The strange thing was how excited I was to meet his mother. Not nervous like I should be. Then again, the first time I'd talked to her had been when J.D. had been injured. He'd been in surgery, and someone had to keep her updated on what we knew. That had broken the ice in a way I hadn't expected - mostly because he'd already told her about both me and Tanner.
And she approved.
Even thinking about that put a little bounce in my step as I headed to the line to check in. I was almost there when someone called my name and steps started hurrying over toward me. I turned to see Jackson Cloutier, one of my fellow rookies, making a beeline for me.
"Hey," he said, grabbing my gear bag off my shoulder and tossing it over his as he moved into the line with me. "Are you in?"
"What?" I asked.
He grinned. "Bodacious mode."
I shook my head, still not understanding what he was talking about.
So Jackson reached around my back to grab my opposite shoulder. That made it easy for him to lean in, putting our heads together. "We're using collective bargaining. If the PBR isn't going to give us our bullfighters, then we're not riding."
That made me stiffen, pulling us apart a bit. "Really? Who?"
"Well, Renato, Jake, and Ty were talking about it at the bar last night. Brazil's all in. Most of Canada too. Can't say America, because we all know Austin and those fuckers will ride, but sounds like most bull riders are in. Just weren't sure if you were ok with this."
"We're not riding?" I asked again. "Like, scratching?"
"Like drawing a bull, putting a rope on it, and sending it out riderless," he clarified. "Like they did with Bodacious, Cody."
"Bodacious mode," I said, finally realizing what the hell he was talking about. "Ok, yeah. I can do that."
"Yes!" he said, pumping his fist at his side. "I had a feeling you'd be in on it. We're trying to get the rest - those who weren't at the bar last night - but we can't really say anything." And he looked up pointedly.
I followed his gaze to where a man in an overly-starched white shirt was sauntering down the corridor, headed our way. The other riders in the line looked at him too. Glared was probably a better word. Unfortunately, I didn't know who he was. I just knew he wasn't Donald Merrill.
"Which one is that?" I asked Jackson softly.
"Sousa. He's in charge of the bullfighters."
I didn't know what came over me, but when the man passed by us, I blew out a wad of spit right in front of his feet. It wasn't girly, but growing up in the country, it was something every kid learned. It also made it very clear what I thought of this man.
"What was that?" he demanded, turning to me like I should fear him.
"Had a little bullshit in the back of my throat," I told him, lifting a brow.
"Not ladylike," he grumbled, turning away to keep going wherever he'd been heading.
I just grunted, then mumbled, "Neither is riding bulls, dumbass."
"That," Jackson said, "is why you're my hero, Cody. No fucking fear." But he hesitated for a moment. "Hey..." And he reached for the strap of my bag. "I was going to carry this for you, but that's Noah. I want to make sure he's in too."
"I got it," I promised, taking my bag. "Go. I'll get all the details I need from Ty."
"We're going to make it work," Jackson assured me before scooting off again.
I chuckled under my breath at his enthusiasm, but what could I say? Fuck, I hoped this would work, but the chances of that? Not fucking likely.
Yet Jackson was barely out of sight before someone else moved in to take the open spot beside me. I looked over, braced for the worst, only to see Wes shuffling along in time with me.
"So, sounds like you heard," he said.
"Yep. You in?"
"Oh yeah," he assured me. "Cody, I just want to know one thing, and not answering is fine too."
