Chapter Eight. Case

Last Year

Today, I'm earlier than usual. I had an argument with Case Jr. about the amount of time I've been "wasting" at the hospital instead of training, but my sleep schedule's all fucked up, and anyway, Brody hasn't been much for training these days either.

Everyone waves me through, from the lobby to the front desk to the nurses' station. They all recognize me by now. Sometimes I'll stop to chat, but not today. Today, I drop off some cookies for the nurses, freshly baked from Kerry, then poke my head into Ryder's room and see if he's awake. I'd brought him the latest Rick Riordan book. It released this morning, and I know he's a massive fan. I promise to check back in later tonight and give his mom another Tupperware of Kerry's cookies.

From there, I make my way down the hall to Walker's room. I figure at this point, room 104 will forever be imprinted on my consciousness. As usual, I stop to brace myself, clearing my face of the argument with my dad, and stiffen up my shoulders. All bullshit gets left at the door. Before I can even raise my hand to knock, however, the door flies open and Walker's brother, Brody, rushes past me, his mom right behind him.

What the—?

Walker's dad approaches the door next, an apologetic look on his face, his hands clenched in the pockets of his beige jacket. He's aged at least a decade over the past month. I wonder what's happened this time? He raises his hand as if to place it on my shoulder, but his face breaks before he manages it, and instead, he brushes past.

Then I hear my best friend's voice. "I understand. You don't have to say anything else. Please go."

I hear more murmuring. The doctor, maybe? A nurse also files out.

"I got it, all right. I'm fucked! I want to be alone!"

Walker's primary physician, Dr. Syed, reluctantly leaves next. He closes the door behind him, distracted, before stopping short at the sight of me.

"He wishes to be alone."

"So that's it?" I ask. "He's done for?"

I know I'm not technically family. Dr. Syed can't really say anything to me. But he manages a nod, anyway, running a hand through his hair as he leaves.

Any other time, I'd have felt bad for the guy. But he'd just told my best friend he's going to die, so I'm not feeling very generous.

I hesitate at the door, calculating the outcomes, running scenarios. I could go in there, acknowledge the news, and let him scream at me to get out like everyone else. Or I could… not do that.

I decide I'm not gonna fucking do that. Instead, I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I'm no longer worried about shaking off my fight with my dad. Fuck my dad. This is more. I turn around and weave through the maze of corridors until I find a vendingmachine. Pulling out my wallet, I feed it a few dollars until it releases two bottles of Dr Pepper (plastic—beggars can't be choosers). Then I slip back into Walker's unit. I get to his door and fluff up my hair, making it look windswept and breezy in a way I know annoys him, and take off my coat, tossing it on a chair outside the room. With a final breath, I paste a shit-eating smirk on my face and shove through the door.

"Hey, man, you'll never believe what I just heard. Remember that douche Steadman? Blaze or Blake or Bobcat or whatever?"

I studiously ignore the tear tracks on Walker's face, passing him a Dr Pepper and cracking open my own. Moving to the windows, I rip open the curtains, pausing to collect myself against the clench in my gut.Get a grip on it, Michaels.

"Benson?" he offers hoarsely after a minute.

I pretend to scoff. "That's not it. Is it? Benson Steadman?" I tilt my head, taking a swig of my soda. "Christ, that's worse than I'd thought." I look over to see Walker sitting still, his expression shell-shocked from the shitty news. Or maybe it's from my barging in and rambling like an idiot. "Sorry, the tubes. I forgot." I take the bottle from hands full of uncomfortable IVs and flick open the cap before passing it back.

He considers it, taking a small sip. "What's the occasion?"

I hold up my bottle and tap his. "To your health, man."

His lips twitch, and his tone's as dry as a salt block. "Apparently, I'm dying."

I don't flinch. At least not on the outside. "Not today, you ain't."

Walker's jaundice-yellow eyes meet mine, full of fire. It's the same look he'd give a bull before jumping in the chute. "Not today," he agrees.

We each take a swig and sit in silence before he goes, "What was that about Steadman?"

"Fucking qualified for the NFR in Vegas. No way he would have if you were there."

"If you were there, too."

I take another sip.

"Do me a favor, man?"

I swallow, recognizing the change in his tone. Walker's throat works, and his eyes fill. I clench my jaw to keep my composure from slipping into a puddle on the floor.

"Depends on what it is," I say coolly. "Don't think you can just pull the ‘I'm dying' card."

He gives a wet chuckle. "Fuck," he mutters under his breath, rubbing at his face. "You're a dick, you know that?"

I smirk, and he shakes his head, because we both know I would walk through fire for him.

