Something Else #2
I venture a few steps closer, mimicking Eli’s gentle pacing, just to see better.
Eli heads to the stall but pauses half a step outside the open door.
The stallion does too, next to him, his ears flicking, unsure if something is about to happen.
Then slowly, Eli lifts his hand and the lead, still hovering over the withers but no longer touching.
They’re close enough to the stall that there’s no doubt they should be going in, so I’m trying to figure out why they’re not, searching for cues, for something.
Then the stallion walks in on his own—no fuss, no resistance—and I get it.
It needed to be his decision.
I barely know the horse, but can’t say I’m not proud. Feels like an accomplishment.
Eli smiles and lowers his arm, hanging the rope on the door before stepping inside too. The stallion just lowers his head toward the shavings, nudges around, then plants himself by the wall. Still alert, but grounded now.
“You can come closer,” Eli says, taking a brush that’s been sitting on the stall’s top rail.
I do as he says, my eyes glued on the horse. “Doesn’t even seem like the same horse.”
“No one’s the same scared as they are safe.”
True. And more than that, it’s too easy to mislabel someone who looks like he does. Monsters are big and scary, so that must be a monster. Like gold must shine. Like machines must perform.
But can’t a monster feel terrified? And still be who he is?
I lean against the top rail, arms folded, watching him settle. Eli lifts both his hands and the brush in front of him, waiting until the horse lifts his muzzle for a sniff. Only after does the brushing start.
Long, patient strokes. Brush on his right hand, the left one traces ridges of muscles and tendons, fingertips readjusting off-path as if they’re reading a map in Braille.
When he finds something within that landscape, whatever that may be, Eli brings the brush there, steady through the tension, pressing harder where it hides, where it sits heavy.
It feels like watching art being created. Except I’m not bored by it.
“We should go over expectations,” Eli eventually says, still brushing.
I stand straighter and nod. “Expectations. Okay.” Mine or his? I mean the ranch’s. I mean the Whisperer’s. It’s why we’re here, right? “Is there a pamphlet, or are we going verbal?”
“Verbal,” he says at the horse’s shoulder, more serious than I’d hope. “Number one, you show up.”
“Nailing it.” I smirk. “I’m right here, so next?”
He spares me a glance. “You arrived physically. Ain’t what I meant.”
Didn’t think it was. Just wanted another minute of—
Fine. Whatever. I bring my arms down from the stall fence, check my posture. Take a deeper breath while he goes on.
“Basic care’s handled. Feeding, turnout, mucking.
” He side-steps from shoulder to hip, keeping the brush in contact with the stallion’s flank.
“But progress depends on connection, and the quiet stuff is what tells him you’re safe.
So you wanna ride him, you show up. For training, grooming, cooldown.
To learn his patterns of calm, of focus, everything. ”
I nod, because there’s nothing to argue with. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty, nor am I against learning whatever I need to. But right now I’m a civilian who needs said patterns of calm and focus to land an airplane, and shit like that only works in the movies.
I’ll just figure it out on my own. Like always.
“Number two,” Eli continues, ticking it off without drama. “No coaching from the sidelines. No outside grooms, assistants, whatever. Entrance staff won’t let’em in, anyway.” He glances at me, smiling. “And trespassers usually don’t get as far as you did. ”
“Already cleared that,” I say curtly, looking away. Can’t get reeled back into how pretty he is and still keep going over the stupid rules. Oh, pardon me— expectations .
“Good,” he replies, simple and final. “No extra hands means less noise. Less chance of him confusing your pressure with someone else’s.”
He says it like he’s explaining how gravity works. No judgment, just mechanics. Fine, I’ll learn physics too. What else? Brain surgery? Maybe a little dance, as well?
“And three,” he adds, “you don’t lie. Not to me, not to yourself. If you’re scared, say so. If you ain’t sure what you’re seeing, say that too.”
“Why the fuck would I be scared?” I cross my arms. “You’re my trainer, not my therapist.”
“I ain’t neither if you’re dead.”
I stare at him. He stares back.
He’s serious. And I know a horse is not a chihuahua, who only thinks it’s a killing machine. Even a much smaller, less spooked horse can be one, without ever trying or wanting to.
“My second job’s advocating for your horse,” Eli goes on.
“My third’s passing that second onto you.
” The brush still touches fur, but he faces me completely.
“And my first’s keeping you both safe in the process.
