One - The Perfect Riding Machine #2
Mom is still talking, fielding questions, spinning between reporters and cameras like she’s got the whole thing choreographed. “It’s a unique arrangement, yes, but more than that, it’s an investment in the future of the sport, spearheaded by our team and fully supported by our sponsors.”
“This horse exudes raw talent, built on generation after generation of champion bloodlines. It deserves extraordinary handling, not the disservice of an ineligibility to compete.” She places a hand on my shoulder. “It deserves The Perfect Riding Machine.”
What is she saying?
No, this isn’t how it goes. I show up, I ride who’s assigned, and I deliver results. No strings. No baggage. That’s our business plan. At least at this level, at my age, this stage in my career.
An acquisition? That’s permanent. Personal. The kind of move that ties my name to the outcome. For better or worse.
And with a volatile, difficult horse…
I keep my breaths steady. Can’t let that into my head right now. Can’t spiral.
I stare forward, locked on a random spot on the far wall as if nothing else is worth my interest at the moment.
I remind myself to blink every so often, to switch between random spots in far walls from time to time, my mind fixed onto every word, rushing to filter terms and analyze intent as if it could extract meaning from thin air.
“Question for Cassian,” another reporter calls, sending a shudder up my spine.
I push all roaming thoughts aside as Mom places the mic back in front of me with a pleased smile.
Not a glance my way. “Is it true the horse is considered dangerous, hence why it hasn’t debuted yet?
That several riders passed after reviewing its file? ”
I don’t know the horse. Never met him, for sure never ridden him. I only vaguely remember the initial footage being passed around the circuit. A wild thing refusing to be tamed.
Dangerous? I bet. Like harnessing a damn tornado.
I clear my throat, stall with a smile. “I’ve never believed in labeling horses before seeing them with my own eyes. I’ll form my opinion when I ride.”
Which sounds like something but means nothing. PR 101 .
Another flash. Questions in rapid fire.
“What will you name the horse?”
“Is it true it threw a rider and fractured his collarbone?”
“Are you skipping qualifiers, then?”
I answer none of it. Mom handles the buzz like she’s selling stocks. I sit there, smiling pretty, and paying no mind to the tectonic shift under my feet.
When it’s finally over, we exit through the back door into a hallway already crowded with sponsor liaisons and event staff. No cameras here, but Mom is still smiling like they are.
I tug her arm. “What the hell was that?”
“Shh.” She nods to the corridor. “Not now. Sponsors.”
The word flips a switch, and I’m PR-ready before I even glance. Two men in tailored blazers make haste down the hall, overexcited to shake my hand. I give them the smile. They give me the pitch.
“Phenomenal ride, Cassian,” says the one overdressed in orange and aftershave that hits before his palm does on mine. He shakes it like he paid enough to own a percentage. “We’re thrilled about the next phase. A horse like that needs a rider who can handle the risk.”
“Truly a legacy union. History in the making,” finishes the other, who barely looks old enough to drink, but wears a watch worth more than most horses.
I nod. Smile. Confirm. Whatever they’re saying. All the while calculating what happens if I can’t ride this horse. If he throws me. If I can’t get inside his head.
If I tank. Again. In front of the world. On a horse with my name on it.
Eventually, they leave, and I turn to Mom as she fishes her smartphone from her purse, my back to them in case one sneaks a final glance our way.
“So I’m supposed to ride an untamable horse we didn’t even meet yet?
That’s our plan?” My voice stays low, even.
A frown starts, but I smooth it out. Stay clean.
“A green horse with no passport? Have him ready to debut, then go international, get the MERs, fly up the rankings—all before the Olympics?”
They’re called Minimum Eligibility Requirements for a reason. They’re required for the pairing—rider and horse—to be selected for the Olympic team. So my rank means shit by itself.
It would take a good five years—four if we’re lucky. The Olympics are in two.
“Don’t worry. Everything will be in place. He’ll debut in the next winter festival.”
My lips gape. “That’s in six months.”
“And?”
“ And? It’s impossible.”
She shrugs, doesn’t even look up from her phone, scrolling like she’s catching up on headlines, not detonating my career plan. “Then erase ‘impossible’ from your dictionary. Thought you already had, after this long.”
My hand flies to hers and covers the screen. That gets her to face me, finally. She’s not even mad—there’s no gall at my disrespect, so I know she’d very much prefer not to go there. But we have to.
“You should’ve told me,” I say quietly.
She’s not as quiet. “And you’d have—what—ridden like a wreck today? Let your nerves show? Blamed me afterwards for messing with your head?” She narrows her eyes. “This way, you won. That’s what matters. You can freak out all you want, now.”
“When did I ever blame you for anything?”
“Oh? That time in the Netherlands?”
