“You sure about that, Milo?”
I nod. “Yeah, I have this weird feeling he’s avoiding me.”
“I say let him.”
“Not happening,” I reply. “C’mon, let’s get out there.”
We mount up and gallop on for the second half.
There’s no improvement in the play, but it allows Ruby to make a clean sweep of the first pass, and because no one’s marking her, she manages to get the ball to the twenty-yard line before she knocks it over to Jack, and he scores easily.
Between her and me, there’s so much space we have almost the top third of the pitch to ourselves. If Torres wasn’t lurking by the far board.
Fuck this.
Spurring on Mars, I gallop over to him. “What are you playing at?”
His eyes snap to mine, and I don’t know what he’s more shocked at—that I’m speaking to him or that he didn’t see me coming.
“What?”
“Why aren’t you marking me? What the hell is going on with your team?”
Torres shakes his head. “Get lost, Burlington. You wanted me to leave you alone, so stop fucking complaining when I do.”
I’m too confused to respond, and I don’t get the chance because he gallops off to where the play is happening.
The rest ofLos Tigresdon’t seem to have the same attitude, but it doesn’t help their game. With Torres doing nothing, it’s three of them against four of us. The match plays like an unbalanced knockabout, and as the minutes tick toward the end of the sixth chukka, I’m trying not to feel resentful that we’ve had such an easy win, or that I wasted so much time worrying about it.
The final whistle sounds, and the most anti-climactic match in the history of polo is over.
Clover didn’t work up a sweat in either of the chukkas I played her, but whatever. Looking around, I swear the stands have fewer spectators than they did at the start. I also notice only three of theLos Tigreshung back to shake hands. Suddenly, I feel rather sorry for them because it wasn’t their fault they lost.
On the plus side, I might have found some more members of myI Hate Torresclub.
“We won,” Jack yells, galloping up to me, narrowly avoiding a group of drunk girls who’ve stormed the field to be the first at the divot stomp. “Why do you look so miserable?”
“Because they handed it to us,” I grumble. I don’t add the disappointment I feel has a lot to do with us playing at Foxleigh.
She deserves better. She deserves a match of the ages, not whatever this shit was.
“Fuck that. A win’s a win. Don’t look a gift polo pony in the mouth, and come lift that Cup with me.” He smacks me on the shoulder. “Now go and kiss your wife, and turn that frown upside down. I want to get drunk.”
I chuckle, my annoyance lifting somewhat. I suppose if the spectators don’t decide to riot after witnessing such a boring game, it’s all good. And I do want to kiss my wife.
Spinning Clover, I turn to see her and Maverick blazing toward me, and I giddy-up to meet them halfway.
“Can you stop being my captain and start being my husband again?” she pleads when I reach her, but I’m already tugging her out of the saddle. I am so fucking proud of this woman.
My woman. My wife.
“You bet, baby,” I say, before kissing her hard.
“We won,” she mumbles against my lips. “I can’t believe we won.”
“Really?” I laugh at her. “They played like shit. It was an easy win.”
“Shut up.” She giggles. “Don’t take this away from me. I’m a one-goal England’s Cup player.”
