Five - Champion #2
It rips through the air and makes it icy down to my blood. Where? I can’t see anything—
A loud neigh follows. Panicked.
We all freeze. Rey doesn’t.
Her hand flies to her vest, thumb already on her call button before the radio reaches her lips.
“Status,” she barks into the receiver. “Location and severity.”
The radio crackles. “North paddock,” comes a strained voice. “Handler down. Grayson’s rearing. Won’t let us near. Possible broken arm.”
“Medical?”
A different voice. “Medical here. En route.”
Lena clutches harder on Kellan’s arm, her other hand reaching back and clamping on mine so hard I’ll have bruises. Rey is flipping channels on her radio, barking instructions to someone on the other end.
My eyes snap back to the pen below. Just in time to catch Eli swinging a leg over my horse’s barrel with him still flat on the ground. Then getting him to surge to his feet in one smooth motion, lifting Eli with him. No scramble, no spook—just up and ready.
Holy shit.
My heart is trying to punch its way out, because that’s my horse. The murder machine. The nightmare that had professional handlers pissing themselves. And he just... accepted a rider. Without question. Without hesitation.
Eli leans forward. The horse pivots on his haunches, facing the direction of the scream we heard. A hand brushes the stallion’s neck.
And they explode.
It’s not just running. It’s flight. Pure, liquid speed that starts without a warmup, without a transition—zero to where the fuck did he go in half a thought.
They tear across the round pen, the stallion’s massive strides eating up ground, the whole diameter in two seconds.
His mane and tail stream behind him, black smoke from a missile, and Eli moves with him perfectly, bodies in sync, minds connected.
And at the edge of the pen, when I’m sure they’re about to crash…
He jumps.
Launches over it, fluid like water, strong like wind.
Like a showjumper. A champion.
I know it the instant his hooves leave the ground.
That bascule—holy shit, it’s textbook. His knees snap tight, front legs folding like a spring blade, shoulders loose but coiled, a perfect arc through the air.
He found his takeoff distance without a stride of setup, raw calculation in his body like he was born with the math.
I’ve ridden trained horses that couldn’t read a fence like that with ten years of coaching.
Then the landing. Smooth, like silk unrolling. No stumble, no wasted stride, just power funneling forward, already driving to the next beat.
Five months. I’ve been counting backward in dread; suddenly, I’m counting forward in reps.
Grid lines. Bounce-to-oxer lanes to teach sit.
Shoulder control so that tractor-trailer stride can coil.
Water school. Crowd noise tolerance. Vet scans, shoeing tweaks, cardio sets.
The media spin writes itself—Flagged Freak to Finals.
If his heart is this clean under zero tack…
He’s my season. My shot.
My horse.
“Stay up here,” Rey snaps, power-walking for the stairs. “Do not get in the way.”
I accept the orders. For a second.
“I’ll just…” I start but don’t finish, peeling away from the rail and Lena’s hold. She yelps, Kellan chokes something out, but I’m already through the door, taking the stairs two at a time, nearly wiping out at the bottom when my boot catches on the last step.
By the time I hit the ground level, Rey is already in a buggy, snapping her seatbelt on. She’s got that look—visor eyes, zero patience, barely-contained adrenaline. I don’t think, just vault into the passenger seat, nearly clipping my shin on the edge. “Go,” I say, breathless.
Rey growls. “You ever listen?” She throws me a glare sharp enough to cut chains. Still, she slams a boot on the throttle, and we lurch forward, gravel spitting out behind us as the barn whips past. “When this is over, you ‘n I are having a long chat ‘bout following goddamn instructions.”
She then continues to mutter about entitled riders and their death wishes, but I don’t care. Easier to ask for forgiveness than waste time pleading my case.
Rey drives like someone who learned in a war zone—fast, efficient, with zero regard for things like established paths or intended use of the vehicle .
The wind knifes at my face as we crest a rise, and there—Eli and my stallion blaze across the lower paddock like a bolt of black energy forged them together.
