15. Miles
Miles
For the next two weeks, it’s a whirlwind of polo matches.
We win more than we lose. We draw twice. And in total, we rack up fifteen points, putting us at the top of the leaderboard. In contrast, Los Tigres Luchadores earn twelve, putting them in third place.
When we’re not playing, we’re training. The six of us work together to become a lethal opponent to anyone who has the misfortune of playing us. According to The Daily Polo News website, the Foxleigh Flyers is the team to beat.
But it’s Ruby who’s made the most improvement.
Granted, that could be because she’s had the most to learn, but the woman who lacked confidence on her first day of training has been replaced by a self-assured polo player busting her arse harder than any of us.
And fuck me if it isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever witnessed. For the past month, I’ve spent twenty-four seven with a woman, and I’m not mad about it.
It’s something I mull over whenever I get a precious few minutes to think. Why, out of all the women I’ve had in my life, is it Ruby Lanson who’s stuck?
Like now, as I look over at her, knees positioned between mine, headset on, and peering out of the helicopter window as we pass over the Oxfordshire hills, on our way to the Gloucester Park polo ground, the ancestral home of the Duke of Chatham, and it feels so . . . right.
Sixteen of our horses arrived yesterday so they could acclimate in their stables overnight, and we should be with them in less than thirty minutes. Reports from the grooms indicate they’re all looking good.
The Chatham Cup is the first high-stakes match in the British polo calendar, and it’s important for many reasons.
Not only is the physical Cup awarded to the winner the biggest in the season—measuring three feet four inches and almost twenty kilos—but historically, and statistically, the winner of the Chatham Cup has gone on to win the England’s Cup, in the years it’s held.
The Foxleigh Flyers have achieved it only once. This year I intend to do it again, which would make it the first time since my father passed away.
I tap her on the knee and point at a shock of color on the horizon. “Look over there. Can you see the flags of Gloucester Park?”
Craning her neck, she squints until her eyes land on what I’m talking about, and they brighten immediately. “Oh my God, it's huge.”
“They really go all out, as the first tournament of the season. But the ground is much bigger than Foxleigh,” I say, watching her fingers fidget with the hem of her jumper. “Nervous?”
She nods slowly, like it’s something she shouldn’t admit. “A bit . . . but excited too.”
Reaching over, I take her hand, brushing my thumb against the warm ruby in her ring. “You’re going to love it. I promise.”
The flags loom—claret and turquoise flapping in the wind—bearing the Gloucester Park coat of arms, while orange Veuve Clicquot banners—the main sponsor—are positioned outside three champagne tents, and multiple stands.
We make our final descent by flying over the main park. The sight from this altitude is breathtaking. Eight smaller fields are already in play, it’s a beautiful day, and the crowds are turning out in force.
“There must be twenty thousand people.” Ruby gasps, except we all hear it through our headsets.
“Twenty thousand, one hundred and thirty,” Billy says, correcting her. “One of the biggest crowds in the calendar. The biggest one-day tournament, anyway.”
So far this season, the crowds we’ve played in front of have been two to four thousand max, so it’s no wonder her eyes are wide.
“How is your family getting here?”
“They’ll drive,” I reply. “Lando and Holiday were invited to stay with the duke and duchess last night. Everyone else will come up today. I suspect there were a few negotiations with Max on whether he could bring his growing number of pets.”
The tiny crease between her brows—which I’ve learned only presents when she’s anxious—disappears, and a smile breaks across her face. Just like I always do when I make her smile, I feel I’ve done something good.
The helicopter lowers to join the rest belonging to teams who’ve already arrived.
Sixteen teams in total will play today, in a single-elimination-style tournament condensed into thirteen high-energy matches.
Because the Foxleigh Flyers made the finals last year, we get a bye and start today’s tournament in the semi-finals.
Playing only two matches creates a huge advantage.
“Hey, boss,” Billy’s voice comes through the headset, and he’s shaking his phone at me like he just got a message through. “We’ve got the Grasshoppers up first. Wildcats dropped out because they had an injured player.”
“Is that good?” Ruby asks.
I shrug. “Wildcats are strong. We lost to them in the finals last year, but I think we’re better this year. We can beat the Grasshoppers. Two of the players are coming back from injury.”
There’s a golf buggy waiting, which whisks us around the back of the park and through to the stables, avoiding the main grounds swarming with socialites, aristocrats, figures from the horse world, locals, and press snapping pictures. Cameras flash, and champagne flows.
