Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
ANDRéS’
“Che boludo, más ayuda el que no estorba.”
Jorge’s sarcasm, telling me I’d be more helpful if I didn’t stand in his way, jolts me into movement.
I laugh and step aside, letting him continue sweeping out the stall.
It’s not the first time I’ve drifted off this morning either, but the look in Simon’s eyes as he left my room keeps haunting me.
I’d stood staring at the door for several minutes, then, deciding I couldn’t go back to bed as I’d have to get up in an hour anyway, I thought I’d come early to help Jorge out instead.
It’s not unusual for me to clean the stalls, I’ve spent my whole life looking after horses, and with only Jorge here with me in Aspen, it’s a lot of work for one.
But I’m not usually so useless. Never, in fact.
Well, except for that one time when the after-tournament party went on all night and I thought I’d help.
I’d had no sleep, was still in my tuxedo, and was much the worse for drink.
But that was when I was eighteen and it was my first major tournament; I’ve learned a lot since then.
Jorge was pretty sarcastic to me then as well, and he gave me a thorough telling off for being drunk around the horses.
But he did also make sure I got back to my room safely to sleep it off.
We get on well together and I can take his jibes.
Some people don’t like his caustic manner, but I do.
Plus, he’s taught me a lot over the years and has never brought that night up again.
He keeps giving me concerned glances as he works, though, and that disturbs me more.
I sigh and give up trying to help. Instead, I go in search of some breakfast.
I find Gabriel, Linden, and Austin already in the restaurant and take a seat.
I see the slight frown Austin gives me as it’s obvious I’ve been in the barn.
I’m untidy and probably smell too. But then, Linden has two grooms with him so he doesn’t have to lift a finger.
I don’t care about his opinion of me. If it doesn’t bother Gabriel then that’s all that matters, and Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice, he just launches into a description of what his plans are in the new year to get his new equestrian centre ready to open by May.
“I still have to find a centre manager, a couple of grounds people, and then the catering staff, a chef, and a bar manager.”
At the mention of a chef my mind wanders again, and I can’t help thinking of Simon.
It shouldn’t bother me, that deep look of rejection that made his eyes icy blue like they could freeze me on the spot, but it does.
They’ve pierced something in me and I can’t seem to patch it up.
I need to, though. It’s over. It’d already gone on too long.
I have no idea what made me persuade him to stay the night.
All of this is my fault. If I hadn’t wanted the warmth of his body and the sight of the curve of his arse one more time this wouldn’t have happened.
No wonder he had expectations of me. I slipped up. It won’t happen again.
“Drey. Are you coming?”
I look up to see the others have risen from the table and are waiting for me.
“Yeah, sure,” I say quickly and follow them.
Drey is the name I get called by most of the players, especially those on my team.
Andrés is far too long to shout across the field to get my attention, so I’ve been Drey for as long as I’ve been playing, especially with Americans who like their one-syllable names.
Gabriel is Gabe, and while Linden gets shortened to Lin, I’ve heard Gabriel call him Linnie in the heat of a game.
Once I’m in my suite, I change into my polo whites and our team’s shirt before pulling on my boots.
Always the left followed by the right. Then I tuck a small bag down my right boot before zipping it up.
My dad gave it to me before my first game, and it contains some mane hair clipped from the horse that helped my dad win the US Open three years running.
She was his favourite horse and the grand dam of my own Chispa.
My team won that first game, so I’ve made sure I carry it with me ever since.
It’s superstition, I know, but I won’t change it.
Most professional athletes are superstitious and polo players are no exception.
My little ritual helps get my head back in the game, and by the time I head back to the barn I find it easier to focus.
Before I take Chispa from Jorge he raises his eyebrows at me, a question I understand as asking whether I’m alright now.
I nod a few times and give him a reassuring smile.
“Bueno,” he grunts before handing her reins to me.
I know it’s because he cares, but also partly because he doesn’t want to deal with the mess if Chispa doesn’t believe I’ve got my head one hundred percent in the game.
I mount Chispa and head out to warm her up.
Jorge follows, riding Marvel and leading Saban and Furia.
He’ll warm them up so they’ll be ready for when I need to swap over during the game.
I meet Gabriel and Linden just outside the snowy pitch and we ride in together, side by side.
Playing in the snow is different to playing on grass, the arena is smaller and we have three players on a team instead of four, but the concept is the same—score more goals than the opposition.
As we take our positions, lined up on our side of the centre line, Chispa gives me the customary toss of her head .
. . She knows her job and is ready. I stroke her neck in agreement.
As the ball is thrown in, adrenaline kicks in and I’m focused on nothing more than what I have to do to win this.