with their clipboards and headsets, eager to escort rodeo royalty to our designated spots.

Logan shakes his head in the passenger seat. “You ready for this, Razor?”

"Born ready," I reply, though my eyes stay locked on the rearview mirror where I can see Willow in Knox’s truck behind us.

She's staring out the window, that guarded expression firmly in place. The one that makes it impossible to know what she's thinking. The one that's been driving me fucking crazy since the moment she walked back into my life.

"Bullshit," Logan laughs, punching my shoulder. "You're watching her like she's gonna disappear if you blink."

I throw the truck into park with more force than necessary. "Mind your business, Blaze."

"Just saying. Girl's got you twisted up tighter than your riding rope."

I kill the engine and the crew spills out into the chaos of competition day. The air smells like dirt, livestock, and money. Lots of fucking money. Red Rock is one of the biggest paydays on the circuit, and everyone knows it.

Jace gives a subtle nod to the staff hovering nearby, and they start directing us to our setup area—prime real estate near the chutes, of course. The Savage 8 doesn't do second-rate, not even when it comes to parking.

I hop out of the truck, boots hitting dirt with a familiar thud. My eyes immediately scan for Willow, watching as she slides out of Knox's passenger side, her lithe frame moving with that careful precision I know so well. She catches my stare, holds it for half a second, then looks away. That half-second feels like a fucking victory.

"Got your gear?" Jace asks, suddenly beside me with that quiet authority of his.

"Yeah." I haul my bag from the truck bed, the weight of it a comfort. Inside is everything I need to face down two thousand pounds of pure anger—except maybe the common sense to stop doing this shit for a living.

The setup is quick, practiced. We've done this dance a hundred times before, each of us knowing our roles without having to talk it through. Tents go up, gear gets stowed, and sponsors' logos appear like magic.

Willow breaks away from our group without a word, heading straight for the medical tent with that purposeful stride of hers. My eyes track her all the way until she disappears behind the white canvas flap.

"She'll be fine," Kade says, catching me staring. "Medical check is standard."

"I know that," I snap, then immediately regret it. Not Kade's fault I'm wound tighter than a two-dollar watch whenever she's out of my sight. "Just making sure she knows where she's going."

Kade raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Smart man.

I force myself to focus on prepping my gear instead of following her. I can't hover over her like some psycho ex-boyfriend either. She'd hate that even more.

"Savage 8, you're up for press!" some coordinator with a clipboard yells, waving us over to where a line of cameras and reporters wait like vultures.

I groan. "Already? We just fucking got here."

Jace gives me a look that says suck it up, and I know there's no getting out of it. Media obligations are part of the deal. Part of why we make the money we do. Doesn't mean I have to like it.

We form up like the well-oiled machine we are. Jace front and center, the rest of us flanking him. I paste on my media smile—the one that's all teeth and charm and hides the fact that I'd rather be anywhere else. The questions are the same tired bullshit they always are.

"How does it feel to be the favorites heading into Red Rock?"

"What's your strategy for today?”

"Same as always. Ride. Rage. Repeat."

I give them what they want—cocky one-liners, just enough swagger to keep my brand intact. My eyes keep drifting beyond the press line, scanning for Willow. The questions blur together until someone shoves a mic in my face.

"Rhett, how's it feel having Willow Hayes back on your team after everything that went down between you two?"

The question hits like a sucker punch. My smile freezes in place.

"She's the best sports med we could ask for," I say, voice deceptively casual. "Savage 8 only rolls with the best."

The reporter leans in, hungry for more. "But given your history—"

Jace smoothly cuts in. "We're focused on today's competition. Next question."

Thank fuck for Jace. Another reporter starts in about our standings when I spot her across the staging area. Willow, clipboard in hand, deep in conversation with one of the event medics. The late afternoon sun catches in her hair, turning it to spun gold. She's wearing the Savage 8 jacket—black with our logo emblazoned across the back—and it hits me like a physical blow how right she looks in our colors again.

The medic she's talking to—some tall drink of water with a pretty-boy smile—leans in too close. Says something that makes her laugh. A real laugh, not the guarded half-smile she gives the rest of us. Something hot and ugly twists in my gut.

"Razor, your take on today's stock draw?" A microphone jabs toward my face, yanking me back to the press line.

