32. Miles
Miles
Given how frantic this week has been, I’m surprisingly calm, but with Diego and Messiah both out, I’ve finally resigned myself to the fact that I can’t control any of this anymore.
Winning today will come down to how well we play. That’s all I can do. I’m only clinging to the belief that, deep down, we have the strength, skill, and ability to beat Los Tigres Luchadores.
It’s been a while since I came out to the fields this early.
After my accident, I used to come here all the time. This is where I feel closest to my dad. If I concentrate hard enough, I can take myself back to the years when I was little, where I watched him play, riding across the pitch again, scoring goal after goal for the Flyers.
The trophy cabinet in the office is proof of how hard he worked. I’ve won tournaments too, but I’m nowhere near as successful as he was. Not yet. But a win today, having the Foxleigh Flyers etched onto the trophy for the second time, will be a start.
I’m so deep in thought that I don’t hear the footsteps approaching until movement catches the corner of my eye and I look up to find Clementine standing there.
I don’t know why she’s up this early, and I definitely don’t want to think about it.
Los Tigres are staying just outside Valentine Nook in some country hotel a few miles away. The idea of her stopping by here after spending the night with Torres . . . nope . . . not thinking about it. Before I can stop it, a heavy shudder rustles down my spine.
Gross.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, unable and unwilling to keep the iciness from my tone. She couldn’t have picked a worse time. “If you came to fuck with me, you can leave.”
She sighs heavily. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I came to see Feather.”
“She’s sleeping,” I snap. “And if it’s all the same to you, I’d like some time alone.”
I turn back toward the fields and the new ponies grazing peacefully. A couple of our mares gave birth earlier this year, and with any luck, they’ll become the next generation of champions.
Instead of leaving, Clementine walks toward me. I don’t know if she’s deliberately trying to piss me off, but whatever it is, it’s working.
“Miles—”
“Clem, I mean it. I’m not in the mood. This isn’t the time.”
“You’re so fucking stubborn, Miles. Not everything is about you.”
“It is today, Clementine.”
“Okay, fine.” She lifts her hands defensively but doesn’t make any effort to walk away. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh yeah?” I glare at her. “I understand enough to know I’d never screw over one of my siblings for a fucking guy.”
“It’s not like that, Miles.”
Silence stretches like an elastic band. I have no intention of asking her what it is like, which is exactly what she wants, because I refuse to have a conversation about her and Torres before I go out there and annihilate him.
Nothing will derail my plans for him on that pitch.
But, knowing my sister as I do, I’m going to find out anyway. I’m an unwilling participant in this conversation. I mean . . . I haven’t even had a fucking coffee.
“You wouldn’t understand because you’ve never been in love. You don’t know what it’s like.”
This argument again, and my family calls me the melodramatic one. I can’t tell if she’s deliberately being a dick and trying to provoke me, or if she’s feeling sorry for me.
Either way, the audacity.
My jaw tightens.
Maybe three or four months ago, she would’ve been right.
But not now. Ruby changed that. I love her. No question.
I understand perfectly that when you fall in love with someone so completely, they become your peace in the middle of chaos.
That when you fall in love, you become the least important part of the equation because your day starts and ends with the sole purpose of making them happy. I’ve never been so excited to get out of bed and make someone coffee.
Or end the day running them a bath.
I don’t think I’ve ever run anyone a bath before Ruby.
And in between, I exist to make her laugh.
I love the way her body shakes when she finds something truly funny. And if I’m the one who gave her that, I’m golden.
Outside of Hendricks, I’ve never felt compelled to spend all day and night with the same person, much less enjoyed their company, but Ruby and I could be stranded on a desert island, and I’d never be bored.
Where Hendricks used to be the person I turned to for advice, he could never help with anything related to polo.
But Ruby can, because she lives it the same way.
And I love helping her. The kick I get out of watching her connect with the ball, or bump or gallop down the boards, is as intense as if it were me.
And when I see her standing on the sidelines, cheering me on, I feel like I could accomplish anything. Like winning.
That’s how I understand what love is like.
But I’m still not having this conversation with Clementine. So I get up and push past her. “Tell your boyfriend to watch his back, Clem,” I say. “Because I’m winning this. No matter what.”