"Get that fucking NFR buckle next year. For the both of us. I can't stand the thought of Steadman or anyone else getting it. I can barely stand the thought of you getting it, but if it can't be me, ithas to be you."

My face screws up, and I turn my head to keep him from seeing it. I inhale a deep breath and clear my throat. "Is that all? Shit. I thought you'd think of something hard."

He chuckles again, sniffling, and we sit in silence, drinking our sodas and ignoring the beeping of the machines and smell of antiseptic.

"I'm so fucking angry, you know?" he says finally.

"Yeah."

"And I know it's not your fault, but I hate you right now."

I press my lips together. "I know."

He sighs. "I don't really."

"I know that, too."

"You have to win that buckle, man. For me. Promise."

I meet his gaze head-on and ignore the sinking feeling in my gut, reminding me I'll never care about anything as much as Walker. He should be making this promise, not me. "I swear. It's yours."

"Ours."

My chest clenches in on itself, cracking in two. "Ours."

The first time I rode a bull, I was ten. I was little, the bull was little, and I'm not sure either of us wanted to be there. I vividly remember being in the chute with my dad and my uncle on either side of me, counting me off, and thinking, Why am I doing this? It's not that I was scared, which would be a normal reaction for anyone, kid or adult. Mostly, I didn't get it. I had gotten a dirt bike for Christmas, and that thing was fast and smooth and didn't try to buck me off. Why couldn't I ride that thing around instead?

But that was also the day I met Walker. He was behind me in line and super stoked to be there. The kid had nerves of steel. His cowboy hat was brand-new, and his boots were barely creased. Like me, it was his first time ever in the chute, and he was practically vibrating with excitement. Walker was underweight and scrawny, even for ten, and I was sure he'd be thrown the second his denim touched the hide, but he wasn't. He held on against all odds. Scored something like six seconds on his first try. I knew immediately that while I didn't care much about bull riding, I needed to be friends with Walker Gibson.

After that, it was all rodeo all the time for the two of us. Walker somehow made riding bulls less idiotic. To him, it was a great adventure—a way to literally take life by the horns. That we were both pretty good at it felt unimportant. We would have gone week after week even if we'd sucked, but always staying at the top of the leaderboard kept sponsors showing up. For years, we'd dreamed of joining the Pbr, the professional bull-riding circuit. For me, it was a competition against Walker—a puzzle to be solved and some bullshit back-and-forth between brothers. But for Walker, it was a fight for his life. I didn't know it at the time, but now I do. He'd talk about the Pbr, and I went along with it because what the hell else did I have to do? I had my entire life ahead of me.

I'm starting to wonder if maybe I never really wanted that dream. Maybe I only wanted whatever Walker wanted because, deep down, I knew his dreams were keeping the fight in him alive.

And what I dreamed was for him to live forever.

I sent a text to Brody after Pax's party and the subsequent vocal ass-kicking I got from Winnie, asking to meet at 7:00 a.m. for training. Brody used to be Walker's and my coach. He's four years older and rode bulls in the Pbr for a rookie season before Walker got sick and he stepped back to be closer to home. We never had a conversation about Brody continuing to coach me after Walker was gone, but I promised Walker I'd get us that gold NFR buckle in Vegas, and despite my recent detour into fuckery, I'm determined to see it through.

Without thinking too hard about it, I've decided to make some changes. Small ones. Intentional ones. Maybe Walker's list really is just him kicking my ass from heaven. Wouldn't be the first time, but it's definitely the last, so I need to make it count. To start, for the first time since kindergarten, I'm not in school. Last fall, my entire world and schedule revolved around Walker's illness. His parents brought in hospice when he was sent home, but we all took shifts staying with him so he always woke to a familiar face. I took the middle of the night so his parents could sleep. And because that was the hardest time for Walker—when he was the most irritable. Something about lying around, nothing to do but die, makes the silence and darkness of the middle of the night feel extra shitty.

Once he was gone, it felt weird going back to daytime. Like too bright or something. Too loud. But it's been months, and I need to join the living, both figuratively and literally. I also need to channel my energy into something worthwhile, or I might lose my fucking mind.

I might as well focus on the promise I made him the day he learned he was going to die. One more gold buckle, for the both of us, but mostly for him.

So here I am.

Brody is short and stocky and everything you imagine a tough-as-nails bull rider to be, except for one thing: the bubble gum.

Lots of riders chew tobacco, but growing up around Walker was enough reason for none of us to want to mess with that. Instead, Brody has always carried around a pack of Big League Chew. The sugary scent precedes him into the barn where I do my training, and I grin, tugging out my AirPods to greet him.