"Drawn Rampage in the first round," I say, forcing my attention back to the reporter. "Big bastard's got a mean streak. My kinda bull."

The reporter nods, scribbling in his notepad like I've just handed him the secret to eternal life instead of the same canned bullshit I give at every event.

"You've had trouble with him before, haven't you?" he presses.

I flash my signature grin, the one that's made it onto more than a few magazine covers. "Trouble makes for a better ride."

The press session wraps up after what feels like hours but is probably fifteen minutes. The moment Jace gives the signal that we're done, I'm moving, not exactly toward Willow but in that general direction. She's still with Pretty Boy Medic, who's now showing her something on a tablet, standing close enough that their shoulders touch.

Logan falls into step beside me. "Easy, killer. Your face is doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"That thing where you look like you're about to commit a felony."

I roll my eyes. "Fuck off, Blaze."

"Just saying," he smirks, "green isn't your color."

I ignore him, my boots eating up the distance between me and Willow. I'm not going over there because I'm jealous. I'm going because we need our team medic with the team. That's all.

Pretty Boy spots me first, his easy smile faltering as I approach. Good. At least someone around here has decent survival instincts.

"Hayes," I call out, keeping my voice neutral. "Team meeting in ten."

Willow turns, that cool mask sliding into place the moment she sees me. Gone is the woman who was laughing seconds ago, replaced by the professional who barely acknowledges we have history.

"I'll be there," she says, holding my gaze with that steel in her eyes that always does things to me. "Just gimme five.”

"Make it three," I say, not asking. The medic shifts uncomfortably beside her, and I give him a once-over that makes it clear I've sized him up and found him d"

It's bullshit. Jace didn't say anything about a meeting, but she doesn't call me on it.

"Fine." Willow hands the tablet back to Pretty Boy. "Thanks for the update on the imaging equipment, James. I'll check in after the first round."

He smiles at her, all perfect teeth and professional courtesy. "Anytime, Willow. Door's always open."

I'm sure it is, buddy.

She falls into step beside me as we head back toward our setup, close enough that I can smell the faint trace of her shampoo. That same vanilla-and-something scent that used to cling to my sheets.

"There's no team meeting, is there?" she asks, not looking at me.

"Nope."

She sighs, but keeps walking beside me with a slight smile. "You're unbelievable."

"So I've been told." I can't help the hint of a smile that tugs at my lips. "James seems nice."

"Don't," she warns, but there’s no bite behind her words.

"Don't what? Make an observation about your new friend?"

Willow turns to me, a sparkle in her eye. “Rhett Thomas Calloway! Are you jealous?”

"Me? Jealous?" I scoff, but it's about as convincing as a mechanical bull at a kiddie party. "I don't do jealous."

"Right," she says, with that hint of sarcasm in her voice. "So you just decided to invent a team meeting because you were concerned about my punctuality."

I shrug, keeping my eyes straight ahead as we navigate through the backstage chaos. "Team needs to stick together on competition days. That's all."

"Likely story, Calloway.” Willow stops again, pulling me between my truck and Jace’s truck.

We're suddenly in this pocket of quiet, caught between two massive trucks, shielded from the chaos of the arena. It's like being in the eye of a storm—still surrounded by madness but somehow separate from it. The sounds of the arena fade to a dull roar, and all I can focus on is Willow.

"You know what I think?" she says, tilting her head, those eyes of hers seeing right through my bullshit like they always have.

"Enlighten me," I challenge, leaning a shoulder against my truck, trying to look casual when every nerve in my body is firing at her proximity.

“I think," she continues, taking a small step closer, "that the great Rhett 'Razor' Calloway doesn't like seeing other men talking to me." Her voice drops to a whisper, close enough now that I can see the flecks of amber in her eyes. "I think it drives you absolutely crazy."

The space between us crackles with electricity. We're close enough that I can count her eyelashes, see the slight flush creeping up her neck. My body responds to her proximity like it always has—instantly, instinctively, infuriatingly.

"You think a lot of things, Hayes," I say, my voice rougher than intended.

"Am I wrong?" She arches an eyebrow, challenge written across her face.

I walk toward Willow, backing her against my truck. “I think you're a little deviant who likes to play these games.”

Her breath catches in her throat and I know, we’re both goners for each other.

My hands land on either side of her head, caging her against the truck. She doesn't flinch, doesn't back down, just stares up at me with those eyes that have haunted me for three long years.

