We line up in order—me, Juan, Jack, then Billy. Clover, Owl, Violet, and Calamity gleam beneath the sunlight, coats polished until we can see our faces in them. As usual, manes and tails have been braided and tied with Foxleigh Park colors, along with their protective padding and bandages.
We lookincredible.We look like winners.
“Remember our strategy,” I say. “After our first goal, we focus on stopping them. Mark Torres like a rash.”
“Easy-peasy.” Billy salutes as he tries to calm Calamity. “Let’s just get the fuck on with it.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply with a salute.
“Foxleigh Flyers,” booms over the tannoy.
“It’s time, boys.”
We explode onto the field as our names are called out one by one. Clover's excitement reaches a fever pitch, and she lets out a series of bucks that almost unseats me. In the opposite corner,Los Tigres Luchadoresthunder toward us dressed in all-black kits atop black ponies, looking menacing as hell.
Juan gallops past me, heading for the throw-in. “Jesus. They’re not fucking about, are they?”
It takes a little time to get eight highly strung ponies into position, and once we’re situated, the umpires ride forward. I look straight ahead into my opponent, Fernando Dias’s eyes, and nod. I don’t know him well—we’ve played together a few times—but he’s a decent guy. Unlike his teammate, two ponies down, staring at Billy like a hawk.
Attempted murder aside, I honestly cannot understand what the fuck my sister sees in him.
“Captains, do you have any questions?” asks the umpire.
Dias and I both shake our heads.
“Good. You know the rules,” he continues. “I want a clean match. No dirty play.”
His stare lingers on Torres, and I almost smile.
He rides back until he’s clear of the play and blows his whistle.
Eight riders, eight ponies all get ready.
The ball is thrown in.
And the England’s Cup begins.
Jack strikes first, getting off the lineup and knocking the ball toward Juan, already shifting toward the Flyers goal. Taking control, he gallops hard up the field, followed by two ofLos Tigres, who miss the bump before Juan smashes the ball to his left. Billy races hard upfield to catch it.
Pulling up, he spins Calamity ninety degrees and positions himself perfectly to take the swing. The ball flies directly between the goalposts.
Less than two minutes in, the Flyers have taken the lead, much to the delight of the roaring crowd.
“And that’s how it’s done, boys,” he crows, blowing across the tip of his mallet.
Glancing across the field, I see Torres galloping back to the throw-in, his face a mask of fury, and I honestly don’t know what makes me happier, that or the goal.
We don’t get so lucky on the next throw-in. Dias steals the ball and thunders up the field. His pony’s stride is so long that she seems to cover twice the ground in half the time as everyone else, and though Billy and Juan take off after him, they don’t catch up. Torres chases up on the opposite boards, flanked by Jack, who blocks a pass from Dias. I follow, catching up as Billy cages him in, only for the ball to become tangled underneath a scrum of ponies, all trying to clear it.
“Move out of the fucking way,” he yells, attempting to elbow his way through the blockade.
“Sorry, sweetheart, no can do,” taunts Jack, blowing him a kiss and riding off as the whistle blows.
“Foul,” calls the umpire, giving a free penalty to the Flyers, much to the surprise of all four of us, and the very valid objection of every member ofLos Tigres.
“This is fun. We should try full defense more often.” Billy laughs. “Especially when they’re handing out penalties to the wrong team.”
As Juan takes the hit, knocking it hard through the posts, he turns and flips the bird to Torres, who ignores him.
