Once she’s got her handicap, it’ll be low enough that we won’t go over the team threshold.
“I need it next week at the latest?—”
“No can do, Miles. I'm afraid?—”
“Other people come over to England. It doesn’t take eight weeks for them,” I push, though truthfully, I have no idea.
“Actually, Miles, it does. What is this for, anyway?”
“I told you I found someone I want to bring over to Foxleigh to work and train with the Flyers.”
“Ah, well, that may be, but?—”
“What about a tourist visa?”
“I'm assuming you want to pay this person?—”
“Yes, of course?—”
“You can’t on a tourist visa. They won't be covered. You are also subject to severe consequences if you’re caught. And we’re only in April, let’s try to keep you out of the papers for at least the first half of the year, if not the rest,” he adds with a laugh.
My fist clenches at his condescension.
Okay, fine, yes, when I was younger, there were occasions—possibly frequent ones—where my antics landed me on the front pages of the British tabloids. But it was nothing outrageous, nor anything any normal boy/man in his teenage years or early twenties got up to. The difference being I was under a microscope and subject to the predatory actions of poor excuses for journalism and media because I was born into privilege.
Unfortunately, the reputation continues to follow me.
Most of the time, I don’t give a fuck what people think because I’ve worked incredibly hard to build one of the most successful polo yards in the world, along with a multiple Cup-winning team, but sometimes,just sometimes,I wish the snide digs would ease a tad.
In the six years since I’ve taken over running Foxleigh, I’ve transformed it from a yard that barely broke even to one witha profit margin of twenty-five percent, and a turnover of six million pounds. More importantly we don’t have to bend to the whim of greedy, egotistical patrons because it’s one hundred percent mine.
Revenue comes from tournament wins and the breeding program we run—one of the best in the world—as well as the seven-figure fee I charge in the off-season, for anyone who wants me on their team for winter polo.
Every pony is trained by me, as is everyone who works at the yard.
I handpick all employees from grooms to the office staff, because you’ll never fit in if you can’t adapt to the yard way of life. I have an innate sense for who will or won’t work out.
And that’s why I want Ruby.
“Well, I need her to come. I need her to fly home with me in a couple of days.”
There’s a pause on the line. “Her?”
“Yes, Arthur.Her.Women do ride, you know. Women do play polo.”
“I'm aware of that, Miles.”
There's another long pause, and I know exactly what he’s thinking. That my dick is making decisions for me. But for the first time in my life, I can categorically say it isn’t.
Sure, Ruby is absolutely stunning, and her snark and indifference turn me on more than they should, and for a split second when I lay eyes on her, I forget what I’m doing. Who cares that when I arrived an hour ago and turned to see her watching me with Maverick, my chest swelled so quickly I almost couldn’t breathe.
Most importantly she rides like a dream, and there’s an untapped potential in her I want to harness.
This is business, nothing more.
I’m winning the England’s Cup this year. I’m following in my father’s footsteps, and I intend to do whatever it takes to get there.
“Are you telling me those visas that we’ve had before, or Juan and Diego, and all the Argentinian grooms, they've all taken eight to ten weeks?”
