Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
In the final match before we fly to play for the Sotogrande Gold Cup mid-August, Maycourt lose to the Titans at their club with a humbling score of eleven goals to six.
My heart sinks as Mateo hands Serafina over to Eduardo and comes storming off the pitch, undoing his helmet and yanking it from his head as he mutters a string of expletives in Spanish.
I make the mistake of accosting him – I should wait until he’s cooled down, but the pull in me to speak to him is too strong.
My desperation to engage with him is heightened by how he’s been gradually distancing himself from me ever since the night of the grooms’ match.
He didn’t try to pretend that things hadn’t changed; he told me it might be best if we don’t spend every evening together so he could get early nights and be on better form first thing in the morning.
He’s become a little less affectionate with me in the yard, but he said that was because he needed to boost morale for the rest of the team, and he needed them to know that he wasn’t distracted at work.
He’s gradually pulling away more and more to the point where I think it’s actually making his performance worse.
He won’t let me comfort him when he loses; he’s harder on himself, which only adds to his frustration; he’s actively avoiding me during half-times or even after stick and ball.
It’s like he doesn’t want anyone thinking I’m in his ear.
But every athlete needs their support team.
‘I’m sorry about today,’ I say, falling into step with him as he barely acknowledges me. ‘You played so well in the first chukka. We were leading and—’
‘I wasn’t focused.’
‘You were focused; it was a bit of bad luck. That foul in the third chukka wasn’t completely your fault in my opinion and I thought it was great that you were playing with a bit more aggression.’
He shakes his head.
‘Mateo, it was one match.’
He stops abruptly, turning to me. ‘It wasn’t one match, Ash. It’s been the last few. Soto is right round the corner. If I keep playing like this, no patron with a brain is going to sign me to their team. I’m not showing any consistency. I’m… distracted.’
I bristle. ‘You’re acting as though you were the only person who lost today. Like the responsibility is all on you.’
‘Those guys were right,’ he says, running his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve lost my way. I should have ended the UK season on a high. It’s finishing on a disaster.’
‘That’s not true. Fitz said a stupid comment when he was drunk and you’ve let him get to you! He’s inside your head; that’s why you’re not playing at the top of your game. You need to be kinder to yourself.’
‘This is my career!’ he cries, emphasising his point by pointing his helmet at me. ‘You know how this goes. I’m signed for a season, Ash. I can’t just do whatever I want and take some days off to be kind to myself.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying and you know it.’
‘Everything is at stake. We won the Gold Cup. We should be seen as a serious threat. Instead,’ he gestures to the opposing team high-fiving their supporters, ‘we’ve become a joke.’
I try to reach for his hand but he pulls away. My cheeks flush at the rejection.
‘Ash, if I want to go to Argentina, I need to prove I’m not a fuck-up,’ he mumbles.
‘Oh my God, you are not a fuck-up!’ I say in exasperation. ‘It is one match, Mateo.’
‘As a polo player, you’re only as good as your last match. Or your last two or three. All of those, I’ve lost.’
‘You’re a great player. You have an amazing handicap.’
‘Not for long. Fuck’s sake. How did this happen? How did I let this happen?’
‘You need to fight the demons in your head telling you you’re not good enough.’
He sighs heavily. ‘What I need is some time to think about my mistakes during that play. I’m sorry, we’ll talk later, okay?’
My stomach twisted into a knot, I nod, letting him walk away from me.
I wait a moment to collect myself and then turn around to almost stride straight into Basilio, who has sauntered over to me without me realising.
He’s here to watch the youngest player on the Titans team, a Brit named Tom, who quit school at sixteen to complete several stints in polo yards abroad before returning a top-league player by the age of twenty.
This is his first season with the Titans, but everyone knows Ambrose has been sniffing around him.
‘Ash,’ Basilio says with a dashing smile, placing a warm hand on my arm as he gives me a kiss on each cheek accompanied by a waft of expensive cologne. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t stick around after the grooms’ match. You played beautifully.’
‘Thanks,’ I mumble, eyes downcast.
He sticks his hands in his pockets. ‘Forgive me. I heard your argument with Mateo.’
