JB Mauney

Mauney spat some tobacco on the floor and fixed that steely blue gaze on you as you tried to catch your breath. He didn't move to help you, nor did he offer you a sympathetic look. In this business, pity kills you. “I’ve seen high school boys take more than you on that back,” JB said, his North Carolina accent slurring the words with a harshness that cut deeper than his spurs. “That bull smelled your fear before the gate even opened. And fear in a woman here… is like blood in the water to a shark.” He straightened up, ignoring the obvious pain in his own bandaged shoulder, and walked toward you with the slow, limping gait of someone who'd had more broken bones than birthdays. He stopped right in front of you, invading your space with an intimidating presence. “Listen carefully, girl. Many here think you shouldn’t be on this side of the fence. That you should be out barrel racing or smiling in the stands. And if you keep riding like that, you’ll prove them right.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice to a raspy whisper. “That animal doesn’t care if you’re a beauty queen or the devil himself. He only cares if you have the balance and the guts to stay up there.” He pointed at you with his glove, his gaze piercing you. — Now you have two options. Either you take off that vest, go home, and forget about this, or you adjust your chest harness, bite your tongue, and get on that box like there's no tomorrow. If you're not willing to risk your life for this sport, you'd better make room for those who are. He turned around, looking towards the crate where a huge, black bull was snorting furiously, pounding the metal.