No tack, no nothing. Just muscle and instinct.
It’s obscene how fast they’re moving. The kind of raw speed you see on wildebeest escaping cheetahs.
The buggy corners so hard, I slide across the seat and slam into Rey.
We see the scene ahead now, figures scattered, a gray colt rearing high, hooves slashing the air, halter lead flailing.
A handler is half-curled on the ground, holding her mangled arm.
Someone is trying to get close to the colt, only to dive out of range when it comes crashing back down.
But my eyes don’t stay there. They spring back to my horse and—
What’s Eli doing?
They’re slowing down, and he’s sitting up now, yet somehow still perfectly balanced without a saddle or stirrups. Both his hands come to his lips, and he whistles, loud and sharp like lightning that slices through the valley, booming thunder in a storm, echoing, rippling.
And it must’ve been some kind of calling for the thunder goddess, because AP materializes beside our buggy, passes by us, and gets in line behind my horse, catching up.
Eli sees her, glancing over his shoulder mid-stride, and doesn’t wait, swinging a leg over and sliding off the flank with the horse still moving.
His boots hit the dirt hard, but he doesn’t miss a step, launching straight into a sprint toward the downed stablehand.
My stallion tosses his head, energy still crackling.
But AP cuts in like a veteran drill sergeant before he can even think of the next steps.
She arcs across his path, redirecting him with her momentum.
Her ears pin forward, and with nothing but some unspoken horsekin authority emanating from her presence, she turns him—half-step, half-dance—away from the chaos.
And it’s incredible to watch, a big black rocket crashing into a safety net of soft cream feathers and not blow up, not throw a tantrum or show the simplest sign of being nervous or at least annoyed.
AP holds him there, steady, shielding him from the commotion, while Eli is already dropping to one knee beside the handler.
Rey parks the buggy with a jerk that nearly sends me into the windshield. She’s out and moving before I can even think a thought.
“Stay.” She jabs a finger at me, then she’s gone, jogging toward the cluster of staff.
I don’t get up but crane my neck, trying to see. The handler on the ground, medical staff already on her. The dapple gray colt still rearing and striking out, eyes white with terror.
Eli doesn’t linger, just passes the baton when Rey gets there, standing and heading toward the colt.
He doesn’t rush but doesn’t stop either, and I honestly don’t understand it.
If there’s any hesitance there, he keeps it in his mind, but I don’t think that’s it.
He simply clocks everything in a single once-over, runs every scenario in separate filaments of the same thread, simultaneously, including any fear response.
And he does it on his way to the mess, so he’s done reacting when he gets there.
At least that’s how I explain the magic.
Makes it no less magical.
He keeps his body angled away, no direct eye contact.
Still, the colt rears again when he gets close enough, higher, hooves slamming down so close to Eli I swear I feel the thud through the buggy seat.
But Eli keeps moving, not toward the horse but parallel to it, his path a gentle, gradual curve toward the chaotic center, an asteroid caught in a planet’s gravity.
The colt wheels toward him, nostrils flaring, and I flinch, from all the way out here—Eli doesn’t. One hand comes up, palm open, just above shoulder height, enough to catch the eye. The colt’s ears flick, the rhythm of its breathing hitches. Only there, two steps away, does Eli halt.
And he keeps there. The horse keeps there. Only a palm, up and open, between them.
Then, quick as a heartbeat, Eli swoops in.
A hand on the colt’s withers. Firm. Unyielding.
The other on the lead rope. The colt tenses, surges.
Eli holds steady, an anchor, holding but not pulling, not yanking him back to submission—been here long enough to learn that word has no place in Riverlight.
Eli shifts his weight, pivots his body, and the colt… just gives.
Front feet touch earth. Another breath between them—steady, steady—and that storm turns overcast and then clear skies.
The animal folds into stillness, sides heaving. Still alert, maybe still a little apprehensive about whatever just happened to trigger him, but docile now, lazily following Eli.
