32. Miles #2
We don’t get so lucky on the next throw-in.
Dias steals the ball and thunders up the field.
His pony’s stride is so long that she seems to cover twice the ground in half the time as everyone else, and though Billy and Juan take off after him, they don’t catch up.
Torres chases up on the opposite boards, flanked by Jack, who blocks a pass from Dias.
I follow, catching up as Billy cages him in, only for the ball to become tangled underneath a scrum of ponies, all trying to clear it.
“Move out of the fucking way,” he yells, attempting to elbow his way through the blockade.
“Sorry, sweetheart, no can do,” taunts Jack, blowing him a kiss and riding off as the whistle blows.
“Foul,” calls the umpire, giving a free penalty to the Flyers, much to the surprise of all four of us, and the very valid objection of every member of Los Tigres.
“This is fun. We should try full defense more often.” Billy laughs. “Especially when they’re handing out penalties to the wrong team.”
As Juan takes the hit, knocking it hard through the posts, he turns and flips the bird to Torres, who ignores him.
We’ve only been playing for seven minutes, but something doesn’t feel right. I came expecting a fight, and I was prepared to be marked hard. The reason I’m riding Clover in the first chukka is because she lives to bump. I’ve never ridden a braver pony.
But I’ve barely had the ball, and Torres hasn’t been anywhere near me. I’m still thinking about it when the whistle blows for the end of the first chukka.
We get three minutes to switch over to fresh ponies before we’re back, and I move from Clover to Brimstone.
The second chukka follows the same suit, except halfway through, my mallet snaps on a hit, and I gallop to the sides where Ruby passes me a new one.
“Torres is staying wide, and you’ve been clear most of this chukka. If they can get the ball to you, it’s an easy goal.”
Ruby’s right, because when I ride back in, Torres is nowhere near where he’s supposed to be, which is marking me.
By the end of the chukka, Los Tigres still haven’t scored, and we’ve managed one blinder from the forty-yard line, but the best word I can use to describe this game is lackluster.
The crowds feel the same, I can sense they’re getting restless from the amount of movement in the stands and the low hum of chatter instead of raucous cheering.
“Does anyone get the feeling they’re holding back?” muses Billy. “This is an easy ride.”
Unfortunately for us, the easy ride ends right before the whistle blows for the halftime break, when Fire throws her head back and catches Billy hard in the jaw. Play is happening at the opposite end of the field, and it takes a few seconds to realize it’s three against four.
Looking around for Billy, I spot him slumped in the saddle, with Fire slowing to a halt.
“Billy . . . Ref, stop the play—”
Charging up the field, Jack catches Fire, steadying her so Billy doesn’t fall. “Medic. We need a medic.”
Juan and I are close behind, dismounting as we reach them, and between the three of us, we manage to get Billy off Fire as the medics sprint over. Blood pours from his mouth and nose as he’s jostled onto the stretcher.
“What the hell happened?” I snap, spinning around to see Los Tigres standing stock-still halfway down the pitch.
Jack shrugs. “I didn’t see.”
We might be winning three goals to zero, but the earlier excitement I felt for today vanishes into frustration as I ride off the field, leading Fire. It’s followed by a swirl of anxiety as I realize Ruby needs to take Billy’s place.
“This game sucks. It feels like they’re not even trying,” Jack grumbles as we gather in the changing room a couple of minutes later. Juan drops next to him.
I shake my head, though I agree. It’s not the same team we’ve been watching in the play-by-plays all week. “Where’s Ruby?”
“She’s outside.”
She’s leaning against the changing room when I walk out to find her, twirling the end of her long braid around her finger, and my heart swells. Fuck, I love this woman. And now I get to play with her in the most important match of the year.
“Hi, Trouble . . . nervous?”
Her teeth scrape along her bottom lip, and she peers up at me. “Maybe.”
“Come inside, we need to talk strategy.” I hold my hand out, only for it to be ignored.
“You’re not my husband right now. You’re my teammate.”
Wiping a hand across my mouth, I smother my smile. “If you want to be correct about it, I’m your captain. Now get inside.” And when she turns, I take great pleasure in smacking her arse.
With a giggle she doesn’t mean for me to hear, she strides ahead and sits down next to Juan.
“Okay, we have five minutes. I don’t know what the hell is going on out there, but it’s the most boring game I’ve ever played—”
“Maybe it’s a ploy. They’re going to try to destroy us now that Billy’s out.” Juan turns to Ruby. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously, guys, keep your guard up. A win is a win, but I’d rather say I earned it instead of them throwing it away.
” I turn to Ruby. “They’ll underestimate you.
