Lisa.
Roseanne: Good luck tonight.
Lisa: I love you.
--
The guys chatter around me as I tape my hands. I try to tune them out so I can slip into that zone where everything falls away, and the job I came here to do tonight is the only thing I see.
Except the only thing I see is a beautiful girl with freckles over the bridge of her nose, wide doe eyes that look at me like I'm worth knowing, and a sharp tongue that makes me laugh.
The past two weeks I've spent playing everything between us out in my head. The care she put into healing me, the energy she put into planning favorable interviews for me, the way she whistles in the crowd for me. I find her there every time, and there's a twinge of regret in my chest knowing she won't be here tonight.
I got a taste of what it feels like to have someone show up for you, and now I'm greedy for it. It only took two months of spending every waking moment with one other person or thinking about that other person to slip into a place where it feels like she belongs with me.
And I belong with her.
It's the most insane, inexplicable thing that's ever happened to me. Which is saying something, considering all the shit I've done.
"Ready?" Jackson claps down on my shoulder, and I wince. The ribs aren't as bad as they were. But they aren't great either-not by a long shot. There's really not any compensating for them, because my shoulder is still fucked, too. The tour doctors have pieced me together as best they can. And at least they didn't ride my ass about not getting on tonight.
"You're not going to let Emmett win, right?"
A flicker of doubt flashes in my mind. I push it away. "Not a chance."
I pulled a good bull. A mean bull. A bull that makes or breaks the ones who take him for a spin. I have the benefit of riding last, which means I'll know how hard I need to go to get that buckle.
The buckle I already have two of.
I haven't been able to shake my brother's words. How much is enough? That's the question I've tossed around for weeks. Turning it over in my mind from every perspective to see if I can answer it.
But I can't.
I don't know when it will be enough. All I know is that I still feel incomplete somehow. Like I'm not done just yet-like I'm still looking for something.
"I'm up first." Jackson grins. "Balls to the wall. Right, Boss?"
I smile, but it feels forced. Before that night he got knocked out, I never felt nervous for him. I've convinced him he needs to be wearing a helmet. That the buckle bunnies will still want him if he wears a helmet because they prefer the walking, talking version of him to the vegetable version of him.
I nod. "You know it, kid. Hit 'em with the spurs."
We clap hands in a firm shake and give each other a smack on the shoulder. Which, for me, really fucking hurts. He turns and leaves the room, heading down the tunnel toward the ring.
Normally, I'd head out to watch him, but I'm not in the right headspace, and I know it. I don't need to watch other guys get chucked. I need to focus on myself right now. Mental walls up.
I watch them leave one by one, and mostly stay hunched over, elbows propped on my knees, hands dangling between them. My boots are worn, broken in, probably on their last legs. We're kindred spirits, my boots and me. I let my eyes wander over the sponsor patches on my vest, taking each one in. I've worn them with such pride, but today I can't help but wonder if risking my life to keep them is worth it. It's a thought that has genuinely never crossed my mind before.
I push it away.