” Then, as if a bit embarrassed, he turns back to brushing.
“I know the order’s wrong. Just making a point. ”
Can he not be cute for a second? God…
“That’s it, then? No more rules?”
“They’re—”
“Expectations. Got it, yeah.” I nod, eyes on the paddock outside. “Don’t want people expecting things they shouldn’t.”
Silence. For so long, I get to replay everything since arriving at this fucking place, what—two hours ago?
And I don’t know why my throat is drowning in acid, why my jaw can’t settle.
Wanna talk about expectations? I had zero about this place, apart from hoping they sold miracles to desperate riders.
And now I just feel…betrayed? Why the fuck would I?
I came here for results, not…whatever lusty shit my ape brain thinks it got swindled out of.
“This place,” Eli says after a good while.
“It’s easy to… I mean it’s normal to, um…
” He falters, searching for words, ones different than what he actually wants to say—what he almost says.
In his hesitation, he stops brushing properly, just half-pretending or not able to produce the full gesture.
Then he sighs and closes his eyes as if resetting, refocusing, and when he opens them again, the real brushing is back.
“This whole ranch’s built to let horses breathe.
The quiet, the peace… People ain’t immune to it either.
” A pause. And a lower tone to his voice.
“Sometimes they mistake that for something else.”
And I feel the stone in my chest gain edges and cut from the inside.
At the thought that maybe he saw hearts in my eyes and is calling them “something else,” telling me to snuff that out without saying the actual words—would sting less if he had.
That I’m so easy to figure out—so easy, period.
That I make every guy I meet laugh, that I let every guy see me laugh, without caring what goes viral or what doesn’t fit the brand.
That I’m a little boy, so in awe of all the magic he carries, he needs to pat my head and send me off to my parents before I embarrass myself. That I’m so desperate I mistake gentleness for a maybe this time .
And he’s just not into shit like that. Or at all. Or with guys. Or with me.
He’s right. Fucking gross to be this needy. I’d be disgusted too.
“Not mistaking anything,” I say, voice leveled. “I know why I’m here.”
“Good. ”
“Yeah. Good.”
The brush stops completely in his hand. Eli just stares at it, like there’s something else he wants to say. And I don’t know if I want to run away or yell at him to spit it out already.
“Well, this looks productive.”
I jolt but quickly settle. Perfect timing—nothing duct-tapes my cracks quicker than Mom’s voice.
I turn to her. She’s wearing those diva movie star sunglasses over a hot pink business suit, sleeves pulled up; I’d call it a vacation getup if she ever took time off. The barn’s half-door rattles as she tries the latch like it owes her something. It doesn’t budge.
Eli exits the stall, brush still in hand. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t even really look at her. Just presses his thumb to the green blinker on the panel by the gate, and it buzzes open with a soft click.
He doesn’t hold it open, just walks right back to the stall without a word. Mom steps inside, slipping her glasses off and hooking them on her dress shirt, then crossing her arms as she takes in the place.
Eli returns to brushing, slower this time, saying, “Quarantine barn. Don’t touch anything.”
Mom lets out a breath that could almost pass as a chuckle. “Of course. Just observing.”
“Didn’t expect you until later,” I tell her.
“Just wanted to ensure our star stallion arrived safely.” She turns to Eli. “Thank you again for making time, Mr. Navarro. I’m sure your schedule is brutal. It was a whole thing just getting your contact.”
“Don’t advertise,” Eli replies, still brushing.
“Right. Word-of-mouth. Trust. Reputation. Old-school marketing.” Mom nods as she steps up beside me, the picture of polish and presence.
When she’s sure Eli’s not looking, she pecks my shoulder and smiles my smile—the rare one from my mother, not my agent.
I smile back before she slips back into duty.
“This horse is going to change the game. And my son has earned every bit of this opportunity,” she says to Eli but looking at me, that love-goad mix that used to pump me up dancing in her eyes. “Only the perfect rider can take on a legendary horse. From zero to Olympian in two years.”
The headline said out loud rattles my spine.
Six months to go international in January, with the boon of Riverlight’s letterhead saying the horse is ready to debut.
Then we rest, then get our MERs down, then go five-star and keep going, as many as we can, so we get selected to the Olympic team. And hopefully that’s enough time.
“This horse ain’t got no deadline,” Eli says, picking at my stallion’s fur for a stuck piece of hay. “If you need a reminder.”