Chapter 7 #2
‘Oh. Uh, no. Your white shirt has gone see-through from all the water. You can see your bra,’ she explains, nodding to my chest.
I glance down to see that she’s correct, my neon-orange bra on display through my sopping wet shirt. Great. My patience is really being tried today, huh.
‘Thanks,’ I mumble, feeling like an idiot for my assumption.
‘Sorry,’ she says, at least sounding genuinely apologetic. ‘You can change quickly in here. I’ll go see to a couple of the ponies.’
I wait for her to leave the room before slumping back against the wall and closing my eyes, gathering myself.
The first day was always going to be a bit shit.
Surely things can only go up from here. After some whispered affirmations that I can do this, I open my eyes and balance the polo shirt on one of the saddles.
Unbuttoning my shirt and taking it off, I let it drop to the floor.
‘Hey, Jules, I—’
I yelp as Mateo appears in the doorway of the tack room, startled by my appearance.
‘Ash!’ he says, as I grab the polo shirt and wrap it across my chest to cover my bra, while he purposefully looks away, lifting his hand over his eyes. ‘I… what are you doing?’
‘I’m changing!’
‘Sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t realise. I was looking for Jules.’
‘She’s… somewhere,’ I say, fumbling with my shirt before I hurriedly yank it on over my head. When it’s on properly, I put my hands on my hips and sigh. ‘You can look now.’
He turns to me apologetically. ‘I’m sorry about that. A lot of people walk through here. Maybe next time, close the door.’
‘Yes. Good advice.’
We fall into awkward silence as he hovers in the doorway.
I push the loose strands of hair back from my forehead, starkly aware of how bedraggled and flustered I must look.
He, on the other hand, looks as though he’s just strolled off a Ralph Lauren runway, his toned arm muscles straining against his polo shirt, a glimpse of dark chest hair on his tanned skin at the bottom of the neckline, his hair falling in that sexily tousled way that makes you want to run your fingers through it.
I can smell his cologne, a delicious musky scent which is in stark contrast to what I imagine mine to be right now: sweat mixed with disinfectant.
‘How is your first day?’ he asks eventually.
‘Everything is going very smoothly.’
‘Good. Good.’ He stands awkwardly, his eyes shifting as though he’s not sure where to look or what to say. ‘Anyway, I wanted to tell Jules that I’d like to take Byron out. So if you wouldn’t mind getting him ready…’
‘Of course,’ I say with no idea who Byron is. ‘Leave it with me.’
‘Thank you.’
He lingers for a moment longer and I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t.
Eventually, he gives a sharp nod and turns to leave.
My heart racing and cheeks burning at his unfortunate timing, I bend down to pick up my wet shirt from the floor, folding it up and tossing it next to my blazer.
A minute later, Jules returns and I give her Mateo’s message as I grab the bucket.
‘Leave the cleaning for now; we’ll come back to it,’ she instructs, gesturing for me to follow her as she strides out the stables. ‘Byron is one of Mateo’s favourite polo ponies. He wants him prepared for training.’
‘Okay. How do we do that?’
‘For now, we won’t do anything. Eduardo and Federico will prepare him, but I want you to watch, so you can see how it works.’ She stops in the middle of a yard and nods at the beautiful black horse being led out by a groom. ‘Ash, meet Byron.’
I stare at him in wonder. ‘He’s stunning.’
‘Isn’t he?’ she says, her voice softening as she gazes adoringly at the striking horse. ‘He’s a big softie. Mateo loves him because he’s a good listener and does what you say.’
She goes to grab a tough-bristled brush and hands it to me, instructing me to get to work brushing off any dirt or loose hairs on Byron’s sides.
As I do so, I notice one of the grooms picking his hooves, while the other waits until I’m done before he puts on the saddle pad, placing it high and sliding it back before lifting the saddle on top of it.
Taking a step back, I observe the slick operation while Byron stands still and calm the entire time.
Jules talks me through each action: the breastplate going on, the martingale that stops the horse throwing its head in the air and smacking the player in the face, the two sets of reins so the player has extra control for manoeuvres and turns, the bandages going around Byron’s legs to support the tendons and protect them from mallets, and how tight the braid of the pony’s tail is plaited to keep it out the way of the tack.
