CHAPTER 23 Miles
Miles
“FUCK,” I yell, spinning Messiah sharply toward the end of the pitch and the opposition’s goal, where the ball is flying, and gallop after it. “We cannot draw, or we’re out.”
I’ve literally just handed them a fucking goal and a free pass into the next stage of the tournament. And of course they take it and score.
The whistle blows. I’ve come back from worse scores in the final chukka, but something’s not sitting right. We were up three goals to one, and then I fell apart.
“Motherfucker,” Billy snaps, galloping up to me. “What’s going on with you?”
“I don’t know. My head is . . . I can’t focus.” I don’t tell him that I swear I saw Torres again, standing by the far boards.
We head off the pitch for the final pony change.
We have three minutes to dismount, remount, and get back out there.
It’s as finely tuned as the pit stop at Silverstone.
I jump off Messiah and jog to a patiently waiting Clover.
I’ve saved her for this chukka, and she’s brimming with such unspent energy, I can feel it coursing through her.
Ruby’s standing to the side, watching me, checking I’m okay. I nod and desperately want a kiss, but Juan rides over before I can reach her.
“What’s up with you, my friend? Your head is all over the place.” His dark brown eyes narrow under his thick bushy brows. The same concern as Billy has written all over his face.
“I know, I know. I can’t—there’s something I can’t shake, and I don’t know what it is.”
Except I do. Seeing Torres yesterday, knowing he’s been here, could still be here .
. . Everything pulls me back to the day of the accident, when I was about to hit the ball, and he crossed my line.
I ended up in the hospital with half a ton of pony falling on top of me because she couldn’t get out of the way fast enough.
And then a month in the hospital.
Broken ribs, broken legs, induced coma . . .
I shake off the memories and focus on Juan.
“Miles, the handicaps come out in a few weeks. You’re putting too much pressure on yourself to get to ten. You’ll get there, my friend.”
“I’m putting a normal amount of pressure on myself. It’s not the handicap—”
“Then what?”
“It’s Torres. I swear I saw him along the boards.”
Deep lines cross Juan’s face. “He’s playing at Guards.”
“He’s supposed to be—” He looks at me like I’m going crazy, and maybe I am. “Sorry, mate. I’ll get it together.”
The bell rings, and we gallop back onto the field for the final chukka. We have seven minutes to get ahead to have any chance of moving forward in this tournament and scoring the points I so desperately want.
I hook the ball clean from the throw-in and charge down the field. Clover bumps perfectly against the opposing number four, and I hit the ball across to Billy, racing toward the forty-yard line. But the ball goes wide.
Clods of grass kick up as the ponies fly toward it. Somehow, Jack gets there first and manages to catch it, leaning so far out of the saddle I’m convinced he’s defying gravity, and taps the ball between Dandelion’s legs and toward the goal.
The crowd’s pre-emptive cheers are cut short as the ball smashes into the post and rebounds to the opposition, who thunders it back up the field. Juan races after him on Owl, trying to bump him off course, but it’s not hard enough, and they score.
Four to one.
The only thing keeping me sane right now is hearing Ruby cheering from the sidelines. When I look left, she’s standing there, fists pumping in the air as she screams encouragement, and I so desperately want to win. For her, for the team.
But I’m too aware of the clock, and the game slips away from me before I know it. Truthfully, I can’t remember a time when I’ve played worse. It’s the first time we’ve failed to make it through the first round at Hampshire.
After shaking hands with our opponents, we trot off the field.
Five minutes later, after we’ve handed the ponies off, the four of us sit dejected in the changing room.
It’s so stupid. I know it’s not realistic for us to win every match, but I also know I lost this one for all of us.
“Guys, I’m so sorry,” I say for the third time.
“You don’t need to apologize,” Jack says, cutting me off immediately. “All four of us played on that team. We just couldn’t get our shit together. I missed the ball twice, and Billy couldn’t bump. It was all of us, so I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
I know he’s trying to make me feel better, but it doesn’t. Not in the slightest. It’s like my bad mood has rubbed off on everyone. I get up and walk out before I make it worse, only to bump into Ruby as I leave.
“This was not your fault—”
“Everyone keeps saying that, yet I don’t quite believe them.”
“Miles, it wasn’t your fault. Losses happen. Someone has to lose, and someone wins. That’s just the game.”
“Doesn’t make it any better.”
“No. But you know what? It makes you stronger.”
I’m not in the mood for a pep talk. “I just want to get out of here and go home.”
“We can. I’ve just spoken to Charlie. The ponies are being hosed down, and then they’ll get loaded. We can get our bags and leave.” She smiles, and it’s like a balm. The stress rushing through me slows a little.
Billy walks out, face still red and sweaty, and puts his arm around my shoulders. “It’s not over, Milo. So stop fucking thinking it is.”
I roll my eyes but crack a smile. Because while he can’t read my mind, he can.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
I don’t register it at first. Or if I do, I assume it’s Jack or Juan fucking about, but when Billy’s smile drops, I know it’s neither of them.
I knew I’d seen him.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Billy snarls.
“I came to congratulate you on that spectacular knockout from the tournament.”
“You’re a fucking stalker, Torres. Concentrate on your own game.”
“Nah. We don’t have a match today. We won yesterday, so we’re making it through.” He grins wider, and the tattoos creeping up his neck shift with the movement. He looks truly psychotic. “Looks like we’re going to be edging forward in the points.”
“Go fuck yourself, Torres.”
“Yeah? That’s what your sister said . . .” He pauses. “Wait. No, I’m wrong. She wanted me to fuck her.”
“Who’s fuck . . .” Jack stops so abruptly that Juan crashes into him. “What the fuck—”
Torres thumbs to them. “No wonder you’re playing so shitty, with dumb and dumber here.”
Juan takes one look at me, drops his bag, and steps toward Torres, ready to swing. It’s only Jack grabbing him that stops him from making contact.
“Violence is never the option, boys.” Torres wags a finger at him.
“I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“Save that energy for the England’s Cup,” he taunts. “You’ll need it.”
I shake my head. “This conversation is over. Let’s go.”
Holding on to Ruby’s hand, we turn, Billy, Jack, and Juan following.
“Hey, Burlington.”
I spin back before I realize what I’m doing. “What?”
“Say hi to Clementine for me.”