29. Ruby
Ruby
“Okay, let’s get everyone out, and I want Clover and Calamity in massage first.”
Charlie jumps from the passenger seat of the horse trailer, his boots hitting the floor with a thud. “No worries, boss.”
Six grooms follow, and there’s a clattering of fastenings and bolts as each one takes a section along the side of the trailer, and together they release the walkways for the ten horses to exit.
Wheels crunching along the gravel path have me turning around, hailing the arrival of the second trailer, carrying six more horses along with Billy, Jack, Juan, and Diego.
When they get out, I decide they look as exhausted as I feel—and I haven’t just played six chukkas under Miles Burlington’s command.
In fact, Miles is the only one of the six of us who looks remotely like he has any energy left. That’s down to today’s win, because the points we just secured—as he’s told me many times this week—were the last opportunity to keep us at the top of the leaderboard for the England’s Cup.
He’s so cheery that he raises a hand to wave at the boys as he guides Clover down one of the side ramps. Clover also looks like she barely worked up a sweat and could go another ten chukkas, instead of the two she galloped her heart out in.
“I need a beer,” Billy says.
“Later,” Miles shoots back with a grin. “We have work to do first.”
We all watch in silence as he walks Clover through the stables and into the yard where she’ll have a hose down and a massage.
“How the fuck has he got any energy left?” grumbles Juan.
Jack shakes his head in response as he opens up the other trailer and unbuckles Mary to back her out.
Not that you’d know it based on Miles’s demeanor, but it was a hard-fought match.
The Maximum Effort Devils put up a good fight, and because we’ve played them several times already this season, they were familiar with our ponies and our game.
The ball was hit harder and longer, they covered more ground than any match we’ve played yet, and the score—2–1 to the Flyers—reflects how closely skilled the teams are.
It was forty-two minutes of attack and defense, with no letup.
Thankfully, it was a local match, only an hour down the country lanes, which means we get to sleep in our own beds tonight. And even though it’s barely lunchtime, I’m already excited.
I’m less excited about this “work” Miles has planned. Especially since he’s using it as a distraction from the real issues at hand.
1. He hasn’t spoken to his family since the theater.
2. The new handicaps are released today.
3. The teams are announced for the England’s Cup.
All in all, I’m surprised Miles hasn’t self-combusted.
“It’s nervous energy,” Jack observes, walking past with Mary. “You know he’s waiting for the handicaps.”
“I know he’s worked hard enough,” replies Billy, backing Messiah down the walkway. “Twice as hard if you think about it.”
“Anyone got an update on how Los Tigres is doing in their match today?”
I shake my head. “No, I’ve been checking my phone. They only just started when we got back.”
“Remind me how they end up playing us?”
“If they lose, we play the Grasshoppers. If they win, they come second in the tables—”
“And we play them.”
I nod grimly. The latter is a result no one wants.
“Fuck. I cannot believe his ban is over,” Billy snarls, shaking his head at what we’re all thinking.
“I know.”
He glances toward the stable corridor, where Miles hasn’t returned from, and lowers his voice. “How’s he doing?”
I shrug. “You saw him on the pitch today. How do you think?”
“Yeah, okay. That’s a fair answer.” His lips twist in worry.
As he walks away, I wait for Maverick, who trots off like he hasn’t a care in the world, next to his new bestie, Annabel. It was barely three months ago when he took a chunk out of her shoulder, practically galloping off and into my arms because he couldn’t wait to get away.
The change in him is astronomical.
Miles promised to make him a world-class polo pony, and he did. He also made me a player. Looking back, it’s embarrassingly laughable how good I thought I was, yet Miles didn’t care. Whatever it was I deluded myself into thinking I had, Miles saw for real.
I’m a world away when Maverick nudges me hard, searching for carrots.
“I’ll take Mav,” I say to her.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’ll take him.” I plant a kiss on his soft muzzle. “Come on, my boy.”
He trots next to me, his long gait stretching out across the cobbles. And as we walk into the yard, Miles comes out of the offices.
“Hey . . .” I stop when I see his face. The cheery facade he was wearing ten minutes ago has been replaced by . . . I want to say shock, but it’s more like reticence.
And then I notice the stack of envelopes clenched in his fist.
“Babe? What’s going on?”
He shakes his head. “Our match took us to the top of the table, whatever happens, we’re playing in the Cup. And Los Tigres is leading against the Grasshoppers, so it looks like we’re going to meet.”
I sigh hard. “It’s what we were expecting, even if we didn’t want it.” I point at his left hand. “What are those?”
He’s about to answer when the rest of the team walks out of the stables. Jack takes one look at Miles’s face and asks, “Who died?”
“No one.”
“Then why do you look like someone did?”
He lifts the envelopes and hands them out one by one, including Diego and me.
Jack rips his open immediately, speed-reading the words. “Holy fuck, I went up.”
Billy, Diego, and Juan all do the same.
I look at mine. “Why do I have an envelope?”
For the first time today, Miles smiles a genuine smile. “It’s your handicap—”
“I don’t have one—”
“You do now, Trouble. Open it.”
I rip into the envelope and pull out the letter inside.
Dear Lady Burlington—
My eyes flick to Miles. “Lady Burlington?”
He nods. “’Fraid so. It’s what comes with marrying me.”
Dear Lady Burlington,
We are delighted to inform you that, based on our assessment from this current season, the England Polo Association is awarding you the honor of a one-goal handicap. Congratulations.
The England Polo Association
“But I’ve only played a few matches,” I stutter.
“That’s what counts, and you’re part of a team.” Miles grins, planting a kiss on my lips. “And you’re definitely not a novice.”
It’s followed by congratulations from all the guys, hugging me and patting me on the back. “Well done, Ruby. Well deserved.”
And then we all turn to Miles. “Your turn.”
He stares down at the envelope for what seems like hours.
“Actually,” he says eventually, folding the envelope in half and stuffing it in his pocket, “I’ve decided to go to the pub.”