I find Gabriel, Linden, and Austin already in the restaurant and take a seat. I see the slight frown Austin gives me as it’s obvious I’ve been in the barn. I’m untidy and probably smell too. But then, Linden has two grooms with him so he doesn’t have to lift a finger. I don’t care about his opinion of me. If it doesn’t bother Gabriel then that’s all that matters, and Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice, he just launches into a description of what his plans are in the new year to get his new equestrian centre ready to open by May.
“I still have to find a centre manager, a couple of grounds people, and then the catering staff, a chef, and a bar manager.”
At the mention of a chef my mind wanders again, and I can’t help thinking of Simon. It shouldn’t bother me, that deep look of rejection that made his eyes icy blue like they could freeze me on the spot, but it does. They’ve pierced something in me and I can’t seem to patch it up. I need to, though. It’s over. It’d already gone on too long. I have no idea what made me persuade him to stay the night. All of this is my fault. If I hadn’t wanted the warmth of his body and the sight of the curve of his arse one more time this wouldn’t have happened. No wonder he had expectations of me. I slipped up. It won’t happen again.
“Drey. Are you coming?”
I look up to see the others have risen from the table and are waiting for me.
“Yeah, sure,” I say quickly and follow them. Drey is the name I get called by most of the players, especially those on my team. Andrés is far too long to shout across the field to get my attention, so I’ve been Drey for as long as I’ve been playing, especially with Americans who like their one-syllable names. Gabriel is Gabe, and while Linden gets shortened to Lin, I’ve heard Gabriel call him Linnie in the heat of a game.
Once I’m in my suite, I change into my polo whites and our team’s shirt before pulling on my boots. Always the left followed by the right. Then I tuck a small bag down my right boot before zipping it up. My dad gave it to me before my first game, and it contains some mane hair clipped from the horse that helped my dad win the US Open three years running. She was his favourite horse and the grand dam of my own Chispa. My team won that first game, so I’ve made sure I carry it with me ever since. It’s superstition, I know, but I won’t change it. Most professional athletes are superstitious and polo players are no exception. My little ritual helps get my head back in the game, and by the time I head back to the barn I find it easier to focus. Before I take Chispa from Jorge he raises his eyebrows at me, a question I understand as asking whether I’m alright now. I nod a few times and give him a reassuring smile.
“Bueno,” he grunts before handing her reins to me. I know it’s because he cares, but also partly because he doesn’t want to deal with the mess if Chispa doesn’t believe I’ve got my head one hundred percent in the game. I mount Chispa and head out to warm her up. Jorge follows, riding Marvel and leading Saban and Furia. He’ll warm them up so they’ll be ready for when I need to swap over during the game.
I meet Gabriel and Linden just outside the snowy pitch and we ride in together, side by side. Playing in the snow is different to playing on grass, the arena is smaller and we have three players on a team instead of four, but the concept is the same—score more goals than the opposition. As we take our positions, lined up on our side of the centre line, Chispa gives me the customary toss of her head... She knows her job and is ready. I stroke her neck in agreement. As the ball is thrown in, adrenaline kicks in and I’m focused on nothing more than what I have to do to win this.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SIMON
Once I hand over the lunch shift to Conal, I contemplate going back to my room. But it doesn’t feel appealing after spending last night in an enormous warm bed and a room with a carpet I can still feel between my toes. I’m also not tired, so I don’t need to catch up on sleep.
Not sure what to do, I make my way through the hotel and into the reception foyer. I haven’t been through here since I started the job a few weeks ago, there’s been no need, as the staff quarters are behind the resort and the kitchen is easier to access from the back. Since then it’s been decorated, and I stop and stare for a minute. I’d almost forgotten it’s the holiday season and Christmas is only ten days away. My only reminder I’ve had until now is a meeting I have tomorrow, on my day off, with Conal and the catering manager to go through the menus for the week and make sure we have all the supplies we need. I’ll be working over Christmas weekend so I haven’t let it register as any sort of festive occasion. But seeing the foyer filled with a treethat must be at least ten feet tall, decked with all the trimmings, and the foyer covered in tinsel and sparkling lights, it looks like a winter wonderland and I feel a pang of nostalgia for when I used to love the magic of Christmas. There was once a time when I looked forward to it, being around family and friends. One Christmas I even had a boyfriend to share it with.
