Chapter 22
Hendricks
“We could have literally chosen any other shade of pink—”
“Al, stop complaining. It brings out the blue in your eyes—”
“It’s the color of my face—”
“All I see is a face of blood, sweat, and tears. But here . . .” Miles tosses a bottle of water to Alex. “Now, can you please pay attention to what I’m saying so we can win this fucking match? You’re dragging down my level of play.”
To anyone passing, they might think Miles is joking, but we know better.
There’s nothing that Miles takes more seriously than winning and how he plays.
When we watch him during the regular polo season, we pay such close attention to the match, not because we can’t bear to miss a second, but because it’s better for our mental health not to miss a second of Miles.
Which was his best goal? What did we think of his defensive play?
How did he stack against his opposing number?
A pop quiz at the end of each match isn’t unheard of.
“Miles, I don’t need to remind you that this is a charity match.”
“No, Lan, you don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’ve dressed my ponies in head-to-toe pink and plaited their tails with little red hearts for nothing. I expect to win.”
Alex gives up looking at himself in the mirror and scoffs. “Your grooms plaited, you mean.”
“Actually,” Miles snaps, “I did Chester. Now, for the third fucking time, can we please get back to discussing what’s important?”
Alex smirks behind a sip of water. Lando’s trying to hide his by dropping his head, and wipes his hands across his muddy jodhpurs, and I just sit back and grin.
I don’t see the point in hiding anything.
We all know how Miles gets, and as much as Alex and Lando love winding him up as the worst loser in our group, they also hate losing.
So I don’t know why they woke up this morning and chose violence.
“Thank you. Now . . .” Miles’s jaw ticks, and he exhales loudly through his nose. “Alex, why is your hand up?”
Alex lowers it and shrugs. “I thought it was the correct etiquette for this situation—”
“Al—”
“Just wanted to check you know that the other team is objectively, not to mention, statistically, better than ours.”
“Yes. I know that—”
“But it seems like you don’t—”
“I do. They have four international players, all ranked between seven and ten goals. We have you three and me. None of you has played since our last charity match.”
If Miles were the type of person to go red, he would be rivaling a tomato right now, but instead, his jaw is clenched so hard that he’s in danger of breaking a couple of molars. Lando dissolves into braying laughter.
I reach out a reassuring hand to Miles and squeeze his shoulder.
“C’mon, Milo, it’s only halftime. We’ve got three more chukkas to go. We can easily level the score, given we’re only four goals down.”
He takes a deep breath. It’s one of those breaths therapists advise you try while counting to ten.
“We won’t do anything if you don’t. Fucking. Listen.”
I stare at our older brothers. “You two, shut the fuck up. Let Miles speak.”
Lando and Alex sit up straight. Alex takes a second to compose himself. I catch Lando rolling his eyes, but they thankfully stay silent.
“Miles, please go ahead.”
“Thank you, Hen. As I was trying to say, we need to change our play. Hen, you ride Chester this chukka, and I’m taking Clover.
Alex, you have Owl, and Lando can take Lemondrop.
She’ll help you score with your eyes closed.
And we’re switching positions.” He stands up, gesturing Lando to do the same, and tugs his shirt over his head. “Give me yours.”
Lando, who I’m certain wasn’t even listening to a word Miles said, visibly recoils at the suggestion. “Do I have to?”
He tosses the shirt onto Lando’s lap. “Yes. Otherwise, we’ll have the wrong numbers. I’m playing four now, you’re one.”
“Can’t we just tell people?”
“No.”
“Lan—” I warn.
With a heavy eye roll and a grumble about being very sweaty, Lando whips his shirt off.
I don’t know if it’s going to help our game, because wherever Miles isn’t on the field is where we’re going to be weakest. On the other hand, it might be the strategy change we need.
Number one, where Miles usually plays, is the most offensive player, the attacker, the goal scorer.
Number four, where Lando’s been playing, is the defender, the guardian of the goal.
Unfortunately for him, his guarding skills are no match for someone who’s paid to score. It might be for charity, but since we rode onto the field, it was clear only Alex, Lando, and I came for fun. The rest came to win.
While they change, I check my phone again. I can’t help it. A fresh wave of anxiety pushes aside all the adrenaline from the first two chukkas. Just like it has been for the past week, the screen is blank.
Sienna hasn’t returned any of my calls.
She hasn’t returned the solicitor’s calls.
Her legal team is nonresponsive. It’s become a waiting game that’s making me increasingly nervous with each passing day. More than I care to admit.
