"Same," he agreed. "Almost makes me feel sorry for Casey. I mean, if that was who he called a friend, I can't imagine what he'd consider an enemy."
I huffed, the sound almost a laugh. "Ok, that's a good point." And together, we started walking again.
"So, sounds like we're going to make it clear this isn't about a memorial," Jackson told me. "Jake says we're all to do the same thing you did yesterday."
"Fist in the air?" I asked.
"And stand on the headgate," he agreed. "Yep. One after the other. If they want to make it sound like some kind of memorial still, we'll correct it with the press. And yep, today we're all going to do our best to talk to them."
And sure enough, when the first bull came out of its chute, the rookie named Sonny stepped proudly onto the headgate and lifted his fist defiantly, holding it the whole time his bull was in the arena. The next guy did the same.
One by one, man after man, they said nothing. These cowboys simply put their rope onto the animal and then stood defiant. The announcer tried his best to make this into something the fans should care about, but we could even hear their boos and jeering back behind the cattle.
When we reached twentieth place, people started leaving. By the time my turn came, the bullfighters weren't even pulling in for the next animal to come out. The bull ropes were piling up on the dirt, looking like sleeping snakes in the sand.
"Tie it to itself and turn him loose," I told the chute attendant.
"Call it," he said.
I did, then like all the men before me, I stood proudly with my fist in the air. This time, there was something different.
"That's my rookie!" J.D. bellowed, his voice echoing in the overly still arena.
Which was when I realized that even the music was calmer tonight. It was more melancholy and sedate than usual. Not enough for anyone to call out, and all the snippets were the sort of music I could only describe as rebellious.
Come to think of it, there were a lot of oldies in there. Sound of Silence was one I'd noticed between groups. Then there was Rage Against the Machine for my bull. Hell, even Cletus's jokes weren't the same slapstick type he typically tossed out.
I waited until my bull made it back into the gate, headed for his pen, and then stepped down. Almost immediately, Gustavo's bull exploded out of his chute, and he stepped up on the next headgate. That gave us just enough height, and put us forward enough that each rider was clearly visible to everyone in the stands - but the camera was on the bull, not us.
It was as if the PBR was doing everything in their power to downplay this. Yeah, well, fuck that. The moment our section was done and refilling, I grabbed my gear and turned, knowing what I needed to do next.
"Where are ya going?" Gustavo asked, trailing behind me.
"Press," I said.
Which made him catch my wrist, pulling me back around to face him as I stopped. "Cody, they're not back here tonight."
"What?!" I gasped.
He just shook his head. "They're out front and in the hallways for the spectators, but they're not being allowed backheretonight."
"By who?"
He shrugged. "I don't know, but I think we all can make a guess."
"Fuck!" I snapped, storming forward again.
The clank of feet on the aisle made me think he was following me, but this time no one tried to stop me. Not until I made it almost to the stairs that led down to the gate where our ropes would come back.
Then, "Cody?" That was Ty's voice.
I turned back to see him paused before the last chute. "What?"
He swallowed hard but didn't come closer. "You ok?"
"The fucking press isn't back here."
"I know."
