It’s hard to deny that the place is stunning.
The hardest part of the week, however, has been keeping Miles’s nerves at bay. It’s gotten to the point now where he’s talking in his sleep. A dozen times I hear him barking directions during matches that haven’t taken place, ordering Clover to bump or shouting at Jack for missing an easy goal.
And in the morning, I wake to an empty bed, because Miles is always downstairs waiting for me with my coffee before we leave for the yard. I’m bleary-eyed, while he’s buzzing like he’s mainlined caffeine for hours.
All that aside, I know we’re as ready as we’ll ever be.
Which is always the point where everything falls apart.
I’m tending to Maverick when I hear a loud clatter followed by a strangled cry.
Tossing the handful of carrots back into the bucket, I sprint into the yard, disobeying the one rule—no running—followed by Billy.
Diego is sprawled across the cobblestones, twisting in agony in a puddle of soapy water, while Annabel and Charlie are trying to calm Messiah, who’s jumping around as a horse possessed, spraying suds everywhere.
Rushing to Diego’s side, Billy and I manage to pull him out of the way before he gets trampled.
Billy crouches down to check Diego, whose face has lost all color. “What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know,” he groans. “He suddenly whinnied and started bucking and rearing. I took a kick to the stomach.”
Billy lets out a low hiss and lifts Diego’s shirt. Underneath is the unmistakable outline of a hoof, already black and purple. Reaching out, as gently as possible, he feels along Diego’s ribs, but from the way his entire face creases, it’s clear even that minimal contact is causing enormous pain.
“We need to get you to the doctor,” Billy adds, as one of the grooms arrives with a first-aid kit, followed by Miles and Juan, both dripping in sweat from a stick-and-balling session.
“Shit, mate . . .” Miles drops to his side and pulls out his phone, his eyes darting over to an agitated Messiah. He’s no longer jumping around, but he doesn’t look happy. “Charlie, callHendricks, tell him to get over here ASAP,” he orders, while dialing another number.
“Hi, this is Miles Burlington at Foxleigh Park. We need an ambulance.”
Hendricks peels off a pair of gloves. “I’ve given him a shot of antihistamine, which will calm him down and reduce the swelling.”
“Fuck.” Miles scrubs his hands through his hair, pulling on the ends. Taking a deep breath, he settles a palm on Messiah’s withers. “Sorry, bud.”
“It’s a hornet sting . . .” replies Hendricks. “It’s not the end of the world, but it must have hurt him, given the way his muzzle’s swollen up.”
Based on his expression, Miles doesn’t agree. “He can’t compete tomorrow, though.”
Hendricks shakes his head. “No, sorry, Milo.”
“Fucking hell.” He shakes his head. “No Messiah, no Diego.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“No internal organ damage, but he’s broken two ribs and bruised two more.”
Hendricks rests a hand on Miles’s shoulder and squeezes. “At least it wasn’t one of the four of you.”
“I guess. Thank God we have Ruby as our number one sub.” Miles turns and smiles at me with far too much confidence.
For a second, the yard tilts sideways. It didn’t even occur to me that with Diego out, I might be called up.
And I can’t let myself think about what that means, either. Because if I do, I know exactly what’s coming next . . .
I’m going to need the nearest bucket to throw up in.
CHAPTER 32
Miles
