Chapter 14
Fourteen
Mateo makes it clear early on in our polo lessons that he’s not going to take it easy on me.
We start by covering all the basics – the rules, equipment etc.
– and then he teaches me to master the different strokes with the mallet while I’m still on the ground.
I practise forehands and backhands and learn the nearside shots, before I’m declared ready for the wooden horse.
I hit the ball nicely on that, practising my swing and being rewarded with satisfied nods and even a few comments of, ‘Good,’ from my instructor.
Since the party, I’ve been trying to manage feelings I’ve developed for Mateo.
I think they’ve been simmering under the surface for a while, but they violently flared when he practically slammed that DQ jerk against the writing table without even touching him, backing him into a corner with pure protective rage.
On top of that, there’s the sweet, vulnerable side to him that he’s revealed glimpses of to me: when he was talking about his childhood and when I fell off Serafina and he knelt down beside me with an expression so adorably worried and terrified, it’s burned into my memory.
Then there’s the matter of how sexy he is, with that thick, dark hair I want to thread my fingers through, broad, muscled shoulders, and dangerously beautiful, intense dark eyes.
And the way he effortlessly and fearlessly commands a horse going at breathtaking speed, yet how gentle and playful he is with them.
Of all the players, the ponies love him the most, whinnying and kicking their stalls whenever they spot him as if to say, Pick me! Pick me!
I’m starting to think he may be the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.
But when my stomach flutters at the mere sight of him, it’s not difficult to remind myself of the recent pain I’ve suffered after making the mistake of falling for someone I work for.
I’m starting to rebuild my life and reputation.
Mateo admitted to me openly that nothing else matters but polo to him.
If anything were to happen, I’d be a temporary distraction to him.
He implied as much. Allowing my heart to run away with itself has already cost me everything.
I won’t let myself make such a silly and reckless mistake again.
When it comes to Mateo, I have to keep things strictly professional.
Anyway, it doesn’t take long before he takes the shine off those feelings himself.
When I mount one of the smaller Maycourt ponies, Lyra, after a positive stint on the wooden horse, I’m distracted by the fantasy of what it would be like to throw my arms around Mateo and kiss him – but by the time I dismount Lyra, I’m ready to throw this stupid mallet at his stupid head.
His stern instructions and criticisms are relentless, a few levels up from when he was teaching me to ride for fun.
The stakes are higher now and we’re both feeling it.
‘Stop going so fast! You’re getting overexcited!’
‘Don’t yank the reins so much! Polo ponies are incredibly responsive.’
‘You’re leaning too far back! You’re not at a bloody rodeo.’
‘Your weight is too far forward. Why are you acting like a jockey?’
‘Up out of the saddle!’
‘Stop worrying so much about hitting the ball and focus on the positioning of the pony as you approach it.’
‘You didn’t hit the ball because you’re not watching it.’
‘You’re too tense up there. Try to relax into it. She’s reading you.’
‘Don’t slump your shoulders!’
That is a small selection of the orders he barks at me throughout the first lesson, and when he comes to grab Lyra’s bridle as I slip off her, exhausted, frustrated and irritable, there’s no, Well done, or, Good job for your first proper lesson.
Instead, he says, ‘Now you know how heavy the mallet feels when you’re riding with it in one hand, and the importance of using your core, you should focus on strength training outside of our lessons. Yoga or Pilates, as well as cardio and weights.’
I glare at him, but he’s too busy fussing Lyra to notice.
The second lesson is even worse. Whatever gentleness I thought was lurking beneath his serious, muscled exterior is either gone completely or only reserved for ponies, because he seems to be incapable of giving me any compliments, even when I think I’ve done okay.
The ponies respond well to me, I feel comfortable up in the saddle so am going quick and turning nicely.
I admit that my success with hitting the ball at speed has been less than good, but from his teaching methods, you’d think I was utterly hopeless.
During our third lesson, I’m starting to wonder if I can take any more of this. I’m tired and fed up. Managing these lessons around the day job is becoming impossible, not just physically but mentally. My patience is wearing thin. I’m not getting it like I hoped I would.
‘You’re overswinging,’ he grumbles, seeming irked when I miss the second ball in a row. ‘Don’t take the mallet so far back; you lose control. Watch your grip. And your posture was all wrong; you’re sitting too far forward. Do you want to come flying off the horse?’
