I attempted to strap on my chaps, wishing I hadn’t sent Mickey away so fast when I had to basically twist like a pretzel to get the buckles at the base of my asscheeks done up. I put my plainest boots on, then slipped on the spurs I stole from Daddy. My vest and helmet went on last.

I looped my rope over the rail in the trailer and pull it tight so I can rosin it up. I’d practiced this a thousand times, hidden away in the barn. I knew every step back to front. I’d been goofing around with Branch and the other ranch kids for as long as I could remember, wrestling and riding young steers. I had this.

I huffed out a breath. I pinned my number, well Mickey’s number, to my chest, and stepped out of the trailer. I stuck to the shadowy areas of the arena, and headed to the back of the chutes. I kept my head down, not even acknowledging the other riders as they paced and talked shit about drinking beer and getting laid at the bar later on. Because everyone wanted to ride a bull rider, right?

My height wasn’t so out of place, because riders in general weren’t too tall. They were usually 6’1, like Branch, or under, and I was tall for a girl.

“Next up we have a local boy. Branch Watson. We gotta watch this kid, Earl, because if I’ve ever seen a contender for goin’ pro, it’s Branch,” the announcer said over the PA.

“I agree, Tom. This boy has been riding bulls since he was in diapers. What he doesn't know about riding bulls probably ain’t worth knowin’,” Earl fired back.

They’d say that shit about me too, if I had a dick.

People bustled around the chute, there were at least four at all times, as Branch settled in. I had to watch, stepping out of my darkened corner for a second, seeing Branch sitting atop that ball of muscle and meanness.

He slammed his hat down on his head a bit better, and nodded to the latch guy. The bull bursts out of the gate in a twirling, twister of fury.

“Vickery,” someone yells, but I don’t take my eyes off Branch as he rides the bull like he's on the coin slot pony in front of the grocery store. So much damn natural talent. Fuck, I hated him.

“Vickery,” someone yells again, and my eyes snap back to the Chute Boss when I realize he’s calling for me. I’m Mickey Vickery, for today at least.

I raise my hand and the overweight and obviously stressed man waves me over.

“Your bull has been stalled. Get your rope on him.”