Itake Clover’s reins from Ruby, and before I can stop myself, pull her in for a kiss, melting into the softness of her lips.
The minty taste of her gum mixes with my breath as my tongue brushes against hers.
“Would you two get a room already?” Jack grumbles from somewhere behind me.
I pull back with a grin before going back for a quick smack to her lips. “What? It’s for luck.”
Clover prances beneath me as I swing myself into the saddle, her adrenaline barely contained. She has three more minutes to keep it in before it’s all unleashed in the first chukka.
Three more minutes until I’m face to face with Santiago Torres.
I haven’t seen them yet, but they’re across the pitch three hundred yards away, lining up just like we are.
Over the tannoys, the commentators announce the start of the match, their voices booming across the grounds to the twenty thousand spectators cheering us on. My family is out there, including my sister.
The gates opened at ten o’clock. Champagne has flowed for three hours, and they’re baying for blood. Today has been heavily publicized as the match to end all matches, the reopening of wounds, and the first time Torres and I have met since the last England’s Cup.
I glance down at Ruby, holding my mallet up, staring at me quizzically. “What’s that look for?”
“I just like looking at the face of someone who’s about to win a match.” She grins before kissing Clover on her nose and stepping back.
“Not so fast, wife.” Leaning down, I run my hand behind her nape and tug the necklace—the one she’s been wearing to keep her engagement ring close when she plays—from beneath her shirt, pulling her closer. Lowering my voice so only she (and Clover) can hear, I whisper, “I love you.”
Her eyes widen before her beautiful face softens. My favorite blush spreads across her cheeks, freckles dancing over her nose as her smile widens. “That’s a coincidence, because I love you too.”
And just like that, my nerves vanish.
I know we will be lifting the Cup in one hour.
“Ready, boys?”
We line up in order—me, Juan, Jack, then Billy. Clover, Owl, Violet, and Calamity gleam beneath the sunlight, coats polished until we can see our faces in them. As usual, manes and tails have been braided and tied with Foxleigh Park colors, along with their protective padding and bandages.
We look incredible. We look like winners.
“Remember our strategy,” I say. “After our first goal, we focus on stopping them. Mark Torres like a rash.”
“Easy-peasy.” Billy salutes as he tries to calm Calamity. “Let’s just get the fuck on with it.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply with a salute.
“Foxleigh Flyers,” booms over the tannoy.
“It’s time, boys.”
We explode onto the field as our names are called out one by one.
Clover's excitement reaches a fever pitch, and she lets out a series of bucks that almost unseats me.
In the opposite corner, Los Tigres Luchadores thunder toward us dressed in all-black kits atop black ponies, looking menacing as hell.
Juan gallops past me, heading for the throw-in. “Jesus. They’re not fucking about, are they?”
It takes a little time to get eight highly strung ponies into position, and once we’re situated, the umpires ride forward.
I look straight ahead into my opponent, Fernando Dias’s eyes, and nod.
I don’t know him well—we’ve played together a few times—but he’s a decent guy.
Unlike his teammate, two ponies down, staring at Billy like a hawk.
Attempted murder aside, I honestly cannot understand what the fuck my sister sees in him.
“Captains, do you have any questions?” asks the umpire.
Dias and I both shake our heads.
“Good. You know the rules,” he continues. “I want a clean match. No dirty play.”
His stare lingers on Torres, and I almost smile.
He rides back until he’s clear of the play and blows his whistle.
Eight riders, eight ponies all get ready.
The ball is thrown in.
And the England’s Cup begins.
Jack strikes first, getting off the lineup and knocking the ball toward Juan, already shifting toward the Flyers goal. Taking control, he gallops hard up the field, followed by two of Los Tigres, who miss the bump before Juan smashes the ball to his left. Billy races hard upfield to catch it.
Pulling up, he spins Calamity ninety degrees and positions himself perfectly to take the swing. The ball flies directly between the goalposts.
Less than two minutes in, the Flyers have taken the lead, much to the delight of the roaring crowd.
“And that’s how it’s done, boys,” he crows, blowing across the tip of his mallet.
Glancing across the field, I see Torres galloping back to the throw-in, his face a mask of fury, and I honestly don’t know what makes me happier, that or the goal.