“Really?” Mum’s eyes widen, and I know that look. I’m well acquainted with it. It’s the one she gets before things spin out of control.
“You’ve already got enough weddings to plan with Alex and Lando. We don’t need another.”
Her laugh may as well say,“Don’t be so silly, Miles,”but instead, she goes with, “But I haven’t even met Ruby’s family yet.”
Her words make me pause. I turn to Ruby. “That’s a point. Do your parents even know we got married? Do they know about me?”
She winces. “No.”
I raise a brow. “We should probably tell them.”
Ruby’s saved from answering by Jack yelling from across the pub. “Milo, check your email, scores are in.”
For a split second in all the chaos, I’d forgotten about the other thing hanging over me, and my stomach drops.
I pull up my emails and open the top one from Angus.
I stare at the screen. “Fuck.”
“What’s wrong?”
I lift my gaze to meet Hendricks’s. “Los Tigres Luchadoreswon their match. The Foxleigh Flyers are playing against them for the England’s Cup. I’ll be playing Torres again.”
CHAPTER 31
Ruby
For the next week, tension hangs over Foxleigh Park like a storm waiting to break. Everyone’s on edge.
The mornings begin at seven sharp, and the work rarely ends before nightfall. We spend the days stick-and-balling until our arms ache, pushing harder than we ever have before, working the ponies until they know their roles backward, forward, and sideways.
Training consumes every waking hour.
Once the horses are cooled down and resting, we head straight into the office, exhausted but wired, poring over strategy deep into the evening.
Miles has everyLos Tigres Luchadoresmatch recorded, thanks to Angus, and we watch them relentlessly.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Miles scrutinizes every play, pointing out their weaknesses, gaps in defense, hesitation under pressure, and rare moments when their confidence slips. Because no one wants to admit how strong they are, or how good they look. It doesn’t go unnoticedthat Santiago Torres scores most of their goals—he wasn’t USPA’s top goal scorer for nothing.
It’s hard to take your eyes off him as he hurtles across the screen, like a predator pouncing on prey before he snatches the ball and powers it toward their goal. He’s got one of the hardest swings I’ve ever seen.
“We have to mark him.” Miles taps the monitor so hard it wobbles. “Marking him is the key to winning. According to Angus, if we don’t let him score, it reduces their odds of winning by seventy-five percent.”
By the end of the week, we’ve convinced ourselves that we can beat them.
Outside, Foxleigh Park transforms before our eyes.
The estate becomes a dazzling international arena dressed for war and a spectacle in equal measure. Marquees are erected overnight. Sponsors flood the grounds. Champagne bars gleam beneath white canvas roofs, while temporary grandstands, added to fit in the surge of spectators, tower over the polo field.
Freshly pressed flags snap in the wind, the Foxleigh Park coat of arms emblazoned proudly across every one. Thirty new banners arrive midweek, and by sunset, they’re flying from poles all over the ground like signals before battle.
Flowers are shipped in and planted in borders around the pitch, separating spectators from ponies thundering down the boards at full speed. The churned-up field is smoothed and mown to within an inch of its life, leaving the grass impossibly green.