"You want the truth?" I ask, voice dropping to a growl that only she can hear. "Fine. I don't like seeing other men talking to you. I don't like seeing other men looking at you. And I sure as fuck don't like seeing other men making you laugh."

Something flickers in her eyes—triumph, maybe. Or desire. Possibly both.

"That sounds an awful lot like jealousy to me, Razor." She breathes my nickname like a dare.

"Call it whatever you want." I lean in closer, my lips hovering just inches from hers. "But you and I both know this thing between us isn't over. Never was."

The world narrows to just this—her breath mingling with mine, the slight tremble in her hands as they rest against my chest, not pushing me away but not pulling me closer either. Just... there. Feeling the thunder of my heartbeat beneath her palms.

"Rhett," she whispers, and my name on her lips is both a warning and invitation.

I should back off. Should remember all the reasons this is a bad fucking idea. Should recall that we're at an event, surrounded by people who'd love nothing more than to catch the Savage 8's newly returned star rider in a compromising position with the medic he’s been linked to in the past.

But I've never been good at "should."

Our lips crash together. There's nothing gentle about it—this kiss is pure wildfire, consuming everything in its path. My hands move from the truck to her face, fingers threading through her hair, cradling her head.

Willow responds instantly, her body arching into mine, hands fisting in my shirt to pull me closer.

The kiss is like coming home and starting a war all at once. Every cell in my body ignites—remembering her, craving her. Willow tastes like peppermint and possibility, and I'm drowning in it. In her.

She makes this sound against my mouth—half-sigh, half-moan—and I'm ready to risk it all right here between two goddamn trucks.

Then reality crashes in with the sound of boots on gravel.

"Yo, Razor! You out here?"

Logan's voice cuts through our moment like a bucket of ice water. Willow pushes against my chest, breaking the kiss. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, lips swollen. The sight of her like this—breathless because of me—sends a surge of possessive satisfaction through my veins.

"Fuck, I've missed you," I murmur against her pulse point. Not smooth, not calculated—just raw truth I can't hold back anymore.

“I’ve missed you, Rhett.”

The softness in her voice nearly breaks me. For a split second, I see the Willow I used to know—the one who'd curl against me in the early morning light, whispering secrets against my skin.

"Razor! Where the hell—" Logan rounds the corner of the truck and freezes. "Oh. Shit. Bad timing. Got it."

"What do you want, Blaze?" I growl, not moving away from Willow.

Logan grins, the bastard. "Jace is looking for everyone. Actual team meeting this time." He winks at Willow. "But take your time. I'll tell him you're... checking the equipment trailer.”

Willow giggles as she buries her face into my chest. “We are never going to live that down. Colt caught us last night.”

I groan, but there's no heat. "He's worse than the old ladies at church. Gossiping like it's his job."

"He's not wrong though," Willow says, straightening her jacket and running fingers through her hair. "We should get to that meeting."

"Yeah." But I don't move, just stand there drinking in the sight of her. Flushed cheeks, mussed hair, lips still red from my kiss. Mine. Even if we're still figuring out what the hell that means.

"Stop looking at me like that," she murmurs, but there's no bite to it.

"Like what?"

"Like you want to eat me alive."

I can't help the wolfish grin that spreads across my face. "That an option?"

She rolls her eyes but can't hide her smile. "Meeting, Calloway. Now."

I follow her toward our tent, a smile plastered permanently across my face. All is right in my world right now.

T he Savage 8 gathers under our massive tent, the black and gold logo stretched overhead like our own private sky. The energy's different now—focused, electric. This is when bullshit stops and business begins.

Jace stands at the center, our unspoken leader even though we're all equal partners on paper. There's something about the guy that commands respect without having to ask for it. The kind of quiet authority that makes even rowdy assholes like me shut up and listen.

"Time to lock in," he says, voice low enough that we all have to lean in. "Red Rocks stacked this year. Every rider who matters is here."

My eyes drift to Willow, who's standing slightly apart from our circle, medical bag at her feet. Her lips are still slightly swollen from our kiss, and a surge of satisfaction rolls through me. She catches me staring and the corner of her mouth quirks up, just enough to let me know she's thinking about it too.

"Course draw came in," Jace continues, pulling out his phone. "Rhett, you're up third in the first round. Rampage, like you told the press."

