Blind Approach
THE FIRST FEW rounds go by in a blur of pigtails and ponies—and some neat braid designs I’m totally gonna steal.
Getting to watch with spectator eyes instead of competitor ones is so refreshing.
Don’t feel compelled to silently wish these boys and girls fumble their rounds to give me advantage, so it borders on fun, actually. As fun as kids on horses can be.
Though I do find myself automatically cataloging every approach, every takeoff, every landing. Occupational hazard—can’t do much about it.
Beside me, Ruin watches with the intensity of a sports scholarship bro studying for a final exam the night before. Not even a hint of panic, just soul-deep awe at discovering so much new shit, eyes focused, almost glazed over with “isn’t the world amazing” vibes.
Still, I stroke his neck whenever he tenses, murmuring praise when he stays calm despite the noise. I’ll never speak horse like Eli does, but I’m getting better at speaking Ruin. And that feels… really great.
“Doing great,” Eli says, patting Ruin’s shoulder from his other side. “Better than I expected, honestly. ”
I nod, pride blooming in my chest. “Yeah, he’s solid. Little stiff when the announcer’s voice comes through the speakers, but recovers fast.”
The current rider—a teenage girl on a sturdy colt—clears the last element with room to spare. Clean round, decent time. Not spectacular, but competent. The kind of ride that builds confidence.
As they exit, the announcer calls the next competitor, “Number forty-two, Zane Matthews on Thunderbolt.”
A small figure enters on a bay gelding that seems almost too large for him.
The boy can’t be more than ten years old, champagne blond curls catching the light under the helmet as he nods once to salute the judge.
His hair is a few shades lighter than mine, but it’s his eyes that get me—laser-sharp, too intense for a kid.
With quiet rage underneath, showing that, were this a war, he’d be ready for battle.
As if a part of him believes it is. That this is yet another battle in a lifelong war.
It just looks like focus on a child. No one questions it because no one notices.
Except me. Because I know.
It’s like someone grabbed me by the neck and forced my face onto a mirror—a very old, dusty one. My spine straightens, slow but solid like a glacier. “Jesus,” I whisper.
Eli glances over. He doesn’t say anything. I pretend I didn’t either.
The boy—Zane—gathers his reins and circles around the arena, exactly as he should. When the judges sound the buzzer, he doesn’t rush, getting his horse into a solid position before passing the starting line. The counter starts.
I don’t blink, following his movement. My breath holds as he approaches the first jump—a simple vertical.
His position is good and balanced, eyes up, giving his horse freedom with the reins.
They clear it, no problem. Next comes a tight turn to an oxer.
The gelding hesitates slightly, but the kid manages him well, getting him back on track.
“He’s good,” I murmur.
“Very,” I hear Eli say.
I watch them navigate the course. There are little mistakes—a drift that costs him time, a moment of hesitation before a combination—but the fundamentals are strong. There’s talent there. And hunger, obvious in how he drives forward after each obstacle, no wasted movement, no showboating.
They approach the most technical challenge on the course—a triple combination. First element clean. Second element a bit deep, but they recover. Third element—
The gelding balks. Stops dead. The boy goes flying forward onto the horse’s neck, somehow managing to stay on, but they’ve earned a refusal. Four penalty points, plus the time lost to regroup and move on.
“Poor kid,” Eli says. “That third’s a tough one.”
I nod, wincing in sympathy. It’s a shitty feeling I’ll never forget, no matter how many years since it last happened to me. The surge of adrenaline, the flash of panic, the quick recalculation. Knowing you’ve just blown your chance at a clear round.
The boy moves them along, but the momentum is broken. The rest of the round is rushed, a bit desperate, trying to cut down losses and get a quicker time. They knock a rail on the penultimate jump for four more faults, so even though the final time isn’t terrible, it means no ribbon.
They exit to the warm-up area, and that should be that, but I can’t stop tracking the kid, as much as I try. I watch him dismount and hand the reins to a trainer—no, his dad, going by looks. The man is smiling, a hand on the boy’s shoulder, a woman crouching to his eye level and giving him a hug.
It makes me smile. If anything, no one is going through the list of all his mistakes, or telling him how much it cost just to get the horse transported here, that this was all just a big waste of time.
Zane doesn’t hug the woman back, though, arms stiff at his side, head down.
She takes off his helmet, and he instantly storms away.
I don’t expect him to join the other competitors—I never did—but maybe head into the bathroom for a quick splash of water to cool off.
But no, he just keeps going, around the arena, until he gets to the quietest corner, not too far from where we’re standing.