‘It wasn’t an argument. He’s upset from the match.’
‘I wanted to make sure you’re all right.’
‘I’m fine. It was nothing.’
Sympathy flashes across his expression. ‘You can’t blame yourself, you know that, right?
Mateo is who he is. No one can change him.
Not even someone like you. Others can achieve balance, but Mateo has always felt like he had something to prove and there was never any time for anything else in his life. I tried to warn you…’
‘He’s dedicated,’ I state, immediately defensive. ‘Unlike other people in this sport, he wasn’t handed the opportunity on a plate. He had to work hard to get where he is. I admire that and I understand that that means losses hit harder. He doesn’t take it for granted.’
‘Believe me, Ash, I of all people admire his work ethic,’ Basilio says in a serious voice.
‘But don’t you see? That only serves to prove my point.
For Mateo, polo is life. It always has been; it always will be.
Sure, he might have got caught up in something that made him forget it, but in the end, he will always come back to putting polo first. No one can compete with that. ’
Chilled to the bone at the hard-hitting truth, I blink back tears.
‘You want my honest opinion? I swear, no agenda here,’ he claims, raising his hands up.
‘Mateo is an idiot. There have been times this season that I’ve never seen him play better.
I think that’s because of you. If he pushes you away, he’ll lose the momentum you’ve inspired.
It’s like he found his lucky charm in you. ’
I hang my head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Ash, look at me.’ He waits until I’ve forced myself to bring my gaze to meet his. ‘Just because Mateo can’t see what he has, it doesn’t mean no one else can.’
He leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek, lingering a moment too long, as though considering something before thinking better of it and pulling away. He emits a small sigh.
‘I hope I’ll see you in Spain,’ he says, before strolling towards his car, looking back over his shoulder at me as he goes.
I return to the ponies, hurt, rattled and confused, and with the sense of foreboding that’s been niggling at me for days thumping at my heart, demanding my full attention.
*
The Ayala Polo Club is a beautiful setting with long stretches of trees around the polo fields providing shade for the pony lines and immaculate stables and pitches.
Spectators are dedicated to cooling their faces with fans, or play schedules if they’re less organised, the stands a sea of flushed cheeks, dark sunglasses and Panama hats.
In the sweltering heat of Sotogrande in August, the ponies are changed during chukkas at a constant rate, led from the pitch with their coats glistening with sweat, their nostrils flaring, exhausted from just a few minutes of thundering across the ground at speed.
Cooling them down is, like always, a military operation, but there’s absolutely no room for mistakes and the Maycourt grooms and vets work with sharp focus throughout the first match to make sure the ponies are well looked after.
I barely catch a glimpse of Mateo playing and am too busy to speak to him in between.
There’s a loud cheer at the end of the match and I have no clue who might have won, having forgotten to check the scoreboard the last time I passed it.
When I look up to see our team congratulating one another, I give a nod of satisfaction before wiping the sheen of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and returning to scraping the water from Violet’s steaming coat.
My only moment of pause is when I hear Fitz’s bellowing voice floating across the pony lines:
‘He’s back! Now, that’s more like the Mateo we know.’
Everything seems calm early the next morning when I’m exercising the ponies.
I feel better after getting an early night last night – by the time we’d finished with the ponies, it was late and all the grooms were exhausted.
I’d had to message Mateo to let him know I’d be staying at my hotel which is much closer to the stables.
I was tired, sweaty, dirty, desperate for a shower and fantasising about climbing into bed and passing out, which is essentially what I did as soon as I got back.
I knew he wouldn’t mind. He’s got an important networking event tomorrow with patrons he thinks might be considering him for Argentina, so I knew he’d be happy to be well-rested for that – he’s talked more about that party than the actual tournament.
I’d slept solidly the moment my head hit the pillow and feel refreshed and in a brighter mood.
Walking the ponies under glorious sunshine and clear, blue skies also helps.
When I’ve finished the sets, I grab some water and check my phone, laughing with Jules over Violet playing up with her this morning.
But as I notice my screen, my blood runs cold.