Junior Year #2
I follow Layoni's line of sight and suddenly notice the camera hanging around Asha's neck.
There's a strap cutting across her collarbone, and the lens cap is dangling.
The distance between us closes, and I step up to them.
There's silence, the tension so thick it's almost suffocating.
Now that I'm in front of them, I can see Hollis's cheeks are reddened, evidence of his anger.
"Is everything alright?" I ask, my gaze flicking between them.
Asha crosses her arms, and Hollis clenches his fists at his sides, his eyes locked on her as she looks toward the field. "Everything is fine," he grinds out.
"Asha, do you want me to walk around and show you the best spots to shoot from since I've been here a few times?" Layoni throws out, attempting to diffuse whatever this is.
Asha's gaze swings back from the field, stopping on me, her eyes searing into mine with something I can't place before dropping to my hand where my school-issued phone is still clutched tightly in my hand. She knows. That look has to mean she knows, right?
She doesn't spare me another look before giving her attention to Layoni. "Sure. That would be great. We can start now," she says, turning on her heel toward the field and walking away without another word.
Hollis starts heading toward the stables before I can wrap my head around what just happened. "What the hell was that about?" I say, following hot on his heels.
"You know who we’re playing today, right?"
"Yeah, man, we're at their fucking school."
"I didn't ask if you knew what school we are playing; I asked if you knew who we were playing."
I shake my head and release an anxious breath. Of course I know, and I can't wait to kick his ass on the field tonight. "We're playing your cousin's pretentious, silver-spoon boyfriend, Penn Hadley."
I can't help but grind my teeth in annoyance as her willingness to fill in for Milli today sinks in. She came to see him.
"No, we're playing a dead man," he spits.
I grab his arm and bring him to a stop. "What are you talking about? What fucking happened back there?"
"He didn't know Asha would be here." He glares toward their stables across the field. "So, when she walked out to the field to shoot, guess who she caught in her lens kissing another girl beside his horse?"
"She saw him?" My voice comes out raw, barely controlled.
"In high definition." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I happened to walk up behind her when she lowered the camera and quickly turned around, clearly upset."
Fury ignites in my chest. Penn Hadley, the golden boy with his perfect polo record, his bottomless trust fund, and the girl every guy would trade places for—gorgeous, loyal, and completely wasted on a guy who doesn't deserve her.
He just hurt the only girl who's ever made me believe I could be worth something to someone.
"How long until we're up?" I ask, my voice eerily calm.
Hollis studies me for a second, and I see the exact moment he understands. A slow, dark smile spreads across his face. "Twenty minutes. Why?"
"Because I need you to switch positions with me."
"You want me to play number three?" His eyebrows shoot up. Number three is the attacking position, the glory position. The position that goes head-to-head with the other team's best defender. "You're captain this year. That's your seat, and Coach will never—"
"Leave Coach to me. Penn isn't playing number three tonight; he's playing the one seat for some reason." I meet his eyes, letting him see everything burning behind mine. "I need to be on Penn."
Hollis's grin turns feral. "You know he's going to come at you hard. He plays dirty when he's threatened."
"Good." The word comes out like a promise. "I'm counting on it."
Twenty-three minutes later, I'm mounted on Santiago.
Across the field, Penn sits on some overpriced mare, stretching in his saddle like he doesn't have a care in the world.
Like he didn't just royally fuck up and hurt the girl…
I force the thought away and focus on the weight of the mallet in my hand.
The umpire throws in the ball, and the game explodes into motion.
I'm on Penn immediately, riding him so close our stirrups clash. He tries to hook my mallet on the first play, but I'm faster, driving the ball downfield with enough force that it cracks like a gunshot.
"You're playing aggressive today, Hale," Penn calls out, positioning himself between me and the ball. There's a smirk in his voice, that entitled confidence that comes from never having consequences. I don't answer. I don't need to.
On the next play, I cut him off so hard he has to pull up short or risk a collision. His mare sidesteps nervously, and I see the flash of irritation cross his face. Good.
"What's your problem?" he snaps, recovering.
I lean in close as we ride parallel, close enough that only he can hear me. "My problem," I say, my voice deadly quiet, "is that you're still breathing."