As I watch Federico and Eduardo fastening the many buckles and straps, completing each stage in incredible speed with perfect precision, I swallow nervously, wondering whether I’ll ever be able to get to grips with it.
To them, it seems second nature. They’re relaxed and efficient, chatting to each other and patting Byron as they go.
When Mateo appears, he launches into a conversation of rapid Spanish with Eduardo, and Jules tells me they’re discussing tactics for the next match.
Mateo wants Eduardo’s opinion on which ponies to use for which chukka – a match is divided into six chukkas and the players will use at least one pony per chukka.
‘I thought Mateo was the pro. Doesn’t he make those decisions for himself?’ I ask.
‘Mateo knows the ponies well, but Eduardo knows them better. The grooms are the true experts. They work, exercise and care for the ponies every single day, so they know their fitness, their temperament, any issues they’ve been having. Polo players rely heavily on the advice of the grooms.’
‘Right. Okay, so for professional players, the sport is the passion. But for the grooms, it’s the ponies.’
‘Now you’re getting it.’
‘And you’d rather be a groom than a player?’ I ask curiously. ‘How come Fitz is in the team and you’re not? I’m guessing you could easily have his spot when your mum is patron.’
‘I like polo, but I prefer eventing,’ she explains, glancing regrettably down at her wrist. ‘As soon as this thing heals, I’ll be back jumping again.’
Mateo mounts Byron in a swift, rapid motion and guides him out of the yard, while Jules and I walk along behind.
She takes the opportunity to point out some important areas of the estate as Mateo takes Byron to warm up in the vast green field that Jules tells me is the ‘stick and ball field’.
Other areas she points out are the sandy corrals, the turnout paddocks, exercise tracks and the polo field.
We come to a stop at the side of the stick and ball field. The sky has clouded over and I fold my arms across my chest for warmth, while Mateo canters down one side of the field before turning sharply, bringing Byron back the other way.
After warming up, he begins some drills.
Gripping the reins in his left hand, the mallet in his right, Mateo gallops towards one of the many balls lying in wait for him, swinging the mallet back and hitting it hard with a loud thwack, sending it flying out in front of him.
He races after it and hits again with unbelievable accuracy despite the speed at which he’s going, before charging after it again and changing direction.
It’s mesmerising.
‘It’s going to rain,’ Jules announces as the clouds above get darker. ‘He’ll be coming in soon. I’m going to go back to the yard, but you can stay a bit longer if you want and help Eduardo when Mateo brings him in.’
I nod, unable to tear my gaze away from Byron majestically galloping across the field, Mateo manoeuvring him calmly and effortlessly. He looks as though he’s barely moving up there in the saddle, completely in control. He seems completely fearless. Dangerously so.
Jules’s prediction is correct; just a few moments after she’s left, I feel the first droplets of rain on my forehead and nose.
It begins to get heavier, but I don’t care.
A flicker of something has sparked once again in my belly, a passion I’d suppressed a long time ago.
Watching Mateo, I remember how it felt to be up in a saddle, galloping down a field, the thrill and exhilaration of the speed of the horse, the power of its long, rhythmic strides beneath you, the wind beating against your cheeks.
I feel an overwhelming urge to ride again, desperate to feel that rush of adrenaline.
Alone at the side of the field, I stay watching Mateo until the end of his session, completely entranced.
He dismounts, his sopping-wet shirt plastered to his muscular torso, his face glistening with raindrops and sweat.
He takes off his helmet and runs a hand through his hair, dishevelling it.
He leads Byron over and stops in front of me, holding my gaze as the rain trails down my face and flattens my hair, his chest heaving from the exercise.
Mateo’s eyes flicker down to my lips, his forehead creasing.
‘You… you should get Byron out of the rain,’ he says, holding out the reins.
I nod, taking them from him.
Mateo starts striding back towards the stable and I traipse through the rain behind, my mind set on one day getting back up in the saddle.