Chapter 22 #2
The Foxleigh Park crowds go wild, even more than usual, when a home game is won.
Confetti cannons explode, showering everyone in pink and red hearts. The slight breeze in the air blows them over the pitch and beyond.
“He’s going to be unbearable.” Alex shakes his head after we witness Miles galloping around on Clover, taking her over to the crowds and his fan base, screaming and hanging over the boards, who never miss a chance to see him play.
He’s still signing autographs and taking selfies, all of which include Clover, by the time Lando, Alex, and I have handed our reins over to the waiting grooms. For February, it’s unusually mild, the clear skies and bright sunshine giving a deceptive impression that it’s warm, but we grab our body warmers anyway and make our way out.
“Don’t forget we have the trophy ceremony in twenty minutes. Lando, where’s Holiday?” Miles barks after extracting himself from the autograph hunters.
“I don’t know, Miles. I just came off the field.” Lando yawns.
“Right . . . well, don’t forget. See you over there.”
Grabbing Alex’s shirt before he starts baiting Miles again, something that will end up lasting all weekend, I tug him out of the stables. Lando takes off in the direction of the podium, though I suspect he’s going to find Holiday rather than ensure he’s not late for presentation.
I turn to Alex, dodging a particularly loud group of women outside the stable area wearing pink shirts with Miles’s face on the front. “Where’s Haven?”
“She said she’d be with Mum in the stands. I’m going to head over there.”
“I’ll come. It seems the most likely place to start looking for my son.”
Once I’ve found Max, then I can look for Story.
As fast as the second half was, whenever we reset, I found myself drifting to the boards searching for her, but she’d moved.
I haven’t seen her since the halftime break, and now that I don’t have polo to distract me, I’m getting restless.
Alex pushes through the crowds ahead of me, shaking hands with everyone who stops us, while I’m peering around for any resemblance.
By the time I make it up to the Burlington stands, I still haven’t spotted her through the sea of pink and red.
“DADDY.”
I catch Max a split second before he pummels into me, somehow managing to avoid the polo mallet he’s still swinging when I lift him into my arms.
“Hi, bud.” I kiss him, a grin instantly appearing on my face as I take in his obvious excitement. “Did you enjoy the game?”
“Yes. Clover played so good in the fourth chukka. And Uncle Miles. And Uncle Alex . . . um . . .” Max peers at him, head tilted in sympathy. “It’s not easy to play polo, is it?”
He’s so sincere with his question and encouragement of Alex’s skills on the field, it’s impossible not to smile. “No, Maxy, it isn’t. But I still scored.”
He nods gravely. “Yes, Owl is very steady and reliable.”
Alex’s eyes flick to mine. “Where is he getting this from?”
“Hey, he tells it how it is.” I laugh. “Max, where’s Granny?”
He jabs a finger toward nothing particular.
Usually only used by members of the family and guests, it’s much quieter and private, so it only takes a quick scan to know Story’s not up here either.
I do find my mother, though, half obscured by a pillar and talking to one of her friends while holding Everly.
“Ah, that’s my daughter. Now I need to find my fiancée.”
“Hello, darlings,” our mother croons. “Well played, all of you. Max and I were cheering along. Exciting to have a win today.”
“Where’s Haven?” asks Alex, kissing Mum’s cheek and relieving her of Everly.
“And Clemmie?” I add.
“They went down to the podium to see Holiday. And yes, Story was with them before you ask.”
If my mother high-fived, Alex would be meeting her halfway. I wait until they’re done with their gleeful chuckles.
“Al, you coming? Don’t want to be late.”
“Daddy, can I come?”
“Of course, bud. We’re all going. Even Granny.”
Like wasps around a honey jar, the crowds have swarmed away from the field toward the podium by the champagne tent.
Aside from seeing our team—Miles—crowned as the winners, most people are hoping to spot Holiday, Lando’s girlfriend, presenting the trophy.
While the matches during the summer attract a host of A-list celebrities, we don’t normally have anyone of her caliber at the Valentine charity match.
“There’s Miss MacIntosh,” screams Max.
I don’t even notice the direction he’s pointing before my entire body spins around, and I spot her five feet away smiling at us.
She’s wrapped up in a thick, high-neck jacket, and since halftime, seems to have acquired a pink Foxleigh Park cap that’s pulled low on her forehead.
