“C’mon, Milo, it’s only halftime. We’ve got three more chukkas to go. We can easily level the score, given we’re only four goals down.”
He takes a deep breath. It’s one of those breaths therapists advise you try while counting to ten.
“We won’t do anything if you don’t. Fucking. Listen.”
I stare at our older brothers. “You two, shut the fuck up. Let Miles speak.”
Lando and Alex sit up straight. Alex takes a second to compose himself. I catch Lando rolling his eyes, but they thankfully stay silent.
“Miles, please go ahead.”
“Thank you, Hen. As I was trying to say, we need to change our play. Hen, you ride Chester this chukka, and I’m taking Clover. Alex, you have Owl, and Lando can take Lemondrop. She’ll help you score with your eyes closed. And we’re switching positions.” He stands up, gesturing Lando to do the same, and tugs his shirt over his head. “Give me yours.”
Lando, who I’m certain wasn’t even listening to a word Miles said, visibly recoils at the suggestion. “Do I have to?”
He tosses the shirt onto Lando’s lap. “Yes. Otherwise, we’ll have the wrong numbers. I’m playing four now,you’re one.”
“Can’t we just tell people?”
“No.”
“Lan—” I warn.
With a heavy eye roll and a grumble about being very sweaty, Lando whips his shirt off.
I don’t know if it’s going to help our game, because wherever Miles isn’t on the field is where we’re going to be weakest. On the other hand, it might be the strategy change we need. Number one, where Miles usually plays, is the most offensive player, the attacker, the goal scorer. Number four, where Lando’s been playing, is the defender, the guardian of the goal.
Unfortunately for him, his guarding skills are no match for someone who’s paid to score. It might be for charity, but since we rode onto the field, it was clear only Alex, Lando, and I came for fun. The rest came to win.
While they change, I check my phone again. I can’t help it. A fresh wave of anxiety pushes aside all the adrenaline from the first two chukkas. Just like it has been for the past week, the screen is blank.
Sienna hasn’t returned any of my calls.
She hasn’t returned the solicitor’s calls.
Her legal team is nonresponsive. It’s become a waiting game that’s making me increasingly nervous with each passing day. More than I care to admit.
In fact, the only time it hasn’t been in the back of my mind is when I was being chased by half a ton of Argentinian pony with a very determined rider on his back.
Alex slides along the bench to me. “Still nothing?”
I shake my head. “No, and I don’t understand. Shecalled so frequently, but it’s been crickets since the meeting she didn’t turn up to.”
“Hang in there. It’ll be okay.”
I wish I shared his enthusiasm, but I don’t. And I don’t want to voice the nightmares I’m having every night, when I wake up drenched in sweat from boiling rage and panic at the idea of losing Max.
“What about Story? Is she here today?”
I nod, a smile appearing on my face.
Two days ago, at drop-off, she handed me a paper bag with a “Good morning” and no further explanation. When I got back to the car, I opened it to find a freshly baked flapjack. After a night filled with dreams I don’t want to become reality, it kept me going through a busy morning checking the pregnant heifers.
Yesterday, it was a jam donut, which I swapped for a chocolate croissant I’d brought her.
Knowing Story’s stance on polo—too fast, too shouty, tooMiles—I hadn’t expected her to come and watch, but as we galloped onto the field for the second chukka, I spotted her, and she wasn’t alone. Beside her, her mum, and Oxford, the golden retriever, were my sister, Holiday, and Max. It was a foursome I didn’t know I needed to see—them laughing together while Max swung his mallet around.
I’m convinced the look on Story’s face when she spotted me is the sole reason I scored two goals. The only two goals of the match so far.
