Roseanne.
"You got one angry motherfucker here, Manoban."
The handsome cowgirl on the back of a huge bull scoffs and shifts her hand around the rope before her. her dark eyes twinkle on the screen, all the hard lines of her face peeking through the cage of her helmet.
"The harder they buck, the happier I am."
I can barely hear what they're saying over the din of the crowd in the vast arena with music blaring in the background, but the subtitles at the bottom of the screen clear up anything that might otherwise get missed.
The young man leaning over the pen chuckles and shakes his head.
"Must be all that milk you drink. No broken bones for the world-famous Lisa Manoban."
The easily recognizable cowgirl grins behind the cage over her face, a flash of white teeth and the wink of an amber eye from beneath the black helmet. A charming grin I know from spending hours staring at a glossy, still version of it.
"Beat it, Jackson. You know I fuckin' hate milk."
A teasing grin touches Jackson's lips as he speaks with a lightly accented voice. "You look cute in those ads with it painted above your lip though. Cute for an old girl."
The younger man winks and the two friends share a friendly laugh as Lisa rubs a hand up the rope methodically.
"I'd rather get bucked off a bull every damn day than drink that shit."
Their laughter is all I hear as my father pauses the video on the large flatscreen, redness creeping up his neck and onto his face.
"Okay . . ." I venture cautiously, trying to piece together why that exchange requires this impromptu meeting with the two newest full-time hires at Park Elite.
"No. Not okay. This girl is the face of professional bull riding, and she just skewered her biggest sponsors. But it gets worse. Keep watching."
He hits play again, aggressively, like the button did something wrong in this whole affair, and the screen flashes to a different scene. Lisa is walking outside of an arena, through the parking lot with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. The helmet is now replaced by a cowboy hat and a slim man in dark baggy clothes is taking quick strides to keep up with her target while the cameraman follows and runs tape.
I don't think the paparazzi usually follow bull riders, but Lisa Manoban has become something of a household name over the years. Not a paragon of purity by any stretch, but a symbol of rough and tumble, rugged country women.
The reporter takes a little sMason step to get far enough ahead that he can line his microphone up with Lisa's mouth.
"Lisa, can you comment on the video that's been circulating this weekend? Any apologies you'd like to make?"
The cowgirl's lips thin, and she tries to hide her face behind the brim of her hat. A muscle in her jaw flexes, and her toned body goes taut. Tension lines every limb.
"No comment," she bites out through gritted teeth.
"Come on, woman, give me something." The slender guy reaches out and presses the microphone against Lisa's cheek. Forcing it on her even though she declined to comment. "Your fans deserve an explanation," the reporter demands.
"No, they don't," Lisa mutters, trying to create space between them.
Why do these people think they're owed a response when they ambush a person who is otherwise minding her own business?
"How about an apology?" the guy asks.
And then Lisa decks him in the face.
It happens so fast that I blink in an attempt to follow the now shaking and swiveling camera angles.
Well, shit.
Within seconds, the pushy paparazzi is on the ground clutching his face, and Lisa is shaking out her hand as she walks away without a word.
