Rein Ready

One - The Perfect Riding Machine

ONE

THE PERFECT RIDING MACHINE

THE FOOTAGE LOOPS again.

There’s a glare on the green room’s TV from the white ceiling light, blinking out of sync like a broken metronome.

It marks my round’s final seconds: Vivaldi clearing the last element of the triple combination, then five steps to the Liverpool, followed by the rollback before approaching the final line.

The vertical after the double was short four steps, so I reeled him back to three and a half.

Gallop to the oxer, landing clean after.

Done. No penalties. The final results graphic shows our time—34.27. Almost two full seconds less than the runner-up.

That’s the headline, big bold letters at the bottom. Clean. Fast. Spotless.

Perfect.

But I’ve spent my life jumping horses over fences taller than my own chest—even when my chest would barely reach my trainers’ hips.

So, as they rerun my full first course and jump- off tiebreaker on the TV, all I see are hairline cracks in that spotless ride.

In each fractional second, what ticks is the moment my seat faltered, then the half-a-stride off on the turn, then a micro hesitation at the first rail.

Tick—my wrist didn’t follow enough. Tick—my leg floated. Tick—tick—tick.

I make a fist, tight, then open it a few times, testing my grip. Sometimes it feels weak. Maybe—I don’t know. Still, I should’ve closed the distance a beat sooner. Should’ve breathed better. Or slept better, or—

“You saw that?”

Mom’s voice cuts through behind me, a rush of static flooding my thoughts.

My spine goes ramrod straight, pulling a muscle in my back from forcing a posture that’s already perfect.

Still, I double-check every limb, facial expression, hand position, just to make sure nothing is showing.

I don’t turn to face her. Twenty-six years on this earth, and maybe a quarter of that without the not mad, just disappointed look. Not in the mood this time.

“I saw it,” I say.

She hums, pleased not to have to spell it out. “Make sure you do better next time.”

I don’t roll my eyes because there’s always a watcher, always a camera.

I’m long past expecting congratulations or—God forbid—a “proud of you, squirt,” like back when I still got ribbons just for showing up, but maybe she could spare me the obvious too.

No, perfection wasn’t achieved. She’s right, and I hate it as much as she does.

She steps in front of me, blocking the monitor.

I keep watching over her shoulder. Her purse unzips with a soft scratch, and then her fingers are in my hair, undoing the helmet dents, tousling, then raking it back and sideways with precision.

The undercut makes it easier—fast, sharp lines.

Modern, marketable. No flyaways to worry about when imperfection is part of the look .

An ingenious way to make The Perfect Riding Machine still seem human. PR magic.

My eyes stay stuck on that loop, even as Mom tilts my head, lifts my chin, inspects for flaws.

Again, I watch myself on the rollback, under a soft jasmine scent as she slips out a wet wipe.

Again, the oxer, as she dampens and scrubs cracked concealer from under my eyes.

Again, the line, and a fresh coat she dabs with the pad of her ring finger.

More noise, a richer scent, a spray, a brush.

Then a tug on my stock tie, on my showjacket’s lapels and flap pockets.

Then I feel her eyes on mine, and a shiver up my jugular.

Slowly but not gently, she takes my right hand, unclasps it from my left wrist, and places it beside my hip where it should’ve been, loose and unbothered.

I don’t look at her, don’t unfocus from that damn TV but for a second, for a longer blink that, with a sigh and a nod, tells her I know, I realize what I was doing.

It’s enough for her. She goes on with her doings.

The tiniest of scars that no one would even notice, but it’s on my wrist, so I see it often.

Always. Sometimes in every other C-shaped thing around me, even when covered by stiff shirt cuffs or a watch or a weighted wrist band.

It’s there, been there since I was twelve and tanked an important competition. It will never not be there.

Which is good. A reminder of what can’t happen again. Just as long as I don’t keep rubbing it without realizing.

Only a knock on the door snaps me away from the screen. Mom tucks the lint roller behind her back like she’s hiding contraband, spinning toward the noise.

It’s a handler—big guy, maybe my age, dark-haired and super cute—peeking inside with a wide smile and fanboy eyes. “Mr. Vale? They’re ready for you.”

Mom’s smile is wider still, as bright as it is fake. “Thank you so much, dear. We’ll be right over.”

With a nod, the handler is off, and her mask evaporates as if mist under heat. And that heat is all back on me. “If you can’t fix your sleep schedule, I’m getting Dr. Orellana to write you a prescription.”

