Miles
Each year, across the polo calendar, matches take place at varying levels of skill and professionalism, split across high-goal, medium-goal, and low-goal competitions.
High goal is where the professional players, like me—with handicaps of seven and over—tend to hang out. Medium goal where a mix of amateur and lower handicap professionals spend their time. Then there’s the low goal, the strictly amateur polo players and clubs.
High-goal polo attracts the international crowds, the prestige, the money. The people who want to be seen.
One match. One day. Everything to play for.
The locations alternate between the American circuit and the English circuit.
The last time I played, two years ago, in Florida, the Foxleigh Flyers were winning four goals to two against the Sunshine State Warriors, when I was involved in a collision that kept me in a coma for two weeks, in the hospital for a month, and from riding for six months.
During the darkest moments of my recovery, I thought I’d never ride again.
But I’m not a Burlington by name only. The grit and tenacity I possess come directly from my late father’s side of the family.
I’ve spent every day of the past two years focused on getting back to England’s Cup fitness, not only to play but to win. Because this time around, the Cup is in England.
I’ve dug deep into my muscle memory, worked my way back up the handicaps, and I’m on the verge of ten-goal again—the highest level a polo player can achieve.
There are currently only eight players in the world holding that accolade, and seven of them are Argentinian. I first achieved it just before my twenty-fourth birthday, but following my accident, I dropped down to five.
Handicap assessments take place twice a year, and three months ago in January I moved up to nine-goal. I plan to be back at ten before the end of the summer.
I’m on a mission to prove to myself I can return to the level I used to play.
As I’d imagine is the case for most people who cheat death, it hasn’t been the easiest journey.
While I was born with a natural, fearless talent for chasing a ball around a field on the back of a pony, the confidence I once possessed is something I now struggle to find, though I’ve become adept at masking it.
I was one of the best players in the world, and now, if I allow it, doubt creeps in.
More frequently than I’d like, I wake in the night, dripping with sweat as my mind takes me back to the day of the accident.
Beyond the frightened whinny of Feather, my pony, the only thing I remember right before I became tangled in her stirrups and knocked unconscious was the dead black eyes of my opponent, Santiago Torres.
Second only to getting my handicap reinstated, the thought of revenge is what keeps me going.
Healthy? Probably not. But if revenge is a dish best served cold, I’ve been keeping mine in the deep freeze since I relearned how to walk.
Which is where the England’s Cup comes in, because it takes place this summer, and if rumors are true, Santiago Torres is playing a season for the first time since he finished his playing ban for nearly killing me.
The England Polo Association came back with the answer I’ve been waiting for—Foxleigh Park will host the England’s Cup.
Leading my team to victory at my club would make the past two years worth it. Almost.
Which brings me to the present.
There’s a pony I’ve had my eye on for a while—a pure black thoroughbred named Calamity.
I was lucky enough to play against her in the Argentine Open last year, followed by the Gold Cup at Cowdray.
Taller than the average polo pony, she covers immense ground very quickly with long strides, but with the speed and dexterity of a much smaller horse, she can turn on a dime quicker than you can blink.
When I found out the owner was less of a polo fan and more of a bored, über-rich collector of things, with an equally bored wife, I told him that if he ever wanted to sell her, to give me a call.
That call came yesterday.
Inevitably, the wife decided that polo isn’t on trend this season, and they’ve moved into the Formula One team sponsorship space.
So I got the earliest flight up from Argentina, where I’ve spent the last six weeks playing, and came straight from the airport to the ranch where Calamity has spent the winter.
The deal was over in less than ten minutes, because he had to fly to Saudi Arabia for the Grand Prix this weekend.
While my groom is readying Calamity for her vet checks and confirming her documentation is up to date to fly back to Foxleigh, I take a stroll through the stables, because you never know when another unexpected opportunity might present itself.
Ignoring the influx of mothers and daughters who appeared not long after I arrived, I grab a handful of carrots from a bucket, make my way down the block, and hand them out.
I’m only done with a couple before I stumble upon something unexpected and much, much better.
I’ve thought about Miss Ruby Lanson an alarming number of times since our last encounter, where she soaked me so thoroughly that I required a full change of clothing.
The polo world is small, and word gets around when grooms move onto new yards. And if you find a good groom, you keep them.
In my research, I discovered Ruby Lanson has done some time on a few, including with Santiago Torres, and while the responses have been mixed, no one could deny she has a special way with the horses.
And in the few minutes I watched her during the match at New Year’s, it’s also my opinion she’s wasted as a groom.
Based on how she’s curled up fast asleep on the hay in front of me, leaning into the big chestnut mare she was hosing down the last time I came in contact with her, it’s hard to believe she’s in possession of the fiery temper that several yard managers warned me about.
If I hadn’t seen it firsthand when she tried to mow me down, I probably wouldn’t believe it either.
What’s more, I had no idea she’d be here.
But it’s clearly my lucky day, in more ways than one, and I do like a challenge.
I scan the pair of them, fast asleep like they haven’t a care in the world. Ruby’s thick auburn hair blends into his deep red coat, and she’s completely devoid of the scowl lines I saw on her last time, making her look much younger than her twenty-five years.
My gaze travels over her silhouette—an arse that rivals a peach, dipping into a narrow waist and up to the swell of her boobs, and the tight point of her nipples . . .