We get right to work on balance. Bull riding takes a lot of guts and strength and conditioning, but the real secret is in the balance. I saw a documentary about J. B. Mauney once, where he talked about balancing on a medicine ball in his cowboy boots for an hour a day, so I've decided to make my goal ninety minutes.

I look ridiculous, but do you know how many muscles you engage to balance on a tiny medicine ball? All of them. The answer is all of them.

I'm finishing up on the ball, sweating my ass off and feeling more than a little shaky, when Winnie and a little girl who could be her pint-size twin pull open the heavy barn door and poke their heads in.

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry," Winnie says, turning an attractive shade of pink. "I didn't realize—We'll just—"

"No!" I stop her, wobbling precariously on the ball and whirring my long arms around. I finally get myself back under control and reach toward her. "It's fine. You can come in."

Winnie scrunches her nose. "Are you sure? It'll only be a few minutes. I need a warm spot out of the wind and out of my hair for Garrett to do some schoolwork."

Brody walks over and tugs the sliding barn door farther open with a rumble. "Come on in. Case's almost done, and there's plenty of room." He holds out a hand. "Brody Gibson. I think I've seen you around. You do trail rides, right?" I inwardly groan. Even Brody knows Winnie? I'm the worst.

"Winnie Sutton." She shakes his hand briefly. "That's me. And this is my baby sister, Garrett. She had to tag along this morning since there's no school because of Saint Patrick's Day or something."

Garrett pushes through, flipping her hair. "It's a teachers' in-service, actually. Whoa!" She freezes, spotting me, dancing on a ball like a bear in the circus. "What're you doin'?"

I wobble slightly and correct again. "Balance work."

She approaches slowly, as though she could knock me over with her attention. I don't bother to tell her my legs have essentially gone numb by this point. "For bull riding, right?"

I flush under her frank stare, trying not to notice too much how closely she resembles her sister. "Right."

"Basic physics. An object in rest stays at rest, and an object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force."

I release a soft laugh under my breath, careful not to shake up my core. "Exactly. I'm the object, the bull is the unbalanced force."

"Wow. That's brilliant."

"It is, isn't it?" I give her a wink, and her eyes glitter.

"I don't know, Win. I think you could do worse than Case Michaels for a life coach. He seems to know his stuff."

And just like that, the ball flies out from under my boots and my ass hits the ground hard and my breath whooshes out with an oof. Winnie surges across the room to my side. "Oh my god, are you okay?"

I roll to my feet, rubbing my rear, and feel my face flame. "Oh yeah, I'm just fu—" I remember Garrett and change direction. "Dandy."

"Are you sure?" she asks, clearly too worried to notice my sarcasm. "You hit hard."

"I'm fine, Win." I emphasize her nickname. "A little sore is all. And feeling like an ass, but that's not all that different than usual these days."

"Eighty-four. So close," Brody says, making a piss-poor attempt at hiding his laughter. It warms me a little to hear it. He looks ten years younger when he's razzing me like the old days.

Winnie sucks in a breath next to me. "Eighty-four minutes? Seriously?"

"Was going for ninety. That's the closest I've been. I usually crap out around seventy-five."

"Ninety," she repeats faintly. "Hell, Case. Now I sorta feel bad."

I hold up a hand. "Don't. Well…" I consider a moment, finding my own teasing grin. "Maybe if you feel bad, you can explain to me the whole life coach thing?"

Brody clears his voice. "This is where I bow out. I have to get to work, anyway. Same time tomorrow?"

I nod.

"Registration is all set for Friday night. You're back in it, kid."

"Ready or not," I mutter, ignoring the fact that even though I'm weeks shy of nineteen, he's still calling me "kid." Brody hears me but doesn't comment, instead going through the sliding doors and closing them behind him. I fidget, brushing off my legs, holding back a groan.

"There's an old workbench over here that'll do the trick. Let me clean it off for you." I direct Garrett to the corner and grab for a rag.

"You have a desk? Did you do homework in here?"

I shake my head, swiping at the layers of dust and dirt. "Not often. But this is where my best friend, Walker, and I used to train, and we'd sometimes come right from school, so while one of us was working with Brody, the other would catch up on school stuff."

"That's awesome. I've heard of Walker Gibson, too. You guys were one and two at the National High School Rodeo Association championships."

I glance up at Winnie, who shrugs softly. "She's a rodeo fangirl."

"Just her?" I ask, teasing.

Winnie shakes her head, not taking the bait. "I'd have to sit through the bull riding to get to the barrel racing."

