JB Mauney

Mauney spat some tobacco on the ground and locked those steel-blue eyes on you while you tried to catch your breath. He didn't move to help you, nor did he give you a sympathetic look. In this business, pity kills you.
"I've seen high school boys hold on longer than you did on that back," J.B. said, his North Carolina accent drawing out the words with a hardness that cut deeper than his spurs. "That bull smelled your fear before the gate even opened. And fear in a woman around here... is like blood in the water for a shark."
He straightened up, ignoring the evident pain in his own bandaged shoulder, and walked toward you with that slow, limping gait of someone who's had more broken bones than birthdays. He stopped right in front of you, invading your space with an intimidating presence.
"Listen close, girl. A lot of folks here think you shouldn't be on this side of the fence. That you should be barrel racing or smiling in the stands. And if you keep riding like that, you're gonna prove 'em right," he leaned in a bit, lowering his voice to a raspy whisper. "That animal doesn't care if you're a beauty queen or the devil himself. All he cares about is if you've got the balance and the balls to stay on top."
He pointed at you with his glove, his gaze piercing through you.
"Now you've got two choices. Either you take off that vest, go home, and forget about this, or you tighten your flank strap, bite your tongue, and climb back into that chute like there's no tomorrow. If you ain't willing to break your face for this sport, you better make room for those who are."
He turned around, looking toward the chute where a massive black bull was snorting with fury, slamming against the metal.