Charlie and Annabel—the head grooms for today—greet us at the stables, and the eight of us walk along our allotted stable block, checking each horse like we do every morning. Where sometimes they’re still a bit sleepy, they know something’s happening today.
Coats polished, mane and tail braided with ribbons in the Foxleigh colors, their chest and legs covered in protective padding, and they’re pacing their stables ready to be let free.
My chest swells with pride. They look outstanding.
Once we’ve completed inspections, the six of us, along with all the grooms, make the final decisions on our game plan.
“Calamity’s in good shape, boss,” Annabel tells me. “She was frisky on the warm-ups this morning, might be good to save her for the final match.”
“Thanks.” I nod, pondering the order of the day, and turn to the team. “What do you think?”
“I want Violet in the first chukka. She always does better later in the day once she’s had a match under her belt. If I can get her going, she’ll do well for us in the final.”
I grin at Billy, taking stock in his certainty that we’ll make the final. “No problem.”
“What about Maverick?”
I nod at Ruby. “I’m taking him for the first chukka.”
Gazing down the row, I take note of the ponies peering out of the stalls, like they want to contribute to the conversation.
We have new ponies this season, and it’s always a delicate balancing act on who to play first. The games are so fast, and the ponies work hard.
Not to mention, it’s against the polo rules to play ponies two chukkas in a row.
We try not to play them twice in a match. But six chukkas, four riders, that’s a lot of ponies to transport.
Therefore, just like the Olympic relay teams, it’s always good to have the fastest ponies in the first and last chukkas. One of the key jobs for the grooms is to have ponies ready in case we switch out mid-chukka and to know which ones to pass over.
“How does this sound? Maverick, Violet, Exodus, and Messiah for the first chukka. Mars, Dandelion, Clover, and Lemondrop for the second. Then we see how we’re going.”
Juan nods, solemnly, his permanently furrowed brow deepening. “Agree.”
“Everyone else?”
They all nod in sync, and the grooms take off to ready them, passing a tournament official walking down the stable path with our tournament cards.
“Foxleigh Flyers, you’re up in thirty minutes on pitch number one. Arrive three minutes early. Any substitutions need to be filled on the card,” she says with no-nonsense brusqueness before walking away just as quickly.
We have just enough time to change into our team shirts while the first four ponies are brought out. When Ruby reemerges, she’s added navy and pale blue ribbons to her braids, and fuck me if it doesn’t knock me blindside.
“I thought it was cute.” She shrugs, mistaking my expression for apathy when in reality I want to drag her into the nearest stable and kiss her until her knees give way.
“That’s one word for it.”
Jack, Billy, Juan, and I mount up. Ruby passes my mallet to me, and we all walk down the path to the pitch to await our announcement. Diego sprints off to the stewards box to hand our cards in with no substitutions.
“Remember, strong wrists, elbows in, bump hard. Play tough, play clean. Don’t let up on defense,” I say.
“Up to now, the matches have been a breeze. This won’t be.
Tom Sadler’s on the opposing team, and he likes to ride hard down the left.
Get between him and the boards. Hook him clean to get the ball off. Remember what we practiced.”
Ruby drops a kiss on Maverick’s nose. “Good luck, my boy.”
“Do I get one of those too?” I ask before I can stop myself, but it lessens the tension in my chest nonetheless.
She peers up at me, and after a brief pause, she purses her lips, presses her fingertips to them, then blows a kiss in my direction.
“You don’t need luck, though. You’re lifting that Cup,” she says, as our names are called, and we gallop onto the pitch for the semi-final.
The first chukka is polite—we get our bearings—and neither team scores. But by the second, we’ve switched ponies and all gloves are off. Billy scores the first goal, though unfortunately, it’s followed by a home goal off the hoof of Dandelion.
Ruby and Diego stand on the side, watching for any slipups and areas we can improve. They cheer and scream instructions, and even though the crowds are loud Ruby is louder. I hear every word.
By the third, we’ve leveled the score, and by the fourth, we edge ahead. For a team returning from injury, the Grasshoppers play better than expected, and the score is nail-bitingly close through the sixth and final chukka.
We scrape through the game by the skin of our teeth, the score of the semi-final ending 4–3 to the Foxleigh Flyers, and we walk off the field exhausted but relieved.