In fact, the only time it hasn’t been in the back of my mind is when I was being chased by half a ton of Argentinian pony with a very determined rider on his back.
Alex slides along the bench to me. “Still nothing?”
I shake my head. “No, and I don’t understand. She called so frequently, but it’s been crickets since the meeting she didn’t turn up to.”
“Hang in there. It’ll be okay.”
I wish I shared his enthusiasm, but I don’t. And I don’t want to voice the nightmares I’m having every night, when I wake up drenched in sweat from boiling rage and panic at the idea of losing Max.
“What about Story? Is she here today?”
I nod, a smile appearing on my face.
Two days ago, at drop-off, she handed me a paper bag with a “Good morning” and no further explanation.
When I got back to the car, I opened it to find a freshly baked flapjack.
After a night filled with dreams I don’t want to become reality, it kept me going through a busy morning checking the pregnant heifers.
Yesterday, it was a jam donut, which I swapped for a chocolate croissant I’d brought her.
Knowing Story’s stance on polo—too fast, too shouty, too Miles—I hadn’t expected her to come and watch, but as we galloped onto the field for the second chukka, I spotted her, and she wasn’t alone.
Beside her, her mum, and Oxford, the golden retriever, were my sister, Holiday, and Max.
It was a foursome I didn’t know I needed to see—them laughing together while Max swung his mallet around.
I’m convinced the look on Story’s face when she spotted me is the sole reason I scored two goals. The only two goals of the match so far.
“Oh, bud, I know that look . . .”
I focus back on Alex. “What?”
“I’m here when you want to talk,” he says, patting me on the knee.
“Right.” Miles snaps our attention. “Everyone clear on what they have to do?”
Lando’s too busy fidgeting in Miles’s sweaty shirt to respond. But I nod, and Alex resumes his role as Miles’s tormentor.
“Remind me which one’s our goal again?”
“Alex, if we lose this match, I’m holding you entirely responsible.” He fumes, jabbing a finger in Alex’s direction before storming out to the stables where our four ponies are waiting patiently and yelling, “Pull your fucking finger out.”
“Why d’you keep winding him up today?”
Alex shrugs. “Because it’s funny. He seems edgier today, and I thought it would loosen him up.”
“C’mon, you know how badly he wants to win. This is the first match since he went up to nine. He’s putting so much pressure on himself to get back to ten in the summer.” I take Clover’s reins from the groom and check Miles isn’t in earshot. “Plus, I heard someone say Santiago Torres is here.”
Alex stops, his foot halfway to Owl’s stirrup. “What?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen him, and I don’t know if Miles knows,” I spit out before Alex can bombard me with questions. “One of the grooms said they saw him.”
“Who let him in?”
“An international polo player at a polo ground? They probably opened the front door.”
“I thought Miles had banned him from here.”
“Evidently not.” I vault onto Clover without thinking and it takes all my strength to keep her calm. “But I can’t believe he’d dare show his face here. He knows Foxleigh is Burlington property.”
It’s a testament to Miles’s skills that he makes riding her look easy.
Clover is the equine equivalent of a Formula One race car, revving up for the moment she’s allowed to gallop onto the field. I can feel her adrenaline pumping through her while I try to avoid being reared off before we get out there.
She’s also Miles’s favorite pony, and he never lets anyone ride Clover. That’s how much he wants to lift the cup later.
Alex waits patiently on Owl, a deceptively cunning and brave little pony who never shies away from getting involved in the scrum, until Clover is standing still. “Okay, fine, but only until I find out if Torres is really here.”
“I can live with that.”
Miles’s strategy works.
By the fifth chukka, we even the score, and Miles’s mood drastically improves.
It’s helped by Alex and Owl, powering down the pitch ten seconds before the bell, hooking the opposing number three, a guy called Billy Walsh, who plays with Miles on the England team, and smashing the ball between the goal posts from the thirty-yard line.
For the final chukka, Miles swaps us all out again.
I move onto Messiah, a gallant Welsh cob, and Miles takes Clover, who barely worked up a sweat in the fourth.
Seeing him on her back, I almost feel bad for riding her, like a Sunday school driver behind the wheel of an eight-hundred-and-nineteen-horsepower, twelve-cylinder Ferrari Spider.
With Miles, she unleashes her full potential, thundering up and down the field, bumping any pony in her way until she can bring Miles in front of the goal, where, courtesy of his left hand, they score. And we move into the lead, where we stay until the final bell is rung.