"Good," I nod, forcing my attention back where it belongs. "Been waiting for a rematch with that bastard."

Knox snorts. "Last time you rode him, you ended up with sixteen stitches and a concussion."

"Yeah, but I made the eight," I shoot back with a grin. That had been a hell of a ride—blood pouring down my face as I hit the ground, but the buzzer had already sounded. Eight seconds of glory worth every drop of blood I spilled.

Jace looks at us all over, his eyes lingering on each face. "We've got four of us riding today. Me, Rhett, Colt, Knox. Rest of you on support. Everyone clear on their role?"

Murmurs of agreement circle around our huddle. This is what we do. What we've built together. The Savage 8 isn't just a brand or a team—it's family. Dysfunctional as hell sometimes, but family all the same.

"Alright then," Jace says, his voice dropping even lower. "Circle up."

We move in tighter, shoulders touching, heads bowed. Even Willow steps in, completing our circle. I feel her warmth beside me, her arm brushing against mine. She doesn't pull away.

Jace bows his head, and we follow suit. The prayer before competition is tradition, even for those of us who spend more time sinning than saving. Jace's deep voice cuts through the pre-competition chaos around us.

"Lord, watch over us today. Keep these bulls beneath us and these men above ground. Guard our bodies and sharpen our minds. Guide our hands, strengthen our resolve, and keep us safe in Your care. Let us ride with courage and purpose."

"And Lord," Jace continues, "thank you for bringing our family back together. All of us." He doesn't look at me, but everyone knows who he means.

My throat tightens. Beside me, Willow stiffens, then relaxes. Her pinky finger brushes against mine—so subtle it could be accidental, but I know better. I hook my pinky with hers, hidden within our circle where only we can feel it.

"Bring us all home safe," Jace ends. "Amen."

"Amen," we echo, and the circle breaks.

"Savage," Jace says.

"Eight," we respond in unison, breaking the circle.

The speakers crackle to life with the announcer's voice booming through the arena: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Red Rock Invitational!" The crowd erupts, a wall of sound that vibrates in my chest. "Please rise and remove your hats for our national anthem."

I stand with my brothers, hats pressed against our hearts. Willow takes her position near the chutes, medical bag at her feet, ready for whatever comes. The singer belts out the anthem while the jumbotron shows soldiers, flags, and the whole patriotic display. It's the same at every event, but still gets to me every time.

When the last note fades, the crowd roars again, and the announcer's voice cuts through: "Let's get ready to RIDE!"

Pyrotechnics explode above the arena, sending red and gold sparks cascading down as smoke machines pump fog across the arena floor. The crowd goes wild as spotlights dance across the dirt. It's all spectacle, all showmanship, but damn if it doesn't get the blood pumping.

I roll my shoulders, feeling that familiar pre-ride tension creeping up my spine. My body knows what's coming—the rush, the danger, the split-second decisions that mean the difference between victory and a hospital bed. Or worse.

"Riders, to your positions!" the announcer calls, and the Savage 8 breaks into action.

Knox heads out first, adjusting his vest as he walks. Jace follows, already in the zone with that thousand-yard stare he gets before competing. Colt gives me a nod as he passes.

"See you on the other side, Razor."

"Save some prize money for me," I call after him, earning a rare grin.

"First up, representing the Savage 8, give it up for Knox 'Viper' Hayes on Thunderstruck!"

The crowd roars as Knox makes his way to the chute, his movements fluid and predatory. That's how he got the nickname—Viper. The way he moves, the cold calculation in his eyes before a ride. He's the newest of our group, but he's earned his place a hundred times over.

I make my way to the rails, positioning myself where I can see both the action and Willow. She's moved to her station near the medical team, but her eyes follow Knox too, concern evident in the set of her shoulders. Blood's thicker than water, after all. Knox might be her pain-in-the-ass brother, but he's still her brother.

In the chute, Knox settles onto Thunderstruck's broad back, a massive black and white bull with a reputation for nasty spins and a killer instinct. The bull slams against the chute sides, metal groaning under the impact. Knox wraps his hand, the motion practiced and precise, bull rope cinched tight around his gloved palm. His face is a mask of concentration as he gives the nod.

The gate flies open and Thunderstruck explodes into the arena like he's been shot from a cannon.

