Ruby #2
We walk over creamy-colored cobbles to the center of the yard—a vast square expanse flanked by low barns on two sides and stable blocks on the other—and stop under a mature cherry blossom tree with its fluffy pink petals on the verge of making an appearance.
“This,” he begins, slinging a heavy bicep over my shoulder, his fingers dangling millimeters from my boob, “is my baby. Foxleigh Park, home of the Foxleigh Flyers. We also have an amateur team, the Foxleigh Otters, which we use to train green ponies, or ones coming back from injury.”
I forget all about my morning, the pain in my body, the sweat sticking my shirt to my back, and the desire to murder him.
I’m too excited to register how close he is to me, his stubble tickling my temple as he bends his head to talk, while I breathe in his scent—sweaty and masculine—mingling with mine. Because this—being here—is exactly why I have a band of diamonds sitting on the fourth finger of my left hand.
Being on a high-goal yard—being part of a team where players like Miles practice every day, where they come together to ride the best ponies in the world—gives me an indescribable thrill. It’s all my dreams come true. It’s what I’ve wanted since I was a teenager and watched polo for the first time.
It’s what I thought I’d experience when I took the position on Scott McTavish’s yard. But that was Temu compared to this.
Because Miles isn’t just a player. He’s a patron, but unlike most patrons and sponsors who sit on the sidelines drinking vintage champagne and eating caviar-covered Wagyu steak, the only thing Miles eats is polo.
He sleeps and breathes it too. It’s not just a numbers game, or a hobby to pour money into for tax relief and elevate his social standing.
It’s his life.
The pride in his voice is evident, and looking around this place, while he might be a smug prick, he deserves every bit of recognition he gets. There’s not a speck of dirt out of place.
“My father built this place, and I continue his legacy.”
I don’t know what to say. I want to tell him his father would be proud, because how could he not be? It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve only just scratched the surface. But I don’t. I stay quiet.
My gaze follows where he points first—to the barn in one corner, big arched windows, purple flowers trailing up the brickwork.
“Those are the grooms’ quarters. We have ten permanent grooms based at Foxleigh, and during the season, there’s space for another ten, depending on who’s playing for our team and if they bring their own grooms.”
It’s already better than anything I’ve ever been given.
“They have a kitchen, living area, bathrooms . . . I don't go over there, and it's probably best if you don't either.”
My neck cranes as I turn to look at him for an explanation.
“You’re not a groom anymore.”
“Oh.” I nod. It’s going to take a while for that to sink in. “Who’s playing this year?”
“Juan de Montanez, Jack Saddler, Billy Walsh, and me, of course. Then Diego Martinez, who’s been training with us and”—his finger prods my arm—“you.”
Adrenaline fizzes through my veins until my heart pounds so hard, the fangirl inside me is on the verge of being sick. Aside from Diego, I know all those players. Juan and Jack both play seven-goal, while Billy is six.
Three weeks ago, I was cleaning out buckets and wondering how I’d ever make it. Now I’m halfway across the world, about to work with some of my idols.
Miles’s finger moves onto the building next door—the same pale brick, but double the height, and with a row of black painted stable doors.
“That’s the heart of this operation. Top floor is the management offices—where I’m kept in check.
” He grins at his own joke, though I’d imagine it’s less of a joke than reality.
If he’s anything like the tyrant I met this morning, I suspect they have their work cut out for them. “Bottom floor is the treatment suites—”
“Treatment?”
“We have equine massage, red light therapy, and hydrotherapy.”
Jesus, no wonder his horses look so good. My mouth drops, and Miles laughs. Removing his arm from my shoulder, he steps forward and offers his hand. “Come on, let's introduce you.”
I balk at that. “Really?”
“No time like the present.”
I don’t take his hand, but I do stay close. I’m not intimidated, per se, but okay, yeah, I’m intimidated. I’ve never been anywhere like this. Up until today, I thought I deserved to be here. But I’ll be among my idols, and I’m so aware of earning their respect . . . talk about imposter syndrome.
We walk across the yard, Miles continuing his narration, into the stable block and up the stairs. Just like the walls of his house, the walls here are covered in framed photos—all of them Miles and the Foxleigh Flyers through the years. The trophies they’ve won, and the victories they’ve secured.
At the top of the stairs is a glass door, which Miles opens, allowing me to walk ahead of him.