Shaking off the feeling that as I don’t have anyone special to be with over the holiday, I’m better off working anyway, I turn my back on the festive decorations and go outside. It’s not as cold today as it has been and the sun is shining. I have a couple of hours until I have to be back, so I decide to go for a walk and explore. After a few minutes I find myself walking towards a throng of people and I realise this is where the polo field has been set up. Curiosity over what the attraction of the game is, and the thought that maybe I’ll get a glimpse of Andrés, draws me into the crowd. I try to blend in, though I can see that although everyone’s bundled up against the cold, they’re all dressed very expensively. I hunch down in my barely acceptable jacket and try not to catch anyone’s eye in case they tell me I don’t belong here. No one challenges me as I make my way to the front.
There’s a large rectangle laid out in the snow, with low boards around it, and I see a group of horses over the far side, some being ridden, others being led. At one end is a large marquee with tables and seating. I can see a bar set up at the back and a few staff distributing drinks. No doubt for the super rich to watch in the warmth.
My eye is drawn to activity on the pitch as two teams ride onto it. I scan them quickly and pick out Andrés and Chispa. His fellow team members are blond, and are so chiselled they look like they could’ve walked out of a fashion magazine.
I watch as they line up, each team facing the other. A ball is thrown between them and that’s when the mayhem starts.
I gasp as I see horses crash together, sticks waved about, riders looking like they’re about to fall off. The ball is freed and the horses spin, some setting off in pursuit while others find a space to be passed. Again horses seem to run into each other. The riders have helmets and knee pads and the horses have something protecting their legs, but it’s brutal and I have no idea how no one is hurt.
Then suddenly it ends. It can’t have been more than five minutes or so. Is that it? No one in the crowd moves so I don’t either. Instead I watch as each of the riders jump off their steaming horse and mount another. The teams come together no doubt for some talk on tactics. There must be a second half, then.
I’m right, as they enter the pitch again and it’s repeated. I know what to expect this time, but even then I wince a few times as I hear sticks clash and see horses bump into each other. A roar from the crowd goes up as a goal is scored. I can’t see which team, but I see Andrés slap one of his teammates on their back, so I guess it was them. Play resumes and they set off again. Then just as quickly it stops. Again the crowd doesn’t move so I stay in my spot.
Horses are changed and they play again. I watch Andrés, he’s constantly scanning his teammates and those he’s playing against, riding for gaps and receiving passes. A couple more goals are scored, one by Andrés’ team and another by the other side.
By the time they break for the third time I can see some patterns in how they play, though I have no idea of the rules. I’ve heard afew of the people round me mutter things such as “offside,” but I’m none the wiser.
They line up for a fourth time and the opposing team score a goal quickly, making it even. If anything it gets more chaotic from there as it looks like each team vies for control. Then I see Andrés, riding off the pitch. He lines his horse up to Chispa and transfers to her, not even touching the ground, and within seconds he’s back in play.
A minute later I see him flying up the side of the pitch at a gallop and a shout goes out. He wheels round as the ball comes towards him. I see him lean so far out of his saddle he’s surely going to topple into the snow, but he doesn’t. He hits the ball and then rights himself as it sails through the goal. A whistle blows and I release a long-held breath, my heart beating a lot faster than normal.
The crowd clap and cheer and a few of them start to leave. I take another long look at Andrés. He’s taken off his helmet, his black curls look plastered to his head, and I can see his wide triumphant smile. The rest of his team ride close, reaching across saddles to hug each other. The opposition ride over, slapping backs and shaking hands, and everyone looks happy—even the losers. I see kinship and camaraderie rather than rivalry.
Then Andrés rides away from the group. He leans forward and I see him stroke his hand down Chispa’s neck; it’s a caress, a thank you for a job well done. I turn away, blowing on my hands and stamping my feet to try to bring some life back into my fingers and toes. I make my way back to the hotel and to work, an idea forming in my mind.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ANDRÉS
The euphoria of our win this afternoon has faded by the time we sit down for dinner. It’s great that we won our heat, and we’re assured of a place in the final on Saturday—we’ll play whoever wins tomorrow. There’ll also be a playoff for third place. But I can’t shake a queasy uneasiness that hovers in the background. A sliver of something out of place, a sense of disquiet that has you returning home just to check you locked the door or didn’t leave the oven on. I backtrack through my day, trying to pinpoint what it could be, but come up with nothing.
“Drey!” I flinch as a hand is slapped on the back of my shoulder. “What a goal you scored at the last minute.” I twist round and see Brad, one of the players who’ll be competing tomorrow and who we may be facing in the final.