The bull launches into a series of violent bucks, his massive body twisting in midair before slamming back to earth. Knox moves with him, his body responding to each jerk and spin with the instinctive timing of a born rider. One second. Two seconds.

Thunderstruck changes tactics, spinning hard to the left then abruptly switching direction. It's a move that unseats dozens of riders, but Knox adjusts, his free arm sweeping up to maintain balance. Four seconds. Five seconds.

"Come on, Viper!" I hear Willow's voice cutting through the noise, her professional mask slipping as she watches her brother battle gravity and two thousand pounds of fury.

The crowd's roaring now, sensing they're witnessing something special. Knox and Thunderstruck locked in a violent dance that's equal parts grace and brutality. The bull throws his head back, nearly catching Knox in the face, but he leans back just enough to avoid contact while staying centered.

"Stay with him, Viper!" I shout, though my voice is lost in the cacophony of the arena.

Six seconds. Seven seconds.

Thunderstruck gives one final, desperate heave, twisting his massive body in a corkscrew that defies gravity. Knox's body whips like a flag in a hurricane, but his hand stays locked in the rope. Eight seconds.

The buzzer sounds just as Knox releases his grip, launching himself clear as the bullfighters rush in.

Knox lands on his feet, stumbling briefly before regaining his balance. He throws his arms up in triumph as the crowd erupts, his score flashing on the board: 89.5. Damn good start to the night.

The bullfighters distract Thunderstruck, leading him toward the exit gate as Knox jogs to safety, the swagger in his step unmistakable. Cocky bastard earned it though—that was one hell of a ride.

"That's how it's done!" Knox shouts as he reaches us, adrenaline pouring off him in waves. His eyes are wild with that post-ride high, the rush that keeps us all coming back for more.

Willow breaks protocol, rushing over to check him despite his perfect dismount. "You good?" she asks, professional mask back in place but eyes betraying her concern.

"Never better, sis." Knox grins.

I barely have time to congratulate Knox before the announcer's voice booms through the speakers again: "Next up, the man they call 'King' – Jace McAllister on Diablo's Fury!"

The crowd's reaction is immediate—a thunderous roar that shakes the metal railings. Jace McAllister isn't just a bull rider; he's a goddamn legend. Three-time world champion with more buckles than most riders dream of.

Jace moves toward the chute with that measured calm that's become his trademark. No wasted motion, no flashy gestures for the crowd. Just the slow, deliberate walk of a man who knows exactly what he's about to face.

Diablo's Fury is waiting for him—1,900 pounds of pure hate packed into red-and-black hide. The bull's already pawing at the ground, snorting steam into the arena lights like some demon straight out of hell. No wonder they call him Diablo.

Jace settles onto the bull's back with that eerie calm of his. While the rest of us get amped up before a ride, Jace goes the opposite direction—gets quieter, more focused, like he's entering some kind of trance. I've seen him do this a hundred times, but it's still impressive as fuck to watch.

The crew helps him wrap his hand, the bull rope disappearing into his gloved fist as he works it tight. Diablo slams against the chute, metal screaming in protest, but Jace doesn't even flinch. Just keeps his eyes forward.

Jace gives the nod, and the gate flies open.

Diablo's Fury lives up to his name, exploding from the chute like he's been saving up rage for this exact moment. His first jump sends him nearly vertical, front hooves pawing at the arena lights before crashing back to earth with bone-jarring force. Jace's body absorbs the impact, his form textbook-perfect—spine aligned, free arm poised, legs gripping the bull's massive sides.

One second. Two seconds.

The bull switches tactics, spinning violently to the right, then whipping back left in a move that's thrown champions before. But Jace isn't just any champion. He adjusts with that fluid grace that's made him a legend, his body moving in perfect counterbalance to the bull's fury.

Three seconds. Four seconds.

"That's it, King!" Knox shouts.

Diablo's Fury unleashes a new level of rage, his massive frame twisting in a corkscrew that defies physics. The bull's muscles ripple under his hide like living thunder, each movement a violent explosion of power. Jace rides the hurricane, his body flowing with an almost supernatural awareness of the bull's intentions.

Five seconds. Six seconds.

The crowd's on their feet now, a wall of sound that vibrates through the arena. This is what they paid to see—the best in the world against a beast that's thrown ninety percent of the riders who've dared climb on his back.