I step into the long and narrow room that hangs over the stables.
The entire back wall is glass, overlooking the polo fields and field number one in the distance.
The one with the spectator stands, where the high-goal matches are played.
Just like the yard, it’s busy. Busy enough that hardly anyone looks up from their computer screens, and it’s surprising. Unusual.
I know for a fact Miles has been away for a few months, and in my experience, when the yard owner walks into a room, people pay attention. But not here. What’s more, he doesn’t even look mad about it.
“No one’s saying hello to you,” I whisper.
“They’re busy. The season is about to begin. Too much to concentrate on to pay attention to me,” he replies, completely devoid of ego.
“What is it they’re doing?”
He nods to the first row. “Scheduling. They manage the diaries for the team and the summer tournaments. Makes sure we’re in the right place at the right time.
” He moves onto the woman under the window, sitting by herself.
“That’s Julia. She’s the money guru, sets the budgets, manages salaries, stops me from spending too much on ponies—”
“And you listen?” I laugh.
“Sometimes.” Miles gives me a wry smile. “We have two nutritionists and four equine therapists, and they sit by Julia when they’re updating charts, etcetera, but they’re mostly found downstairs. And there”—he nods to a man with half-rimmed glasses peering at a large screen—“is Angus.”
As Miles has been working his way around the room, each person has briefly looked up, giving a cursory, “Morning, boss,” and gone back to whatever they’re doing. On hearing his name, Angus’s head flicks up, and a set of bushy brows shoots toward his hairline.
“Miles, glad you’re back. Need a minute to discuss—”
“Not now, Angus.”
“Just a minute,” he pushes, but Miles shakes his head.
“Not now, Angus, I’ll come and find you. But”—his voice rises—“I need everyone’s attention for a second.”
It only becomes truly obvious Miles is in charge when they all immediately stop what they’re doing and wait. Miles’s hand slips into mine, and I realize what’s about to happen. Heat suffuses my cheeks, and my heart judders in anticipation.
Miles waits until he has the room’s attention.
“Afternoon, all. Sorry to interrupt, but I want you to meet Ruby. Ruby is a new member of the Flyers team for this season.” He pauses, and blood is rushing far too quickly in my ears, but I don’t get any indication that Miles is at all nervous about what he’s about to reveal.
“I also have the happy news that we got married last week.”
Jesus. I don't know if his warning would have given me any better preparation for his announcement.
There’s a chorus of congratulations, then everyone goes back to work. It’s totally and utterly underwhelming. And very confusing.
With that, Miles turns to me. “Shall we continue the tour—”
“No one said anything.”
“About what?”
My eyes widen, hoping he can read my mind. He can’t. “Us.”
“Ruby, we’re right at the beginning of the season. No one cares that we got married. They’re too busy making sure that we put out a stellar team this year.”
I frown. “Where is the team?”
“You’ll meet them the day after tomorrow. Now, would you like to see the horses?”
“I would. Very much.”
“Thought so.” He winks, and right there and then, I have to admit I get it.
This guy oozes charm. What’s more, he knows it. He wears it like a superpower, and I’m losing the will to defend myself against it even when I want to kill him.
He turns the way we came, once more holding the door open for me to walk through ahead of him, and back down the stairs.
As we reach the bottom, Miles’s phone beeps.
“The ponies are here. Let’s go.”
The stables are across the yard from the management offices, in exactly the same barn-style design.
But that’s the only thing that’s the same.
Inside, it’s the equine equivalent of a five-star, luxury hotel with—I count—twenty-five, Olympic-sized stalls down either side of the building. That’s stabling for fifty horses.
Just like the yard, not a piece of straw is out of place.
Impressive wooden arches, framed by black ironwork, separate each one, and on the doors hang individual name tags—Lemondrop, Chester, Clover, Violet, Messiah, Fire, and Brimstone.
They’re the first I see. Not all the stables have residents, because some of the ponies are still out in the fields, but peering over Lemondrop’s stable door, I find her lying down on the hay, asleep.
I stifle a yawn, wishing I could do the same.
In the center of the barn is the kitchen, where the dietary requirements of each pony are labeled on a huge board, and at the bottom, I spot Maverick’s name.
I’m obviously tired because seeing him there, among the others, like we belong here, brings a lump to my throat I have to work hard to swallow away.