‘No! I want you to fuck off!’ I rage, the frustration and tiredness that’s built over the last few days exploding out of me. My face hot and flushed and beading with sweat, I pull up the pony and kick my feet out the stirrups. ‘You know what? Fuck this!’
‘What are you doing?’ he asks, looking genuinely confused as I swing my leg over to dismount.
‘Quitting,’ I snap, landing on the ground and tossing my mallet on the grass.
‘What? You can’t quit!’
I pull off my helmet, shaking out my hair. ‘Yes, I can.’
He dismounts his pony too, leading her over to me. ‘You’re giving up?’
‘Yes, I’m giving up!’ I say, spinning to face him. ‘There’s no point. I can’t do it!’
‘That’s it, you’re going to give up and walk away,’ he says, taking a step closer.
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’re not who I thought you were,’ he says, frowning at me.
‘Clearly I’m not, since all you can do is sit there and shout at me!’
‘I’m not shouting,’ he protests, taking another step forward to close the gap between us. ‘If I raised my voice, it’s only because you weren’t listening.’
‘I am listening, but it’s hard when you’re being told a million new things at once. Would it kill you to tell me I’m doing something right every once in a while?’
‘This is polo, Ashley,’ he says sharply, using my formal name for effect. ‘It’s fast and it’s dangerous, and I’m trying to make sure that as well as hitting the ball, you don’t hurt the pony or, worse, yourself. It’s important you don’t make mistakes!’
‘You’re making me feel as though that’s all I do!’
‘You want me to fan your ego, is that it?’ he huffs, peering down at me.
‘No, I want you to… I want…’
I trail off as I suddenly realise how close we’re standing.
I have to tip my head back to look up at him now as he looms over me.
His dark, expressive eyes, flaring with anger, are boring into mine, his chest heaving heavily, while my shaky breath is coming thick and fast. It’s incredible how good he smells.
Seriously, even after a day of riding, I can still inhale the woody scent of his cologne and it’s making my thoughts muddle and flutters erupt in my chest – or maybe my body is reacting to the fact that he’s pissing me off so much.
My eyes track the little creases between his eyebrows, the fullness of long eyelashes that I would kill for, the gentle slope of his nose, the shape of his lips.
Nope, it’s not the frustration that’s sending my pulse into overdrive anymore; it’s him.
I part my lips, my breath hitching at his prettiness. His eyes flicker down to them, his irritated frown softening. Suddenly, the air between us feels charged with something other than anger.
A voice of reason at the back of my head trying desperately to be heard above the racket of every other part of me screaming, Kiss him, knocks something he said at the party back to the forefront: There is a lot of fun attached to the job.
But none of it is important. All that matters is the ponies and the sport. Everything else is just… distraction.
You hear that? ‘None of it is important.’
Remember how good Chris made you feel?
Remember how important you turned out to be to him?
Using all the willpower I have left, I drop my gaze to the ground and step away from him, breaking the spell.
I breathe in deeply, glugging in air like I’ve come up from deep water and broken through the surface.
For a moment, he looks startled, like a deer in headlights, before resuming motion, turning towards the pony waiting patiently at his side.
‘I… I’m sorry,’ he stammers sincerely.
I roll back my shoulders, already feeling ashamed of how I flew off the handle.
‘Me too,’ I admit quietly.
‘No, you’re right. I should be more encouraging. I’m learning here, too – I’ve not done much teaching before.’
‘It’s not…’ I dig my teeth into my bottom lip.
‘Mateo, this grooms’ match idea was a big, drunken mistake.
We need to cancel it. I’m setting myself up to be the fool again and there’s only so much I can take.
’ I read the confusion in his expression and feel the need to explain further: ‘The whole Chris Courtney thing.’ I wearily rub the back of my neck.
‘I’m already the wannabe homewrecker who lost her job because I was na?ve enough to believe a famous athlete who told me he was getting a divorce.
Things have been better here. I don’t want to lose my job by being na?ve again and thinking I can do this when all I’m on course to do is humiliate myself, the team, and Lady M in front of her greatest rival. ’
‘Chris Courtney told you he was getting a divorce?’ he checks, the pony nibbling at his shoulder impatiently now, wanting to play again. Mateo swats him away, his eyes fixed on me, his attention solely mine.
‘Yeah. He said they were separated and divorcing. But my point is—’