Miles
The home crowd at Foxleigh Park is like nothing else.
While it’s set out similarly to most polo grounds, this one bears my colors and my flag, featuring the coat of arms my father designed himself when he founded the club.
The crowds here are different because they’ve been coming since they were children.
There’s a loyalty, and they show it through the noise, the devotion, and the love they pour into every match.
I’ve played with the Foxleigh Flyers all over the world, in every major tournament, but nothing beats the feeling of galloping onto the field here.
And the Foxleigh Low-Goal Festival is the best day of them all.
The gates opened at ten this morning, and crowds have been flooding in ever since.
The VIPs head straight for the champagne tents while everyone else drifts between food stalls or sets up picnics beside their cars, boot open and blankets spread across the grass.
Dogs run free, children tear around, and families settle in for the entire day.
It’s relaxed. Easy. My favorite day of the season.
The matches mean nothing in the grand scheme of polo. They don’t count toward the England’s Cup. It’s purely for fun, and all profits raised go toward Valentine Nook’s local charity.
Celebrities play some matches alongside ten-goal polo players, but the best thing about it is that nobody takes it too seriously. In a month packed with top-tier polo, this is the day we all get to relax and remember why we fell in love with the sport in the first place.
But today’s best thing so far is Ruby. We’ve only been here an hour, and I swear I’ve spent most of it watching her.
I grew up at Foxleigh, so I know it inside out. Yet somehow seeing it through her eyes makes everything feel brand new again. Every time she turns to take something in—the horses, the crowds, the music, the banners—excitement flashes across her face so openly it hits me square in the chest.
And now we’re wandering through the park, she’s holding my hand, and it feels so normal that I can’t believe I’m not freaking out. I should be freaking out. More so, I should be freaking out because I’m not.
My head’s a mess, that much is true.
“Okay.” I check my watch, as we dodge a couple of spaniels. “According to today’s timetable, we have ten minutes to get over to the miniature polo that Max is playing in before Alex’s match. Fancy it? I’ve heard it’s superhero themed.” I waggle my brows.
Her eyes light up again. “A bunch of six-year-olds trotting around in dress up? Heck yeah, let’s go.”
“I believe they’re on field number four.”
You’d think I’d have just told her they were handing out free ice cream by the way she tugs on my hand and drags me off.
We fall in with the crowds heading in the same direction, which slows us down because I inevitably bump into people I know.
Some I haven’t seen since last year’s festival, some are old friends from the circuit, but one thing is for sure.
As soon as their eyes fall on Ruby, they aren’t interested in a single thing about me.
I lose count of how many times I introduce her as my wife. We’re invited to dinner, drinks, and weekends away. I thought my social life was always fairly active, but it’s become abundantly clear how wrong I was.
“I should have married you sooner . . .” I loop my arm around Ruby’s shoulder and pull her into me.
She’s the perfect height, slotting against my side.
I drop a kiss on her head, telling myself it’s part of the act, but it’s starting to feel too easy, and I’m not that good an actor.
“I’m much more popular with you around.”
“Everything’s better with me around.” She laughs, and I know she’s joking, but I’m beginning to think it might be. I like her with me. I like her next to me.
I like her.
Unfortunately, I’m pulled out of my thoughts by a vaguely familiar voice, and we’re stopped once more. This time by someone I’d rather have avoided.
Ruby and I spend all our time between the cottage and the yard, so it’s not surprising we haven’t bumped into someone I’ve known exclusively between the hours of 11 p.m. and 3 a.m.
But I also dearly wish today wasn’t the day it happened.
“Hey Miles, how’s it going?” The girl—Felicity . . . Fiona . . . Faith—stares, her skeptical gaze bouncing between Ruby and me, before hitting Ruby with a smile so wide it deserves an Oscar. “Hi, I’m Jade, an old friend of Miles’s.”
Jade. Fuck.
“Aren’t I, Miles?” She reaches out and runs a hand up my arm.
I probably shouldn’t tell her I didn’t remember her name.
I know the news of my marriage has spread rapidly. I’m also sure that ninety-five percent of the gossip about it hasn’t been positive, but hitting on me in front of my wife is low.
And frankly, as someone who’s been faithful for the entirety of our marriage thus far, it’s insulting.
I’m about to introduce Ruby, and make it very clear I’m not interested, but Ruby beams back, all teeth and sparkles. Sweet as pie.
“It’s so good to meet you, I’m Miles’s wife.” Reaching up to where my arm is still resting over her shoulder, she laces our fingers together. Her big ruby glints in the sun, as subtle as a sledgehammer.