His back slams into a structural beam, and he sinks to the ground, knees to his chest, face buried in his arms. No hiccups from sobbing, no tantrum. Just the silent, rigid posture of someone trying desperately not to cry where everyone can see.
I know that position. Fuck, I lived in that position. Until I was twelve, fell hard, and swore no one would ever see me fall again.
When I realize what I’m doing, Eli is standing straighter, looking around us, eyebrows high to ask what’s wrong, where I’m going. I don’t answer and he doesn’t press, and I let whatever energy got me moving guide my steps out of our roped-off area.
Head down, hands in my pockets, I weave through the sparse crowd. No one bats an eye at me—just another guy at a horse show—but my heart still pounds stupidly hard as I approach the steel beam where the boy sits alone, curled into himself.
He doesn’t look up as I stop right in front of him. Doesn’t even seem to register my presence.
I clear my throat. “That was a tough combo, huh?”
His head jerks up, eyes wide and red-rimmed. He quickly wipes his face with his sleeve. “I’m fine,” he says automatically, looking off to the side. I smile behind my mask, hearing him lie like that. I wrote that book, kid.
I crouch to his level, leaving enough space between me and his knees that it’s not weird. “You rode it well throughout. Good recovery.”
He glares at me, and I applaud his manners, because ten-year-old Cassian would be telling me to fuck off or start screaming stranger-danger. Some rando offering feedback after a failed jump? Oh, I’d be kicking shins right now.
I get it, so I peek behind my shoulder—coast is clear—then reach up and remove my mask, meeting his gaze directly.
His mouth drops open. “You’re...”
I smile, hoping it looks more natural than it feels. “On the down-low today. So keep my secret, yeah?”
He nods frantically, sitting straighter, huge brown eyes popping out. “I—I watch all your rounds. I have posters of you in my room. With Vivaldi and Caspian and Echo. And an old one with Phoenix.”
Christ. Of course he does. I try not to wince.
“That’s cool,” I say, then nod toward the arena. “I’m serious, kid. That was a good round. That third in the combination? That one’s a bitch—” I catch myself too late, but he chuckles, so fuck it. “I mean… Blind approach, weird lighting. It’s awkward.”
“I should have prepared him better,” the boy says, smile hanging on but voice small. “Thunderbolt didn’t know what was coming.”
I nod. The kid is already analyzing his mistakes. Good instinct. “Maybe. But when I was your age, I was a stain on those blind approaches. Like, embarrassingly bad.”
His eyes slit. “No way. You?”
This fucking brat. I love him. “You watched all my videos? Older ones too, from when I was a kid?”
“Some. My dad always gets me the most recent. ”
I nod. “Tell your dad to pull the Junior Nationals from fourteen years ago. I’m riding Touchstone. You watched that one?”
He shakes his head no. “What happened?”
There’s sirens in my brain, a kick to my stomach, but it lasts a second. I slip up my hoodie’s sleeve, left arm. And I show him my wrist scar. “I fell. Super hard. I was twelve, on a blind approach just like this one.”
Zane leans in, staring at the tiny C-shaped scar like it’s glowing gold. “Really?” His hand hovers beneath mine, like he wants to touch but wouldn’t dare. Then he whispers, “But you’re perfect.”
And that kicks harder against my chest than anything ever did.
I swallow dry, thankful he’s still looking down at the scar and not up at me. “No one’s perfect, kid. I’ve eaten dirt more times than I can remember.” He leans back, and I hide my wrist again. “Thing is, practice rounds don’t make the news. And bad jumps get forgotten. Eventually.”
“My dad says we have to study the bad jumps to know what went wrong,” he says, eyes on his knees. “He films everything.”
Shit… That hits too close to home. I remember Mom’s camera, always present, always on. Then we’d watch the recordings in our hotel room, pinpointing flaws over dinner.
But not after that fall. That evening, we had pizza on the bed, then ice cream on the floor. A movie on TV—pay-per-view. I remember Mom complaining how expensive it was. We watched it anyway.
Wow… I’d forgotten about that.
“That’s smart,” I say, because it is. Recordings are just another tool, like a mirrored wall for a dancer. “Just don’t get hung up on what happened in the past. If you keep riding like you did today, keep working on what you love, you’ll get those combinations. No problem.”
He nods, smile blooming slightly and spreading to his eyes. “Thanks, Mr. Vale.”
“Cassian,” I correct. “Mr. Vale is for strangers. And we’re buds, right? Zane Matthews on Thunderbolt?”