"Of course." I think about pressing the life coach thing but decide to drop it. After all, Walker wanted us to befriend Winnie Sutton, and so far, I've done nothing but mess things up with this girl. I get an idea and lean over the cleared-off bench where Garrett is already pulling out thick books with complicated numbers I recognize from my AP math classes. "You know, I have my first rodeo this Friday night at the county fairgrounds. It's a local event, but I'm rusty as fu—dge. Maybe you girls could come and watch?"

Garrett looks at her sister, her dark eyes wide and pleading. "Can we?"

Winnie doesn't look at me, only her sister. Her expression is softer than I've ever seen. Something clicks into place in my brain, watching them.

"Maybe," she concedes. "It might be fun to watch as long as neither of you get any ideas."

Ah. So I'm not the only one pushing Winnie to race.

I press my hand over my heart. "I swear, as your unofficial life coach, to get zero ideas."

Winnie's full lips twitch, and it's the closest thing I've seen to a smile on this girl yet. Baby steps.

Walker's voice nudges in the back of my mind. Quit while you're ahead, Case. This is enough for now.

I've been in the arena for an hour, sitting on my tailgate, riding bag at my feet, fighting nerves. Walker's ghost legs dangle next to mine as I take a small sip from my water bottle, wishing I had something a little stronger, even if what I got is already roiling in my gut.

Everything feels wrong. The noises are too loud and sharp, the lights too bright and harsh. My smiles are fake, my handshakes are weak, and I can't stop my legs from shaking. I am literally shaking in my fucking boots. Not because I'm afraid of the bull. I've pulled a geezer named Midnight I've ridden at least twice before.

I'm trembling from head to toe because I've never done this alone.

I inhale a deep gulp of air, trying to force myself to calm down. Ghost Walker shakes his head.

"Listen, asshole," I say, "I've never claimed to be brave, and you know it's nothing to do with the ride."

My throat tightens, and hot tears threaten in the backs of my eyes. For god's sake, there's no crying in rodeo. I take another swig of icy water to clear my throat.

I'm not supposed to be this fucked up still. When I promised Walker I would chase the buckle all the way to the NFR in Vegas, I figured I would be ready. Willing. Filled with fire in my gut. I thought I'd be more like Walker and one hundred percent less like me. This was different than the Pbr. The Pbr was professional. It was a career.

The National Finals Rodeo is one time. One buckle. The buckle. All I have to do is keep my shit together long enough to qualify.

If it can't be me, it has to be you.

Turns out, I'm just a wreck.

"Ready, kid?" Brody walks up, all swagger. He looks right at home here. He and Walker always fit in. I thought I did, too, but today, the rodeo feels mismatched and awkward. My stomach churns, and my mouth waters with the telltale acid of bile. Oh no.

"Your girl's in the stands. Just saw her and her sister." He laughs. "That Garrett is hilarious. Reminds me of Walker when he was younger—"

My stomach gives a mighty clench, and then I heave all over the ground at our feet, splattering water and my lunch on my bag.

"Shit!" Brody jumps back. "You okay?"

I moan, swallowing convulsively against another round.

"Shit," Brody repeats, looking closer at me. He grabs my shoulder with his hand and shakes it a little. I gag, and he jumps back, but I hold it in.

"Are you drunk?" he whisper-shouts. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

I drop my head into my hands and consider telling him the truth. I'm not drunk. Outside of parties, I rarely drink. I'm just… fucking sad and scared out of my mind to face this alone.

It has to be you.

But what if I can't do this?

Brody thinking I'm a fuckup seems easier to take. "I'm sorry. I thought I could do it, but—"

"You thought? What's holding you back? I've been sitting by letting it all settle, you know? Letting you do your thing because I know it's hard." I look up, and Brody has his hands on his hips. He lowers his voice, but his tone is dark and irritated. "I know it's hard. But this needs to stop. The drinking and partying and girls… climbing silos and jumping in pools naked and showing up to ride drunk.… Do you know what Walker would have given—" He stops, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have said that. Maybe I shouldn't have said any of it. I'm… I'm sorry, okay? I get it. I do." His hand reaches for my shoulder, and he squeezes it once before releasing his grip and ripping off his hat. "I have to remove you from the lineup. Don't go anywhere."

I want to tell him, "Don't worry, I won't," but he's already gone. Within minutes, I hear my name and the words turn out spoken over the loudspeaker to a round of disappointed boos from the stands. I feel like shit. Garbage. Lower than dirt. I've let everyone down. Especially Brody. Walker was his actual brother, and he's not fucking around making stupid decisions and moping.

Jesus. I've let Walker down.

The secret only Walker's ghost knows is that when I hear my name over the loudspeaker, being taken off the roster, I also feel a little relieved.