Therefore, you won’t be marked like me, Jack, or Juan.
You need to stay ready for a long pass. Jack and Juan will be marking the midway line, and I’ll be on Torres. ”
“You sure about that, Milo?”
I nod. “Yeah, I have this weird feeling he’s avoiding me.”
“I say let him.”
“Not happening,” I reply. “C’mon, let’s get out there.”
We mount up and gallop on for the second half.
There’s no improvement in the play, but it allows Ruby to make a clean sweep of the first pass, and because no one’s marking her, she manages to get the ball to the twenty-yard line before she knocks it over to Jack, and he scores easily.
Between her and me, there’s so much space we have almost the top third of the pitch to ourselves. If Torres wasn’t lurking by the far board.
Fuck this.
Spurring on Mars, I gallop over to him. “What are you playing at?”
His eyes snap to mine, and I don’t know what he’s more shocked at—that I’m speaking to him or that he didn’t see me coming.
“What?”
“Why aren’t you marking me? What the hell is going on with your team?”
Torres shakes his head. “Get lost, Burlington. You wanted me to leave you alone, so stop fucking complaining when I do.”
I’m too confused to respond, and I don’t get the chance because he gallops off to where the play is happening.
The rest of Los Tigres don’t seem to have the same attitude, but it doesn’t help their game.
With Torres doing nothing, it’s three of them against four of us.
The match plays like an unbalanced knockabout, and as the minutes tick toward the end of the sixth chukka, I’m trying not to feel resentful that we’ve had such an easy win, or that I wasted so much time worrying about it.
The final whistle sounds, and the most anti-climactic match in the history of polo is over.
Clover didn’t work up a sweat in either of the chukkas I played her, but whatever.
Looking around, I swear the stands have fewer spectators than they did at the start.
I also notice only three of the Los Tigres hung back to shake hands.
Suddenly, I feel rather sorry for them because it wasn’t their fault they lost.
On the plus side, I might have found some more members of my I Hate Torres club.
“We won,” Jack yells, galloping up to me, narrowly avoiding a group of drunk girls who’ve stormed the field to be the first at the divot stomp. “Why do you look so miserable?”
“Because they handed it to us,” I grumble. I don’t add the disappointment I feel has a lot to do with us playing at Foxleigh.
She deserves better. She deserves a match of the ages, not whatever this shit was.
“Fuck that. A win’s a win. Don’t look a gift polo pony in the mouth, and come lift that Cup with me.” He smacks me on the shoulder. “Now go and kiss your wife, and turn that frown upside down. I want to get drunk.”
I chuckle, my annoyance lifting somewhat. I suppose if the spectators don’t decide to riot after witnessing such a boring game, it’s all good. And I do want to kiss my wife.
Spinning Clover, I turn to see her and Maverick blazing toward me, and I giddy-up to meet them halfway.
“Can you stop being my captain and start being my husband again?” she pleads when I reach her, but I’m already tugging her out of the saddle. I am so fucking proud of this woman.
My woman. My wife.
“You bet, baby,” I say, before kissing her hard.
“We won,” she mumbles against my lips. “I can’t believe we won.”
“Really?” I laugh at her. “They played like shit. It was an easy win.”
“Shut up.” She giggles. “Don’t take this away from me. I’m a one-goal England’s Cup player.”
“Damn fucking right you are.”
And I kiss her again, as the crowds who’ve stormed the pitch go wild.
But it’s all drowned out, because for the first time in a long time, I’m free of the pressure on my chest.
And I breathe deep.
“Drinks?” Lando asks as I step off the podium, passing the trophy back to the guys to keep celebrating our barely fought and easily won victory.
Alex and Hendricks pull me into a hug sandwich. “So fucking proud of you, Milo. Dad would be so fucking proud.”
I pull back and laugh hard as I stare at them. I suppose if they genuinely believe he would, then that’s something. I, however, think his opinion would match mine.
But Foxleigh Park does look stunning today, and I agree he’d be proud of that.
“C’mon, drinks,” Lando repeats as he’s jostled from behind by two girls eager to get to the podium where Jack’s still hugging the Cup with Juan. “The girls are at the bar.”
“Abso-fuckin’-lutely. Lead the way.” I grab Ruby’s hand, wrapping it around my neck, before I lose her in the crowd. “Come on, let’s go and find the others.”
Standing on her tiptoes, she kisses my cheek. “I want to check Mav, but I’ll come and find you.”
“I’ll do that—”
“No, go and be with your brothers.” She shakes her head. I know she wants the four of us to spend time together and make up for the past few weeks.
“I love you.”