Twenty - Everything
TWENTY
EVERYTHING
THE SECOND WE clear the last element, I slide the video back to the start.
The first jumps are all on point, but forty seconds in, that damn Liverpool… They still freak Ruin out a bit, even if he tries to power through—and he does, I can tell.
I bring my phone way too close, watching as his massive body launches over the poles like it’s nothing, but it’s not nothing.
I see it—that slight hesitation three strides out, a hiccup that results in an otherwise easy landing, hooves steady but a little deep, a hair too short. And too toe-first to my liking.
Which means nothing to most people. But to me, it means a compromised lift, one that, with a little less luck, could very well end in a knockdown and a fault.
The transport truck hits a pothole, the phone swaying with my hands like a wave as the shock absorbers ease it out.
Marcus slaps the steering wheel, muttering something about road maintenance out in the country that I only half-hear.
I steady my arms, elbows pinned against my torso, so I can focus on the image as we clear the final jump.
I click my tongue. My body was slightly too far forward on that landing. We finished clean, we got Ruin to four stars with that jump—a miracle, given we’re only three months into his international debut. And that’s what matters, of course, but…
I don’t know.
My head shakes. I double-tap the left side of the screen, rewind ten seconds. My hand corrected too sharply after the vertical, too, and like always, Ruin handled it like a champ, but I could have been way smoother. Should have been smoother. I know better, why couldn’t I just—
Oh.
Oh, wait, I’m doing it again. No, fuck that.
The thoughts. The criticism. That’s the old programming talking. The should’ve been betters , the could’ve done mores , and the whys and the buts .
No. Not anymore.
I close my eyes for a moment as I take a breath. And I smile, just a little, letting hands and phone fall dead to my lap.
“You good?” Marcus asks, glancing at me and then returning his eyes to the road. “Something wrong with your phone?”
I take another breath and force it out loudly, just for the dramatics. And for the annoyance to match my words. “Just being a dick to myself, critiquing my own riding and overthinking shit. Bad habit, except they don’t make patches to help you quit.”
Marcus hums. “Looked pretty damn impressive to me. My youngest has been following your stuff since you started posting those Rein Ready videos. She says you’re revolutionizing the sport or something.”
My cheeks catch fire at that. We’re not even four months into the rebrand, so no one is revolutionizing anything just yet.
I mean… Yeah, it’s uncommon for athletes in general, let alone in equestrian sports, to lean into the mistakes and share them publicly, let alone wrap their whole brands around them.
But calling it a revolution when I’m just being real? It’s too…weird, I guess.
But it’s weird just because it’s feedback.
Not from a sponsor about a missed deliverable, but the genuine, unfiltered kind that has nothing to do with performance metrics and everything to do with how that performance affects people.
Real people, real fans. And inspires them, and wows them, and throws them off when they finally get to peek behind the curtain.
The other day, I posted a photo of the calluses between my ring and pinky fingers, and then had to post a follow-up one that included my face because people didn’t believe those were my actual hands.
Everyone was so nice, though. Suggesting homemade balms or their favorite brand creams to treat them.
And reminding me to always wear gloves with a million exclamation marks, like I wouldn’t know how important they are.
For a long time, I liked the grip better without them is all.
It’s endearing. Because people do seem to genuinely care, which is… Yeah, it’s weird. But also incredible.
I swipe the video away, then tap on my social media app. Once it loads, my feed fills with the now-familiar mix of professional shots from Mom’s marketing team, and candid moments caught by fans or fellow riders.
There’s a new notification, a photo of me crouched beside a kid—Alice, I won’t forget—at the junior side event I attended on a rest day two weeks ago.
She’s maybe nine or ten, both of us making silly faces at the camera because she asked for the photo but was nervous, so I suggested we go bananas.
Which ended up with me crossing my eyes and her with the most impressive underbite. Her parent captioned it.
@LauLau80: Still can’t believe she got to meet her idol. Thanks for being kind, @CassianVale.
The girl was super sweet. She was competing again soon, wasn’t she? I tap the comment box, fingers flying across the screen as I type a response.
@CassianVale: She’s got the seat, the focus, and the heart. Tell her to keep riding. I’ll be watching. Please DM me her next show.