"Stay with him, Jace!" Willow's voice cuts through somehow, professional detachment forgotten in the moment.

Diablo throws his head back, nearly connecting with Jace's jaw in a move that would've ended the ride and possibly Jace's consciousness. But Jace shifts just enough—a fraction of an inch that makes all the difference between triumph and disaster. His body flows with the bull's movement, not fighting it but becoming part of it.

Seven seconds. So close.

The bull unleashes his final assault—a series of staccato bucks combined with a vicious spin that's like being caught in a blender. The force is enough to snap a man's spine if he isn't ready for it. But Jace is ready. He's always ready.

The buzzer sounds just as Diablo gives one final heave. Eight seconds. Perfection.

Jace releases his grip, launching himself clear as the bullfighters rush in. But something's wrong. I see it the moment his boots hit the ground.

He tries to take a step and his right leg buckles. He catches himself, but I can see the flash of pain cross his face—just for an instant before his mask of control slides back into place. But that instant tells me everything I need to know. The King is hurt.

Willow is already moving, her medical bag in hand, sprinting across the arena dirt with a speed that catches even the bullfighters by surprise. The crowd's still roaring, oblivious to the drama unfolding, their attention split between Jace's score flashing on the board—91.75—and Diablo's continued rampage as the bullfighters work to guide him toward the exit.

"Don't move," I hear Willow command as she reaches Jace, her voice shifting into that no-bullshit medical tone that brooks no argument.

Even Jace knows better than to fight her. She leads him back to our tent, all of us following.

Willow is already in full medic mode, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she guides Jace to our medical area. Her face is a mask of professional concentration, all traces of the woman who was kissing me senseless an hour ago completely gone. And even Jace—who doesn't take orders from anyone—follows her directions without argument.

"Sit," she commands, pointing to the examination table we've set up in our private area. "And don't give me any bullshit about being fine."

The rest of us hover nearby, concern etched across our faces. Jace is our rock, our steady center. Seeing him wince as he sits down sends a ripple of unease through the team.

"Score's solid," Colt says, trying to keep things light. "Ninety-one point seven-five. You’re in the lead.”

Jace snorts. “All I had to do was beat Knox, not that hard.”

Willow's hands move with surgical precision as she examines Jace's arm, feeling along the muscles and tendons with expert fingers. Every touch is deliberate, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she watches his reactions. The tent feels suddenly too small with all of us crowded around, holding our collective breath.

"Squeeze my fingers," she instructs, and Jace complies, his jaw tightening slightly. "Now rotate your wrist—slowly."

I watch her work, impressed despite myself. This is a different Willow than the one I've been circling like a predator since I’ve come back. This Willow is all business, commanding the space around her with quiet authority. Even Knox has shut his mouth, watching his sister with something like pride.

"Hurts like a bitch when I rotate," Jace admits, which is practically a scream of agony coming from him.

"Not broken," Willow announces after a few more careful manipulations. "Likely a moderate sprain of the ulnar collateral ligament. You tweaked it on that last spin when Diablo threw his head." Her fingers continue their assessment, gentle but thorough as she palpates along his forearm. "Feel any numbness or tingling in your fingers?"

"No," Jace says, his voice steady despite the pain I know he's feeling. "Just hurts when I turn it."

Willow nods, already reaching into her medical bag. "That's good. Nerve function seems intact." She pulls out a flexible ice pack, snaps it to activate the chemicals inside, and wraps it professionally around Jace's wrist, securing it with an elastic bandage. "Twenty minutes on, twenty off. Repeat for the rest of today."

“What about next weekend?”

“You’ll be fine if you listen to me.”

Jace smiles as the announcer calls my name.

"Next up, ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the man they call 'Razor'—Rhett Calloway on Rampage!"

The crowd erupts, and I feel that familiar surge of electricity shoot through my veins. This is it. My moment.

"That's your cue, hotshot," Willow says, not looking up from Jace's wrist as she finishes securing the bandage. But I catch the slight tightening around her eyes. Concern she's trying to hide.

"Don't worry about me, Hayes. I'll give you something prettier to patch up than the old man here."

Jace snorts. "Just stay on the damn bull this time."

I give him a mock salute and head toward the chutes, rolling my shoulders as I walk. The noise of the crowd swells, washing over me in waves. They're cheering for me, and I plan to give them one goddamn show tonight.