Chasin' Eight (Rough Riders #11)(146)

Getting to know Ryan, even for a brief amount of time, had changed Chase for the better in so many ways.
Dirk was up next. Chase held the bull rope taut while Dirk rosined his glove. Soon as Dirk had his wrap, Chase and another rider named Reese kept Dirk upright on the bull by holding his vest. Dirk yelled, “Go!” and the gate opened.
Everything went wrong from the moment the bull exited the chute. His massive rear end smacked into the barricade, immediately sending Dirk sideways. Dirk started to right himself on the next rapid fire jump, but the bull’s head reared up the same time Dirk’s body bounced forward. The side of Dirk’s face connected with the bull’s skull, knocking Dirk out completely. But his hand was hung up in the rope.
Chase stared in horror as Dirk’s unmoving body dangled and was jerked about, his bloody face continually smacked into the bull’s side. Twice Dirk narrowly missed the horn piercing his face.
Seemed like an eternity before the bullfighters freed Dirk’s hand and got him out of harm’s way. But Dirk wasn’t moving and the sports medicine team was hustling out.
Just like Ryan.
No, goddammit, this was not happening again. For some reason, Chase glanced up and saw the images of Dirk’s bloody, battered face splashed across the big screens.
“Fucking vultures.”

Before Chase thought it through, he jumped down from the chute and raced across the arena. The bullfighters didn’t try and stop him as he put himself between Dirk and the camera, with a snarled, “Back. Off.”

“I’m just doing my job, man. Move.”

“No.”

“Move.”

“Make me.”

The cameraman dodged and weaved. So did Chase.
Chase crowded him, so the only thing the camera picked up was an extreme close up of Chase’s vest. Which forced the cameraman to shuffle back, which is exactly what Chase wanted.
“Let me do my job.”

“Film something else because you’re not getting close to him. I’ll bust that camera into a dozen pieces and throw it and you in the dirt.”

“I’ll see that you’re suspended for this.”

“And I’ll see you’re fined for exploiting the images of a head trauma. But you wouldn’t have as many of these images to splash across the big screen if the PBR stepped up and mandated all riders wear safety helmets.”

The cameraman stopped trying to circumvent Chase and kept the camera trained on him.
“Does a PBR bull rider have to die from head injures on camera in full gory detail before changes are enforced? Haven’t we learned after what happened to Lane Frost? Only after the shock of his death were protective vests made mandatory for bull riders. It makes me sick to think that another bull rider will have to die before we start protecting their heads as well as their hearts.”

“Dirk is a friend of yours?”

“This is not just about Dirk. It’s about all bull riders in all professional rodeo organizations. A few weeks back the world lost a promising young man, a friend of mine, because he wasn’t wearing a helmet. And now he’s…” Chase looked away, fighting the hitch in his voice and squeezing back angry tears. “He’s dead. Would a helmet have made a difference? Without a doubt. But no one made him wear it, so he didn’t. But he sure as hell had the vest on. Didn’t do a damn thing to save his head.”

The stretcher was airborne and the sports medicine team hustled out to scattered applause. Chase jogged after them, ignoring the cameraman’s shouts.
Once they reached the bowels of the arena where no cameras were allowed, Chase swallowed the lump of fear. “How bad?”