She might as well have put a dog collar on me and a flashing sign over my head that said, “I belong to her.” And honestly, I’m here for it.
“But we must be going, we’re rushing to watch our nephew play polo. Now, if you wouldn’t mind removing your hand from my husband, Julie . . .”
“It’s Jade,” she says, releasing her grip.
“Right, sorry.”
Ruby doesn’t look sorry in the slightest, and I stare in ill-concealed delight. She’s jealous.
“So fucking rude,” she grumbles, pulling us both away. “I’m right here, with a fucking ring on. How dare she?”
Putting my arm around her, I pull her into me, planting the biggest, sloppiest kiss on her cheek. I can’t even explain how happy it makes me that she’s pissed off.
I don’t do jealousy. I definitely don’t do jealous women, but if it comes in Ruby form, I’ll take it all day, every day.
I stop us walking, taking Ruby’s hand in mine. “I’m sorry, I really am.”
She shrugs, but I can still see she’s pissed off. “It’s fine. I guess you’ll go back to them when we’re done.”
I open my mouth, but literally nothing comes out. I don’t have an answer, because suddenly the idea of going back to the life I used to live has absolutely no appeal whatsoever. Huh, maybe this is growing up.
I’m still ruminating when I hear our names being called, and we turn to find Hendricks and Story waving us over from the safety boards.
“Milo . . . Ruby . . . over here.”
“This is as good a spot as any,” I say, hugging my brother, followed by Story, which is proof in itself how much I’ve changed.
Six months ago, I’d have barely acknowledged her. Huh, maybe I really am ready for a long-term relationship.
“As long as the ball doesn’t fly out and knock someone unconscious,” Ruby replies.
“Can’t see that happening from a bunch of six-year-olds.”
“I dunno.” Hendricks grins. “Max has been practicing his swing all week. Broke a window in the great hall on Wednesday.”
I fight back a laugh. “How’d that go down with the duke?”
“He’s in London with Holiday. He doesn’t know, and we’re going to keep it that way—”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
When the crowd erupts into cheers, we all turn back to the field to see eight tiny Shetland ponies trot on, their riders dressed as superheroes. Max as Spider-Man is leading.
“Oh my God, they’re so cute,” squeals Ruby loud enough and close enough that my ears ring.
It takes ten minutes for the umpires to line them up for the start of the match, largely because the parents are so distracting—waving to their child, taking photos—until the umpires finally have them all in a line.
The whistle is blown and the ball drops.
Immediately, Max shoots forward, leans out of the saddle, swings . . . and completely misses. His pony, a fat little Shetland named Clyde, promptly plants himself over the ball and refuses to move.
“Well,” Ruby mutters, “that’s one way of defending it.”
We all watch in amusement while Max desperately tries to convince Clyde to budge, to no avail. It’s not until the umpire trots over and physically moves him aside that the game continues.
Unfortunately for Max, one of the girls on the opposing team swoops in and steals the ball.
Clyde, deeply offended by this development, suddenly bolts so fast that Max nearly falls off, clinging on for dear life as Clyde’s short little legs chase them. By the end of the first chukka, nobody has scored, and Hendricks is practically doubled over laughing, along with the rest of us.
Watching Ruby wheezing as tears pour down her face is almost better than the match itself. Her laugh is deeper than I would have expected from her, and so genuine, quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever heard.
“This is awesome,” she puffs between laughs. “Go, Max!”
Max immediately stops riding to wave enthusiastically at her. “Hi, Ruby.” He then promptly loses the ball again, by which point Hendricks nearly collapses from snorting so hard.
The second chukka is shorter, and after one failed attempt from the opposing team, Max gets switched onto a new pony—Sunshine—and Clyde is banished back to the stables.
This time, when Max swings, he actually connects with the ball.
It rolls toward the goal, bouncing awkwardly before clipping the post, at which point Sunshine spins around and kicks it hard enough that it trickles in.
The crowd—mostly proud parents—explodes into cheers.
Max whoops and throws his mallet triumphantly into the air, only for it to slip from his hand and hit the ground.
“For fuck’s sake, Miles,” Hendricks groans. “I told you not to teach him that move.”
“In my defense”—I grin unapologetically—“I never taught him.”
“He learned by watching you.”
“Still counts as natural talent.”
“Daddy!” Max shouts. “Did you see Sunshine?”
“I did. Good job, buddy. You’re the best team.”
“Totally agree,” I add, though I’m not surprised. He has half my genes and, therefore, my talent.