Ryder’s pulse hammered in his chest as he looked down at the chute, at the coiled, furious muscle of Leon’s Twister. The bull blew hot breath into the boards, eyes white-rimmed, shoulders twitching with power barely contained. Ryder lifted his gaze toward the stands and found her—Isobel, leaning forward, pointing him out to everyone like he was already the crown jewel of the night. For the briefest moment, his breath caught. He shut his eyes, bowed his head. Lord, see me through this week. Steady my hand, steady my body. Keep me whole for her.
He drew in one long breath and let it go slow. Then the switch flipped. The hedge-fund nerves, the boardroom steel, the long New York nights—all of it burned off, left behind on the platform. He shoved the helmet down over his head, rolled his shoul