It takes me a moment to pinpoint the memory. Then I close my eyes so I’m not caught rolling them. “For fuck’s sake, Mom. I was like… sixteen. Blaming parents is what we do.”
She snort-laughs. I bite my lip not to follow.
“And if I remember correctly, the Netherlands was my first real crush, and your first instinct was to buy me condoms and anal lube.” She’s covering her grin, breathing in chops, tears gleaming in the corner of her eyes. “You know what? You’re right, that one’s on you. I blame you for that.”
“Well, I was sixteen once too, you know? I know how it goes!” I just cover my face and groan as she wheezes a laugh at her own comment, expertly pressing tears off her lashes before they drop. “He was a cutie. I remember.”
He was, but then he opened his mouth, and that was that. Cute guy magic doesn’t last.
“You know I’d do it again, right?” she says, quiet now, reaching for my face, tracing up my cheekbone and down my jaw with the tips of her nails.
My skin vibrates. My instinct is to lean into her palm, let its warmth answer for me. That I can do anything, even this— especially this, what looks impossible.
But we’re long past that, and I know us. I know what softness means when it comes from her.
So I don’t move. Let it itch.
Because she only gets soft when she needs me to do something hard.
And I just want softness for no reason.
“I know,” I tell her. She nods once, and it’s done. “But Mom, a horse that never competed? Going international in six months? Is that even allowed?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get all the help you need,” she continues, straightening up and going back to her phone. “You know one thing more precious than trust-fund money?” Her chin nudges toward where the sponsors disappeared to. “Contacts. I got you the horse whisperer. ”
“The what?”
Her smirk spells evil genius . “One of the sponsors had a contact. Friend of a trainer, something like that. Took weeks to find him, a few more to set things in motion. But he’s finally agreed to take the horse.”
Wait. The whisperer.
There’s really only one man people in the industry call the whisperer .
The one with the ranch out in the sticks, somewhere unbranded and hard to find.
Doesn’t do interviews. Doesn’t advertise.
Heck, not sure there’s even an official photo of him.
My mental image is of a garden-variety crusty old man, but with cowboy boots and a bad mustache.
But he doesn’t need to advertise shit, because the stories speak for themselves. Horses that would’ve been put down winning titles instead. Animals that bit, kicked, refused to load now eating from their trainer’s palms and running clean, behaving like any other champion out there.
He’s the man they bring in when horses go rogue, when bloodlines get too sharp, or tempers get bred too deep. He’s not a trainer so much as a last-ditch translator. The horses go to him, not the other way around, which says more than anything about his reputation.
I’ve seen clips—grainy, stolen ones. A broken horse walking again, just from being near him, not even touched. Just… responding to energy, somehow.
And not only that, rumor has it he has National Federations kissing his boots. There’s at least two cases I remember, horses with close-to-nothing on their passports, making surprise appearances on international courses.
Officially, they were incredible horses, so their NFs deemed them physically and mentally ready for the world stage. One was even under six years old—too precocious by any standard.
Unofficially? The horse whisperer said they could. So they did.
A legacy union, they said? The horse with the most potential, ridden by the best rider, trained by the mythical horse shaman everyone dreams of but can’t get?
Yeah, I get it now. Doesn’t mean I like it.
“And he just… said yes?” I ask.
One loud cackle. “Trust me, there was no just about it. The guy is thorough. Sent his own vet to check the horse. Full exam, pain response, behavioral triggers, all of it on video for him to review personally. It was a whole fucking thing.” She shakes her head at the memory.
“But a month or so later, we got word. It’s on.
The horse is being transported there. ETA next week. ”
Already? Shit…
“And if it doesn’t work?”
She finally glances up. “Then we send it somewhere to be retired, because surely no one else will take it— or the risk. Which means we lose the season, and most likely a good chunk of sponsors.” She crosses her arms tight, looks at me dead on.
“So? Should we start learning how to flip burgers, or are you focused?”
I stare at her, stomach cramped, throat burning. That’s what it has come to? Do the impossible or jump off the ladder I’ve been climbing all my life?
Mom leans closer so she gets my attention. “Look. There’s no way we can keep selling your image as the perfect rider and not pair you with a once-in-a-lifetime horse. It’s part of the story. Period. So are you on board or not?”
I swallow nothing. My tongue is dry. “I am,” I say. This is all I’ve ever done in my life, all I’ve ever wanted to do since I stopped drawing horses in crayon and started riding them. What else can I be if not on board?
“Good.” Mom’s phone rings in her hand, and she answers even before adding, “This is how you go Olympic, sweetheart. There’s no shortcuts.” And then she’s off, phone to her ear, heels clacking down the hall.
And I keep staring, too tired to even be mad anymore.