I accelerate past him, calling for the pass from Hollis. The ball arcs through the air, and I'm there to meet it, my mallet connecting with a satisfying crack. The ball rockets toward the goal, and their defender is too far out of position to stop it. Score.
Penn's face darkens. He knows something's wrong now, knows this isn't normal gameplay. This is personal.
The next chukker is even worse for him. Every time he touches the ball, I'm there. Every time he tries to position, I'm blocking. Every time he thinks he has an opening, I shut it down with a precision that borders on violence. I'm not just playing polo anymore—I'm hunting.
"What the fuck is your deal?" he finally explodes after I bump him hard enough that he nearly loses his seat. He’s sweating, and his face is red with fury.
I circle back, positioning Santiago nose to nose with his mare. "You," I state simply.
The single word hangs in the air like a threat.
I'm not going to give him the luxury of a heads-up, not going to spell out exactly what I know.
He didn't give Asha any warning before he shoved his tongue down another girl's throat.
Besides, getting in his head is working.
I can see it in the way his grip tightens on his mallet, the way his jaw clenches.
He's unraveling, playing defense in his own mind.
He'll lose tonight. He's already losing.
He just doesn't know yet how much more he's about to lose when this is all over.
"Whatever, Hale," he grinds out, but there's something uncertain flickering behind his eyes now. "You want to play dirty? Let's go."
I lean forward slightly, my voice dropping low enough that only he can hear over the thundering hooves around us. "I'm not playing dirty, Hadley." A cold smile touches my lips. "I'm playing honest. You should try it sometime."
His face goes momentarily blank as he tries to piece together the true meaning behind my words. "Fuck you," he spits.
"No," I say, backing Santiago up and spinning away. "I think you've already fucked yourself."
In the final thirty seconds of the game, we're up by five. Penn's teammates have stopped passing to him, but he's still trying to salvage something from the wreckage of his performance.
The ball comes loose near midfield, and Penn makes a desperate play for it, overextending, his mare already tired from his erratic riding.
I see the opening he's too tired to defend and go in for the kill.
I don't even have to do much. Just crowd him as he swings wild for the ball.
His mallet catches air instead of leather, and the momentum throws him off-center, causing his mare to sidestep hard to avoid Santiago.
It happens almost in slow motion. Penn's foot slips from the stirrup. His hand grasps for the reins, and for one suspended moment, he's neither on the horse nor off it, just falling with his arms flailing and his eyes wide with the realization that he's lost control. Then he hits the ground. Hard.
The game whistle blows at the exact moment Penn lands in the dirt, flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him.
I slow Santiago to a stop and look down at him from my saddle. He's gasping, stunned, staring up at the sky as players from both teams circle. His perfect white uniform is streaked with mud and grass stains. His hair, which is always so carefully styled, is now a mess.
"You alright, Hadley?" I ask, my voice carrying just enough false concern that he'll know it's deliberate.
He turns his head to glare up at me, still struggling to breathe, humiliation burning in his eyes brighter than any physical pain. I don't gloat. I don't need to. The scoreboard says everything: 12-6. And Penn Hadley is exactly where he belongs, in the dirt while everyone watches.
I turn Santiago toward the stables, and that's when I see her.
Asha is standing by the fence with her camera lowered, no longer shooting.
Just watching. Our eyes meet across the field, and for a moment, everything else falls away: the crowd, the noise, even Penn groaning behind me.
I don't smile, don’t nod. I just hold her gaze, letting her see that I know.
I know what he did to her and that he paid for it.
I've just finished untacking Santiago and preparing him for transport back to Ridgewood when I spot Asha sitting on top of the wooden fence that surrounds our team's tent. She has the lens pointed toward the scoreboard, which also happens to be beside Crestview’s tent.
She slowly lowers it, and my eyes find the source of her distress.
Penn Hadley has spotted her. If he didn't know she was here before, he does now.
From the way his face drops, I'm certain this is the moment everything is coming together for him.
"You could kiss me," I say, announcing my presence.
Her pretty brown eyes find mine, her eyes dancing with entertainment. "Why would I do that?"
I shrug and take a step closer. "Let him see. Make it hurt."