And I smile—Eli does too—when the injured handler, arm in a temporary splint, is helped to her feet and her first move is to go pet the colt, massage his jaw with her good hand. Like she’s sorry that happened, but they’ll be okay. Both of them.
Hard to believe it’s even the same animal. But that’s what they do here, isn’t it? Cure the mayhem off the innocent. And not blame them for the flaws that caused it.
Because it’s not a glass’s fault if it smashes when hitting a wall. And if the jagged edges scratch against each other, if the glue burns over the cracks, it wouldn’t be its fault either.
Everything that heals was once broken. But broken things never see it that way.
The dust settles with the morning fog. Medical staff help the injured handler into the back seat of a ranch truck. The gray colt is being led away by two handlers now, steps even and controlled.
Rey starts heading back, shooting orders in rapid-fire to the radio in her hand.
“Jenny, you’re with me for follow-up check on that colt.
One hour. Merv, please have the full incident report on my desk by lunch.
” Everyone responds affirmatively as she drops into the buggy beside me, a big exhale for calm.
Standing like sentinels in the morning light, AP and my stallion wait, patient and relaxed. And I get a feeling in the pit of my stomach that says I’ve been doing this shit all wrong. Not sure how but… I can’t shake that awareness off, as blurry as it is.
Only after everyone’s gone does Eli finally walk back toward both horses, unhurried.
Tension still lingers on his shoulders, still ready to go even after the crisis is over.
Halfway there, his lips purse, and he makes a soft kissing sound.
AP’s head lifts immediately, ears pricked forward, and without hesitation, she leaves my stallion’s side and trots to Eli, looking like a big, happy puppy.
She stops when reaching Eli, her muzzle extending toward his chest. His hands come up automatically, cupping her jaw, fingers sliding under her chin. Then he leans forward and rests his forehead against hers, and my throat tightens.
They stay like that for a moment. Eli’s eyes close briefly, and there’s something in his expression that feels too private to witness, but it’s something so fundamental I can’t look away either.
Like he’s drawing strength from her presence, and I know it’s real when all that previous tension gradually sheds off his shoulders and leaves no trace behind.
I thought I knew horses. Twenty years, this quarantine week was the longest I’ve been without riding one.
I don’t know shit.
After a moment, Eli steps back. He gives AP’s neck one final pat, and she dips her head before turning and ambling away, back to the general direction of where she first appeared.
Her white tail swishes lazily, head lowered as she begins to graze on the way.
Just another day at home. Hashtag horse life.
Eli then turns to my stallion, as steady and unhurried as before. His ears flick, tracking Eli’s approach, but his body remains relaxed, almost expectant.
When Eli reaches him, he doesn’t immediately touch him. He just stands beside him, letting the horse feel his presence. Then, with a gentleness that still shocks me coming from a mammoth, he nudges Eli’s shoulder with his muzzle .
Eli’s hand comes up, almost absently, to scratch where my stallion’s halter would normally sit. The horse leans into it, barely anything, eyelids drooping—that’s the sweet spot.
“Good man,” I hear Eli say. “Solid work.”
It’s not praise. It’s a thanks. For being brave, steady when it mattered. Because praise is for when cues are followed, and that scary, brilliant horse did all of that without a single one.
Eli traces the muscles down to my stallion’s chest, then steps to the side, one hand sliding along the flank as he moves. No gear and no physical connection beyond that light touch, but the horse still turns with him, drawn by invisible threads to follow along.
They walk toward us, side by side. “Ready to head back?” Eli calls.
“Yeah,” Rey answers. “Situation’s contained. Looks like a simple fracture, clean break. She’ll be fine.”
Eli nods, his hand never leaving my stallion’s shoulder. “Good. This one earned his oats today.”
And the way he says it—casual, matter-of-fact, but with a quiet pride—makes me realize something I hadn’t considered before. Eli’s not just training my horse.
He believes in him too.