It’s no wonder I didn’t spot her, camouflaging herself among the hordes.
All at once, the noise quietens, and everything calms, except my heartbeat.
I wish I could say I was immune to her, but now I know what Alex meant earlier. After six years of no contact, it’s astounding how quickly my heart has remembered her, and keeping my distance becomes more impossible every day.
“Hey,” she breathes out, landing a playful punch on my shoulder. “Congratulations, champ. What a match. I’m regretting never watching you play before.”
Her smile is so broad, and I stare into the warmth of her eyes. “Can’t be right all the time.”
“Eh . . .” She laughs, turning to Max. “How’s it going? Having fun?”
“Where’s Oxford?” Max asks, though it’s more of a demand.
“He’s gone home now. It’s a long day for him to be out in the cold.”
“I could bring him a blanket next time if you like?” He smiles, and my heart grows ten times in the process. Especially when Story looks at me, her face screwing up to say “He’s the sweetest” and I’m so fucking proud to be his father.
“That’s so kind. I’m sure he’d love that.”
A big arm falls around my shoulder. “Hen, ready to come and meet your fans?” drawls Miles, turning to Story. “Hello, Story. It’s good to see you here. Thank you for coming to support us today.”
I’m not sure who’s more surprised, me or . . .
“You’re welcome, Miles. Happy to be here. Well played today. Excellent polo skills and all that.”
“Thank you, Story. I appreciate it.”
Maybe Miles is already drunk. Perhaps they both are, because I’m the only one who’s finding this interaction both weird and rare.
“Hen . . . coming?”
I nod, bemused. “Hey Maxy, can you stay with Miss MacIntosh while I’m awarded our trophy?”
Max takes her outstretched hand, and we walk up to the platform where Holiday, Lando, and Alex are waiting.
“What was that?” I whisper to Miles as we step up.
“What?”
“You know what.”
“Just being friendly to our supporters.”
Cameras flash violently the moment Holiday joins us, handing over the trophy to Miles, the captain of our team.
We stand against the press boards and pose for pictures.
We laugh. We pop the champagne, and most of Alex’s bottle sprays onto Miles.
And then, before everyone departs, Miles announces that we’ve raised over fifty thousand pounds for our local hospice, the chosen recipient of the match this year.
Alex grabs Miles’s neck, pulls him in, and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Well done, Milo. Good work today. Proud of you, mate.”
I’m giving it until supper for their truce to last, and decide to leave them to their love fest, and return to Max and Story. I’m now free. I have the whole afternoon to do exactly what I want. And what I want is to spend it with Story.
“Shall we go get a drink?”
Story nods and smiles. “I’d love to.”
I hold my hand out to Max, who’s charging around in front of us, riding his polo mallet. “Come on, polo player, let’s go.”
Max is less enthused about going to the bar. “Where’s Granny? She said we could go to the stables.”
“I’m not sure.”
Max tugs on my arm. “Let’s find her. Please. I want to see Chester.”
I turn to Story and grimace. “Sorry, he’ll only go on and on and on about it. Why don’t you go to the bar and order? I won’t be long. I’ll have whatever you’re having. Put them on my tab.”
“I’m drinking a banana daiquiri with a little straw.” She smiles evilly.
“Delicious. One of my five a day,” I shout behind me as Max pulls me away.
With Max tugging me along, it takes five minutes to find my mother, and another ten to head back to the path on the way to the drinks tent.
I don’t know why I didn’t suggest going to the box, away from the crowds, where Story and I could have a perfectly friendly catch-up, but I wanted us to spend time together without the gawking eyes of my family.
A week ago, we—I—assembled the booth, and now I’m spending another afternoon in her company. I’m seriously wondering how I can turn Saturdays with Story into a “thing” when I stop dead and focus on two people a couple of meters ahead of me.
There’s no way I’m looking at what I think I’m looking at.
They’re so deep in conversation with barely an inch between them that they don’t even notice me approaching until I’m two feet away and yelling in their ears.
“What the hell is going on?”
Clementine gasps, lets go of Santiago Torres, and jumps back. Though, as she’s already against the wall, she doesn’t get too far.
“Clem, what the fuck are you doing?” I don’t wait for a response. Instead, I pull her out of the way, shielding her with my body as much as I possibly can. “You know who this is?”
