“Bro, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you run that fast.”
“And you get paid for it.”
They jump on me and continue their ribbing as we distance ourselves from the bar. I only slightly feel bad for the guys we left behind. Hopefully their girls don’t take my disappearing act out on them. I hate being a cockblock.
Which reminds me of the reason I’m not going home withanyone tonight. I’m annoyed. Frustrated. Irritable from the lack of sex and from the cause of the lack of sex. ThewhoI can’t get out of my head.
“Broooo, do you see that?” one of my former teammates asks, pointing across the street.
“What?” I ask, following his line of sight.
“Is that a horse? Out here in this craziness?” His southern accent is coming out with the alcohol flowing through his system.
Sure as shit, there are two horses tied to one of the metal dividers. People are standing around and taking pictures with them. Their brown coats shine against the lights. Despite the loud noises and people surrounding them, the only sign of discomfort is the shaking movement of their heads. They rock back and forth, stomping their feet occasionally.
I’m drunk and mad. That’s the only explanation I can find for what happens next.
“Dude, where are you—Oh shit!” Brady shouts after me, but I’m already halfway across the street, untying the reins from the metal. I loop them over the horse’s head, hike my foot into the stirrup, and swing myself into the saddle.
“Yah,” I yell and jerk the reins around, kicking my heels into the horse’s side. It’s hooves clack against the pavement as it begins to walk down the street. First people stare slack-jawed at me riding a horse down the street, then they bring out their phones and start recording when the shouts start.
“Hey, stop right there,” a voice calls out.
“Freeze!” another voice chimes in. I look back over my shoulder and see two police officers walking after me. It’s then I notice the badge on the horse I’m riding. The horse I’vestolen. The police horse I’ve stolen from the actual police and am currently riding downtown drunk off my ass. Oops.
Because I’m drunk, I don’t do the logical thing and return it. Instead, I slap the reins and kick the horse again, breaking into agallop. The initial shouts fade into the background, drowned out by the sound of hooves and my manic laughter.
“Giddy up, buster. Let’s ride.” I laugh harder and hang on as the horse dodges the crowd and continues down the street. He just wants to be free. I get it. Who has a horse like this in a crowded downtown area anyway? Horses are meant to run and roam in fields, not be tied to poles in cities where people stumble around drunk and gawk at them for pictures. I’m doing him a favor by taking him. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as we get farther away.
It’s short lived when two police cars block our path up ahead and an echo of hooves gets closer from behind. Looking over my shoulder again, I see another police horse approaching with a cop on its back. Frantically, I search for an escape. All the side streets are littered with cars. The cops in front of us are positioned behind their cars with weapons drawn. My horse slows and the one behind us gains on us. I’m stuck.
“Stop the horse now,” the officer yells.
Fuck. I’m busted. The joy in this joyride just ended. I must not stop soon enough because the next thing I know the horse-riding officer pulls on the reins from my side. The horse stops immediately, throwing me from the saddle and over its head.
“Ouch,” I groan when I hit the ground. “That’s gonna hurt in the morning.”
“Don’t move. Hands behind your head.” I groan again and roll on the ground. “I said, ‘Don’t move!’” the officer yells again.
“Okay, okay, I won’t move. Geez,” I grumble, lying on my back. Officers swarm me. One reaches down and yanks my arm, using it as leverage to roll me onto my stomach. The pavement scratches my face “Ow, fuck, calm down.”
“Hands behind your back.” He wrenches my hands around, slapping the cold metal cuffs on my wrists. It hurts, but I don’t think he broke it or pulled it out of socket.
“Do you need a medic?” another voice asks from above after the arresting officer maneuvers me to a seated position. Quicklygiving myself a once-over, I take stock of my body. I’m sure I’ll be bruised from how I landed, but nothing feels seriously injured.
“No, I’m fine.” It feels like there may be blood on my face or hands, or both. Maybe even my knees, but I don’t need a medic. Don’t even think I need a night in the drunk tank either. Nothing like falling off a horse to sober you up.
“At least get the kit from the car and wipe him off,” someone instructs. “You got any ID on you?”
“Yeah, my wallet’s in my back pocket.” I lean over on a hip so the officer can dig it out, and I wince at the soreness.
“Chase Matthew Bennett,” the officer reads my license then whistles under his breath.
“The Chaser?” the younger officer asks, returning with the first aid kit.
“One in the same,” I grumble. The team is going to be fucking pissed. This is exactly what Coach Crenshaw warned me about. I was supposed to keep my nose clean and the bad press away.
This is going to be a nightmare. Reality is crashing in on me at warp speed.
