Rodeo Queen | La Reina del Rodeo
"A Mexican-American barrel racer catches the eye of the bull rider she's been competing against for years"
Rodeo Queen
La Reina del Rodeo
They called me La Reina del Rodeo—the fastest barrel racer south of the Brazos. What they didn't call me was dateable.
"Intimidating," my sister explained. "Men don't like women who beat them."
"I don't beat them. I race barrels. They ride bulls. Different event."
"Same arena. Same spotlight. They feel threatened."
"Then they're weak."
Marco Delgado was not weak. He was the bull rider who'd won nationals three years running, the one everyone said would be a legend.
"Nice run," he said after my record-breaking performance.
"Thanks."
"Want to grab dinner?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't date competitors."
"We're not in the same event." He grinned. "Technically."
He asked me out after every rodeo for six months. I said no every time.
"You're persistent," I finally said.
"You're worth it."
"You don't even know me."
"I know you're the best in your sport. I know you donate your winnings to horse rescue. I know you visit your grandmother every Sunday even when you're on tour." He stepped closer. "I pay attention, Rosa."
"One dinner," I agreed. "One. Then you leave me alone."
"Deal."
He took me to a tiny Mexican restaurant his family owned. His mother cooked. His father told embarrassing stories. His grandmother blessed me before I left.
"That wasn't dinner," I said afterward. "That was an ambush."
"My family wanted to meet the woman I'm going to marry."
"Presumptuous."
"Confident." He kissed my cheek. "There's a difference."
We started dating on the road—truck stops and cheap motels and arenas that all looked the same. We cheered for each other, competed against everyone else, built something in the in-between moments.
"I love watching you ride," I admitted one night.
"I love watching you race." He pulled me close. "We're both good at this. Sport and each other."
"Is that what we're doing? Being good at each other?"
"I hope so."
He proposed at the National Finals. Right after my winning run, in front of twenty thousand people, he rode into the arena on his championship bull—now retired and docile—holding a ring.
"Rosa Gutierrez," he announced through the speakers, "you've been running circles around me since we met. Let me chase you forever. Will you marry me?"
I said yes. The crowd went wild.
My sister called it romantic. I called it showing off.
We married in the arena where we'd both won our first championships. Both our families came—his Mexican, mine Mexican-American, both loud and loving and competitive about whose food was better.
"To La Reina," Marco toasted, "the only woman who could ever tame this bull rider."
"I didn't tame you," I corrected. "I just gave you someone worth riding toward."
Rodeo queen—where love is earned in eight-second rides and fourteen-second runs.
And the best partners are worth chasing.