My head shakes. “No pills.”

“Then go to sleep when you’re meant to,” she scolds. “Do we need a curfew?”

I frown, heading for the door. “I never leave my rooms, let alone the hotels. The fuck do I need a curfew for?”

“Then a scheduled bedtime? I don’t know.” Lint roller lost to her bag again, she follows, heels clicking right behind me as we make our way down the corridor toward the handler. “More concealer, at least. You’re burning through mine.”

She says it like dark circles are a personal fashion choice. Might as well be, at this point.

“Wish you’d tell me,” I hear her murmur behind my shoulder. I pretend I don’t because there’s nothing to tell. I just… don’t have an answer, a why.

The handler extends his arm toward the press room, the soft hum of reporters filtering through the door.

I pause a couple of steps away. Mom circumvents me while capping her lipstick and tossing a hand-held mirror into her purse.

She gives me a final once-over while tousling her own hair to give it volume, pressing her lips together to blend the red color.

Media often compares us—same golden hair, same silver eyes, deep-set and metal sharp with that resting bitch look. But I’m not sure I inherited her multitasking prowess.

“You’re ready,” she tells me and asks at the same time. I give myself one last breath, slow and deliberate, then soften every muscle I’ve been holding tense. Face. Jaw. Hands. Nothing to betray me. Just sureness, composure.

I nod. She strides inside, and I follow.

The moment the reporters spot us, the low buzz in the press room sharpens into full alertness—phones lifted, lenses rotated, bodies shifting forward like hounds scenting blood. The flashes hit fast, sharp, and white. Camera shutters click non-stop, all over each other.

We sit at the long table stretching under a sponsor-covered backdrop—some I’ve had since I was fifteen, others newer, bigger.

Watch brands, equine tech companies, global logistics groups.

The moderator steps up next to us, flipping through a card stack.

“Thank you for joining us. We’re thrilled to have today’s Grand Prix winner with us—Cassian Vale, representing the Vale Performance Team and our title sponsors. ”

Applause sprinkles across the room. The moderator goes on, says something about Vivaldi and a flawless round.

Honestly, I don’t hear most of it, going through all the cues that tell me I look like I’m supposed to.

Tingly feet mean my boots are digging properly to the back of my knees, soles planted flat on the carpeted floor.

Jacket stiff across the shoulders, collar bordering on too tight—it all means my back can’t get straighter.

Chin up, chest out. I’m not the tallest guy, so posture is everything.

“Cassian,” the first reporter starts, “incredible performance today. What do you think sealed the win?”

I answer like I always do. “Trust. Between horse and rider. Vivaldi did his job, I did mine. That’s how we finish clean.”

Another question. Another answer. The press likes to hear about discipline, mental preparation, daily routines. I feed them what they came for—soundbites dressed as insight.

Then I feel the shift, at the very first word from a reporter near the back. The tone is off, loaded, like when one knows they’re about to stir the pot.

“Cassian,” the reporter calls out. “Rumors say you’re set to work with the flagged FEI stallion. Any comment?”

I blink. Once. Steady.

In half a second, my mind flips through every slice of memory like a file cabinet on fast-forward. Nothing. No conversations. No updates. No nods or winks or you’ll hear soon . Blank.

I’ve been trained for this too, though, so I lean toward the mic. “I don’t respond to rumors, so—”

But Mom is already moving, leaning across the table before I properly finish the sentence. She slides the mic closer and smiles wide enough to make cameras pop like fireworks.

“Actually, we’re in a position to end the rumors today,” she says, and instantly my stomach does something tighter than a clinch belt.

“Yes, it’s true. The horse is joining the Vale Performance Team as our first and only proprietary acquisition.

Cassian will begin working with it in the near future. ”

I… what?

The press erupts.

Voices overlap. Questions fly. My name becomes a flurry of syllables thrown at me from all angles. I sit still. Not stiff—but still. Eyes level. Chin neutral. Mouth just soft enough not to look tight.

Nothing slips. Nothing. I make sure of it.

Even if I’m gutted, scrambling to keep my insides from slipping too far out where I can’t reach. Shove that shit back in me, staple the slash shut.

I catch the thought, shake it off before it sets. That’s not me. Not gutted, not scrambling. Just the sleep talking.

Just need to breathe. Focus.