My gaze follows where he points first—to the barn in one corner, big arched windows, purple flowers trailing up the brickwork. “Those are the grooms’ quarters. We have ten permanent grooms based at Foxleigh, and during the season, there’s space for another ten, depending on who’s playing for our team and if they bring their own grooms.”
It’s already better than anything I’ve ever been given.
“They have a kitchen, living area, bathrooms. ..I don't go over there, and it's probably best if you don't either.”
My neck cranes as I turn to look at him for an explanation.
“You’re not a groom anymore.”
“Oh.” I nod. It’s going to take a while for that to sink in. “Who’s playing this year?”
“Juan de Montanez, Jack Saddler, Billy Walsh, and me, of course. Then Diego Martinez, who’s been training with us and”—his finger prods my arm—“you.”
Adrenaline fizzes through my veins until my heart pounds so hard, the fangirl inside me is on the verge of being sick. Aside from Diego, I know all those players. Juan and Jack both play seven-goal, while Billy is six.
Three weeks ago, I was cleaning out buckets and wondering how I’d ever make it. Now I’m halfway across the world, about to work with some of my idols.
Miles’s finger moves onto the building next door—the same pale brick, but double the height, and with a row of black painted stable doors. “That’s the heart of this operation. Top floor is the management offices—where I’m kept in check.” He grins at his own joke, though I’d imagine it’s less of a joke than reality. If he’s anything like the tyrant I met this morning, I suspect they have their work cut out for them. “Bottom floor is the treatment suites?—”
“Treatment?”
“We have equine massage, red light therapy, and hydrotherapy.”
Jesus, no wonder his horses look so good. My mouth drops, and Miles laughs. Removing his arm from my shoulder, he steps forward and offers his hand. “Come on, let's introduce you.”
I balk at that. “Really?”
“No time like the present.”
I don’t take his hand, but I do stay close. I’m not intimidated,per se, but okay, yeah, I’m intimidated. I’ve never been anywhere like this. Up until today, I thought I deserved to be here.But I’ll be among my idols, and I’m so aware of earning their respect . . . talk about imposter syndrome.
We walk across the yard, Miles continuing his narration, into the stable block and up the stairs. Just like the walls of his house, the walls here are covered in framed photos—all of them Miles and the Foxleigh Flyers through the years. The trophies they’ve won, and the victories they’ve secured.
At the top of the stairs is a glass door, which Miles opens, allowing me to walk ahead of him. I step into the long and narrow room that hangs over the stables. The entire back wall is glass, overlooking the polo fields and field number one in the distance. The one with the spectator stands, where the high-goal matches are played.
Just like the yard, it’s busy. Busy enough that hardly anyone looks up from their computer screens, and it’ssurprising. Unusual.
I know for a fact Miles has been away for a few months, and in my experience, when the yard owner walks into a room, people pay attention. But not here. What’s more, he doesn’t even look mad about it.
“No one’s saying hello to you,” I whisper.
“They’re busy. The season is about to begin. Too much to concentrate on to pay attention to me,” he replies, completely devoid of ego.
“What is it they’re doing?”
He nods to the first row. “Scheduling. They manage the diaries for the team and the summer tournaments. Makes sure we’re in the right place at the right time.” He moves onto the woman under the window, sitting by herself. “That’s Julia. She’sthe money guru, sets the budgets, manages salaries, stops me from spending too much on ponies?—”
“And you listen?” I laugh.
“Sometimes.” Miles gives me a wry smile. “We have two nutritionists and four equine therapists, and they sit by Julia when they’re updating charts, etcetera, but they’re mostly found downstairs. And there”—he nods to a man with half-rimmed glasses peering at a large screen—“is Angus.”
As Miles has been working his way around the room, each person has briefly looked up, giving a cursory, “Morning, boss,” and gone back to whatever they’re doing. On hearing his name, Angus’s head flicks up, and a set of bushy brows shoots toward his hairline.
“Miles, glad you’re back. Need a minute to discuss?—”
“Not now, Angus.”
“Just a minute,” he pushes, but Miles shakes his head.