I hit send before I can overthink it. A notification pops up almost immediately—the parent has replied with a string of exclamation points and a crying emoji. It makes me smile. Makes it feel right. This, everything. Just…right.
I keep scrolling. There I am, hosing down Ruin because he hates the Liverpool but apparently loves mud puddles—go figure.
There I am, extracting yet another cat from his back, which I don’t even question anymore.
He loves cats, cats love him; it’s a part of life.
And there I am, braiding his hair into a damn flawless running French braid.
People have been asking for a tutorial, so I’ll probably take care of that during this downtime.
Real moments. Real me. It’s freeing, knowing I’d never fuck this up because all I need to do is be myself. And that even so, even as just myself, the strategy is working, according to sponsors—most old, some new—and the engagement numbers Mom obsessively tracks.
Tracks for both of us. Our family therapist forbade me from checking.
No complaints there.
I keep scrolling, past Kellan’s latest thirst trap that includes oiled-up abs, a hay bale, and suspiciously well-placed cowboy hat—the usual.
Scrolling, past Lena’s video of her new mare, captioned “the only lady allowed to buck me,” which nearly made Mom choke on her coffee when I showed her.
Past sponsored content that Mom now insists must include actual useful or interesting information instead of just glossy product placement.
There’s a candid shot of Eli that someone caught during the last Open Day.
He’s demonstrating some groundwork technique with AP, his body loose and easy, face alight with that quiet joy he gets when he’s near a horse, especially his old lady.
His hair is pulled back in that messy half-bun he does when it’s hot, a few strands escaping to frame his face.
He looks... God, so happy. Dreamy.
The caption underneath reads, “The real magic behind Riverlight,” and people have gone feral about him, understandably.
At least half are barn moms asking if he’s single, many overusing the eggplant and hot face emojis—also understandably—and I have to physically restrain myself not to get possessive in the comments.
He’s most definitely not single, thank you very much.
I’ve been gone for so long… Maybe we can finally post a picture together.
If he wants to. I don’t need the world to know.
I don’t need anything from the world when I’m with him.
I barely have time to like the photo before my screen fills with an incoming video call. Kellan’s face takes up the entire display, blaring the custom ringtone he guilted me into setting up just for him on my phone.
“What the heck is that sound?” Marcus asks.
I sigh. “That, my friend, is a turtle having an orgasm.”
“Okay.” A pause. “Why?”
“That…is the correct question.” I nod, sighing again for mental strength before tapping to accept the call.
“Vale! Fucking finally!” Kellan’s voice cuts through my speaker, so loud that Marcus and I actually jump. I rush to turn down the volume.
“Sorry,” I tell Marcus, who just laughs it off, bless him, then turn back to the phone. “Dude, inside voice. I’m not alone.”
“Oops, my bad,” Kellan stage-whispers, still way too loud. His face is flushed with excitement, eyes wide and manic in a way that means he either found something amazing or terrible or most likely both, somehow.
The screen splits, and a moment later, Lena joins the call, her hair wet and slicked back from a recent shower, looks like. “Hello, boys of my dreams,” she purrs, her accent making the greeting sound far dirtier than it should. As usual. “I am half-naked and very wet. Make this good, yes?”
“Jesus,” I mutter, as Marcus chuckles beside me. “FYI, I’m in a transport truck with a driver who can hear every word you’re saying.”
“Hello, transport truck driver!” Lena waves enthusiastically, completely unbothered. “Is Cassian being good boy? Should I spank his chunky butt when I see him next?”
“Stop saying my butt is chunky!”
“She means voluptuous and very bounceable,” Kellan injects solemnly, of course making it a thousand times worse. “You should consider twerking. It’s a solid exercise.”
Marcus is full-on laughing now, shoulders shaking. “You lot are something else,” he says. “Don’t worry, nothing I haven’t heard before. Got three teenage daughters.”
“My deepest sympathies,” I tell him, which earns me another laugh. Then I get my attention back to the chaos twins. “What’s with the emergency group call? Someone die or get pregnant?”
“Better!” Kellan practically shouts, then lowers his voice again when I glare at him. “Guys! I found a panda-llama! A real one! ”
“A what?”
“A panda-llama!” he repeats, eyes way too wide. “Your spirit animal, remember? It’s real! I found one!”