Not waiting for a response, I turn to the other member of this cozy little party. “Torres, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but stay the hell away from my sister.”
I’m so incensed that it doesn’t occur to me that Clementine didn’t seem to be resisting him. Quite the opposite.
“Burlington,” he drawls, in his distinct, thick American accent, “I have no beef with you, but if you touch Clementine again, you and me are gonna have a problem.”
My eyes widen. I’m being glared at by a guy who looks like I’ve just slept with his mother and embezzled his life savings, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so confused in my entire life.
“Beef? What are you, the fucking Mafia?” I do my best to glare back, but truthfully, I’m no match. This guy nails the Goodfellas vibes. “Get the fuck out of here. You too, Clementine. You’re lucky it was me who walked into whatever the fuck this is . . .”
From behind me, where I’m still trying to shield her, my sister yells loud enough that my ears ring, “Stay out of my life, Hendricks. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“Didn’t ask my—have you gone insane?” I stare into her bright blue eyes. “Are you high?”
She spins around, freeing herself. “Who knows, Hen? Maybe I am.” And as I watch my sister storm away, she flips me off.
I might have no idea what’s going on, but I know I don’t like the way Torres’s gaze follows Clementine’s departure. Don’t like it one bit. When they come back to mine, my fists ball. Miles is right. He’s dangerous.
“I mean it, Torres. You have no business being here. Stay the hell away from Clementine and stay the hell away from Miles. In fact, while we’re at it, stay the hell away from my entire family. And Foxleigh.”
He nods, contrite, almost as his hands rub together. Hands covered in tattoos. “One thing you’ll learn about me, Burlington, is that I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
It’s taking all my patience to remain calm. “Is that so? Well, neither do I.” I smile, one that doesn’t even come close to reaching my eyes. “After what you did to Miles, I promise that if I see you again, I will return the favor.”
I wait. And wait some more until Santiago Torres eventually does the sensible thing and decides to walk away. The moment he’s out of sight, I sprint off. Clementine’s vanished, but I track down two of the Foxleigh Park security and instruct them to escort Torres off the premises.
I’m still reeling when I return to the bar, my brain trying to reason with what I know I saw with what I’m hoping I didn’t see, but I can’t shake the feeling I’ve just witnessed infidelity. Not a one-night stand either, the twenty-five years with a secret lover type.
“Hendricks. Hen—”
I follow the sound of Story’s voice, her hand waving in the air until she comes into view, and find her laughing along with the guy standing next to her.
Fuck my life.
“Great match today, Hendricks.”
“Thanks, Pelling. Appreciate you coming to support.”
Story holds a beer out. “They were all out of banana daiquiris.”
“Damn.” I manage a grin, though I suddenly feel incredibly tired.
The adrenaline from the match has worn off, and teenage jealousy rears its ugly head to mingle with whatever the fuck’s going on with Clemmie.
Not to mention Sienna. I’ve officially reached my capacity for tolerance, and I don’t have the energy for a fight, nor the inclination to stand here and pretend to tolerate Sam Pelling and Story joking together.
I hated it ten years ago. I hate it now.
I put the beer down. “I’m sorry, guys, I need to go. Have a fun afternoon, Stor. Good to see you again, Sam.”
I’ve barely moved through six feet of people swarming the bar before she catches up to me.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m sorry, I really am. I can’t do this right now.
I’m not going to tell you who to hang out with, I’m not going to tell you who to be friends with, but .
. .” I tug on my neck, trying to keep my tone neutral, and I fucking hate that I’m this person when I have no right.
I know I have no right, but I can’t help myself.
“Why does it have to be with him? There are plenty of other people we were at school with. What about the girl you teach with? Anyone but him, Stor. Please.”
“He was passing by and said hello. I’m not going to be rude, Hen. He’s done nothing wrong.”
I sigh. “Honestly, I don’t care. I don’t like him. I’ve never liked him—”
She pops a hip, and I know I’m in for it. “You’re a hypocrite, you know.”
“Oh yes, how so?”
“You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me.”
“I never said I didn’t want you, Stor.” Gently tucking my finger under her chin, I push her mouth—open with indignation—closed, then I lean down and kiss the top of her head.
Breathing in the soft floral notes of her perfume until I’m lightheaded, it takes all my self-discipline not to throw her over my shoulder and carry her out with me like the Neanderthal I clearly am. “I never said I didn’t want you.”