“That’s fine. The matches generally go on for hours. Besides, we need you there to win.”
She shoots me a mildly skeptical look. “How come?”
“We’ll need a little sass to beat the other team.”
“And I’m supposed to supply this sass?”
“Seems like it’d be right up your alley.”
She laughs. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do. But no promises.”
Chapter Nine
Aspen
Per the polo club’s website, the match starts at one. It’ll take at least forty minutes to get out there, so it’ll be almost three by the time I arrive. But I should be able to catch the last couple of periods or so. No, wait—the last couple ofchukkas.That’s the term.
So after my shift is over, I reapply my mascara and lipstick, then drive to the field where I met Grant. The section for spectators is nearly full. The best tables, closest to the field, are taken, so I decide to stand near the huge fence around the green. It’s probably better this way anyway. I prefer to be away from Sadie and her friends, if they’re here—and I have a feeling she’s stalking Grant, just like she did in Culture and Music in History. I’m counting on them missing me in the crowd. If nothing else, they might not want to make the trip out to an unshaded section. They’re most likely lounging at a cool, shaded table with ice-cold drinks.
I start toward the white fence, my eyes roaming, looking for Grant. There are eight riders, and I realize our team is wearing green, and the other team burgundy.
Then I find him—on a horse with a white star on the forehead. He’s so tall and powerful on the mount, absolutely in control of the two-ton animal. I stay rooted to the spot and stare as he plays with skill and confidence.
Ten minutes in, he moves aggressively through the narrow gap between two riders and swings his mallet, connecting with the ball. It shoots forward, but another player gets in the way. Grant charges faster; others gallop after him. One of the horses to his left bumps into him, jostling him hard enough on his saddle to push him off to the side, and another one to his left smacks his horse’s rump.
His horse stumbles and goes down. Grant is thrown, landing on his side, then rolling once. Fear crushes me, a shocked breath hissing between my lips. The other players veer off so they don’t trample him. But before he can get up, his horse rolls over him. My hands fly to my face. The animal gets up almost instantly once it’s finished rolling, but Grant stays on the ground.
Terror closes my throat, and my heart hammers. A flood of adrenaline and desperation suddenly crests, making it impossible to feel anything except panic.
Grant is lying there, his eyes closed. What if…Oh my God, what if he’s seriously injured? Or even dead?
I immediately try to climb over the fence, but a uniformed official stops me.
“Hey, you can’t go in there. It’s dangerous!” a huge guy says, blocking my way.
“But he fell!” I gesture behind him—or try. He isn’t just blocking my way; he’s blocking my view.
“We’ll take care of him,” he says, unmoving. “The medical team’s coming.”
People are shouting behind me, and the commentator is indeed calling for a medical team. But it seems to take them forever. Why aren’t they on the field instantly? What if Grant never gets up because they were too late?
I clench my hands, barely hanging on to control. I hate it that there’s nothing I can do.
“Oh my God! I have to go!” Sadie screams dramatically from behind me.
I turn and spot her standing. Her friends jump to their feet and start saying things I can’t quite catch to console her. Pretty tears stream down her face as she dabs at her eyes.
She starts moving toward a white building labeled “Medical.” I follow her through the crowd, which is on its feet to get a better view of the field. I maintain several yards between us. She’s too self-absorbed in shock to notice me. If you didn’t know better, you’d think her best friend had just had a stroke.
The remnants of terror cling to me like a sticky film. The possibility of Grant being injured enough that he might not be able to play—or even walk—again is just horrifying. When I was growing up, a neighbor who used to ride every weekend fell from a horse and became wheelchair-bound. And that waswithoutthe horse rolling over him.
I run a hand over my face. Maybe Grant will get lucky. Not everyone who falls off a horse gets crippled.
The clinic is smaller than it looks from outside. It’s just an open space with five beds, some unrecognizable medical equipment and a few chairs. The air smells faintly of antiseptic. The place is probably designed to give basic care before sending the injured athletes off to a real hospital for further treatment.
The medical team carries Grant inside on a stretcher. He isn’t moving and his eyes are still shut. He looks impossibly pale this close.
I look for blood, but don’t see any. There are huge grass stains on his pants. A small scrape on his cheek.