Just like last time I saw her, lust stirs in my groin, and I drag my eyes north.
Freckles cover her nose and cheeks, brought out by the Aspen spring sunshine, and her T-shirt’s ridden up enough on her stomach that I can see the beginnings of a golden tan that isn’t just on her face.
I’m tempted to wake her, but the sound of a shovel clattering against the concrete floor of the stables does the trick, and her eyes fly open to meet mine.
For a second, I wonder if she remembers me, but it’s not likely you forget someone you ran over, then soaked with a hose.
“Hello again.” I grin, and she looks so shocked that I don’t say any more. I just wait and enjoy the silence that I know won’t last.
She scowls, affronted that I caught her in such a vulnerable moment, as she darts to sit up. “Are you just standing there watching me sleep . . . perv?”
I bite down a smile and scratch through my stubble to hide it further, hoping she can’t read my mind. Because she has a point.
“Not intentionally. I was perusing the stables and happened to pass this one, where I found you sleeping—”
“You were perusing the stables?” she mocks. “Who says peruse?”
“I do. And was that supposed to be an English accent? Because it was terrible.”
“Oh, sorry, Mr. La-de-dah, we didn’t all grow up in England.”
“That’s correct. You’re American.”
“I am. And I’m proud of it.”
“Be that as it may, you have drool on your cheek.”
That shuts her up. She also looks so mortified, slapping her hand to her face and wiping it so forcefully, my only reaction is to laugh loudly.
I stand by my earlier assessment—she’s a lunatic, but oddly one I like.
I’d imagine her arguing black is white if it gave her an alternative to agreeing with me.
Makes a change from the usual simps that follow me around.
I open my mouth to ask her if she’d like to accompany me on the rest of my tour around the stables, when another human whirlwind, this time blond, interrupts me.
She rushes past me and into the stable without so much as a glance in my direction.
Maverick sensibly decides he’s not getting any sleep with the amount of noise going on and stands up, walks over to where he smells the carrots I’m still holding, and blocks me from her view.
“Jesus, Rubes, what’s going on? I just heard—”
“Heard what?”
“You kicked McTavish in the balls, and he fired you?”
Five minutes ago, I was minding my own business, mooching through the stables and handing out carrots, but now I’m fully invested in a story with only partial information. I have no idea what led to the kicking, or even who got kicked, but I have no doubt he deserved it.
Interestingly, what piques my interest the most is Ruby’s new unemployment status.
“I didn’t kick him in the balls, I kneed him in the balls—”
“Ruby—”
“What? He’s such a dick, he deserved it. He’s been stringing me along, promising me a visa that he never applied for, while perving on me every chance he gets.”
My fists ball at the audacity. But at least I have context for the perv comment, though I strongly object to being lumped in the same category with whomever this dickhead clearly is.
“He called my boss, Ruby, and Monty’s mad. You know they’re friends, and he knows we’re friends. He told me to tell you that if you come by, you can’t keep Mav here. I didn’t say you were already here. He’s gonna kill me.”
Peering around Maverick, I see a torrent of emotion play out over Ruby’s face—annoyance, anger, sadness, rage—and her cheeks flush a deep pink, bringing out the brilliant green of her eyes.
“Fuck. Fuck that disgusting prick.” Her long ponytail flicks behind when she spins around, throwing her arms in the air before she bends over, takes a deep breath, and calm is restored.
It happens so quickly, I get the impression she’s used to being treated like this.
That she overcomes setbacks and settles into whatever plan B she has concocted.
Because somehow, I know there’s always a plan B.
“Sorry, Meg. I didn’t mean to put this on you.
I just had nowhere else to go. Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out . . .”
The friend—Meg—pulls her into a hug. “Keep Mav here for the night. Monty’s away, and I can cover for you. Stay in my room, but you have to be out before he gets back in the morning.”
A grateful smile stretches across her face, her nose scrunches up, and I’m taken aback by how beautiful she is. Like seriously beautiful.
“Thank you, thank you—”
“You don’t have a job?” I blurt before I can stop myself, handing Maverick the last carrot.
Ruby and her friend turn wide-eyed in my direction. Ruby might have forgotten I was standing there, but her friend clearly hadn’t known I was there at all. She’s staring at me with her mouth wide open.
“Miles Burlington,” I say, introducing myself.
“Yes . . . um . . . I know who you are. Um . . . what are you . . . can I help you?”
“No, you can’t. He’s not staying,” snaps Ruby, and once more, I hold in my smile.
It’s Ruby’s lack of flustering around me that holds my attention.
It’s a new experience, being hated by a woman.
At least one I’ve not already slept with.
Because, for the most part, women love me, but it only becomes tricky when they don’t listen to what I’ve told them about my lack of interest in any form of commitment.
“Actually, yes. I want to know if what you just said is true. Does Ruby have a job right now?” I turn from the friend to Ruby. “Because it sounds like you don’t.”
Ruby’s eyes narrow, and she glares at me. When her jaw pops with annoyance, I can’t deny my dick doesn’t thicken a fraction.
The friend shakes her head. “No, she doesn’t.”
Just what I wanted to hear, and without my better judgment I reply, “Excellent, that means you’re free to work for me.”