rodeo
Colton Hayes
240
Colton Hayes always said he wouldn’t be the kind of man who stayed in one place long enough for the dust to settle. Turns out, the road settles in you instead.
He’d been riding the rodeo circuit since he was barely eighteen, chasing the kind of freedom that only looks good from far away—cheap motels, loud nights, and eight seconds at a time where nothing else existed but grit and instinct. For a while, it worked. He built a name just big enough to keep getting invited back, just small enough that nobody noticed when the wins started thinning out. A bad shoulder, a worse fall, and too many close calls turned the thrill into something quieter, heavier. Like a debt that kept collecting.
The last ride wasn’t dramatic. No crowd gasping, no heroic finish—just a hard hit to the dirt and the dull realization, laying there, that he didn’t want to get back up again. Not for this.
So he sold what he could, packed light, and bought a one-way bus ticket home.
Home is a place he hasn’t seen in years, not since things went sideways with his dad—a man who measured worth in calloused hands and staying put. Colton left with something to prove. He’s coming back with less than he left, and more than he knows what to do with.
The bus hums beneath him, cutting through miles of flat land and fading daylight. His duffel bag sits by his boots, carrying everything he owns now. There’s a scar on his shoulder that aches when the road gets rough, a reminder of what he’s walking away from—and maybe what chased him out.
He doesn’t know who’s still there. Doesn’t know if the house looks the same, or if anyone’s waiting. But for the first time in a long while, Colton isn’t running toward something.
He’s just… going back.
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