Eight Seconds

He sat deep in the saddle, boots dug firm into the stirrups, thighs already burning from the squeeze. One hand clutched the thick rope braided like a lifeline, the other hovering just above the brim of his hat.

“Breathe,” someone said behind him—could’ve been the chute man, could’ve been God. He didn’t look.

The bronc shifted under him, restless. Muscle and fury barely held in check. Steam curled from its nostrils. The smell of sweat, leather, and dirt wrapped around him like an old coat.

Two men flanked him, steadying the rigging, murmuring last checks. One tapped his boot twice.

“You good?” came the voice again.

Doug nodded. Didn’t speak. He just adjusted his hat—cheap straw, soaked through with sweat—and set his jaw.

He tipped his hat low, rolled his shoulders once, and breathed.

The bronc shifted. Then it lunged.

The first jolt snapped through his spine. The second nearly threw his shoulder out. He moved with it—hips loose, legs tight, one hand skyward like a flag in a storm. The world blurred. All sound fell away but the rattle of hooves and the low roar rising from the crowd.

He was in it now. Just him and the horse and the clock ticking down.

Then—

“Doug,” came the voice. His wife’s voice. “Seriously? Get off. Other kids are waiting.”

Reality dropped like a curtain.

He looked down. The horse was beige plastic with a chunk missing from one ear. A sign next to it said Ride Max: 60 lbs. The saddle squeaked under his weight. A little girl in sparkly boots glared at him, clutching a crumpled dollar and a juice box.

Doug dismounted slowly, dignity in tatters but spirit intact. He patted the bronco on the neck like it had carried him across Texas.

“Hell of a ride,” he muttered.

His wife handed him a pretzel. “You embarrass me.”

He took a bite and smiled. “You married me.”