“Yeah. I think you’re my good luck charm.”
Eventually, time is called, and we make our way toward the main stadium. The crowds get louder the closer we are. I can’t see them, but somehow, I can hear Hendricks and Max screaming as we gallop onto the field and line up opposite each other for the final of the Chatham Cup.
There’s great fanfare as Holiday trots onto the pitch to throw the first ball of the final along the starting line, and once it’s out of her hands, we’re given the green light, and the first Cup game of the season begins.
It’s obvious Billy’s taken Ruby’s advice to heart. He hooks the ball, spins Messiah sharply, and charges up the sidelines before crossing cleanly in front of the goal and scoring within thirty seconds.
I’m not sure who looks more shocked—our team, the Devils, or the umpires who are still trying to work out whether it was a legal move.
“Fucking hell.” Jack laughs, trotting back. “How do you even do that?”
“No fucking clue.”
The ball resets, and off we go again.
The crowd—filled with guests who’ve spent most of the day drinking champagne and are anticipating a closely fought match—is raucous. The chants spur Calamity on, and she charges down the field like a race car, outrunning every pony on the pitch, worth every penny of the $200,000 I paid for her. She positions herself perfectly, and I drive the ball toward Juan.
The Devil number three charges forward, and Billy and Brimstone tear after him, bolting up the field and bumping two Devil ponies aside. He’s not quite so lucky, however, when one of them hooks the ball from in front of her, taking it away to gallop down the pitch in the opposite direction, where the Devil scores, bringing it to one all at the end of the first chukka.
“At least we broke their clean sweep,” Billy grumbles.
The match becomes more of a bloodbath than a closely fought one, and increasingly more violent as it goes on.
Ruby and Diego scream instructions from the sidelines.
By the fourth chukka, one of the Devils had been substituted due to a concussion from a high ball, and Fire was taken off after his shoe came loose. Juan took a mallet to the elbow but managed to play through. And to top it all off, the sky has turned an ominous shade of dark gray.
But the Devils have only managed one goal thanks to a lucky hook off Jack’s mallet that ricocheted underneath Mary before being picked up and driven home.
The fifth chukka begins one up. Two minutes in, and I get a chance at the goal, only for my mallet to snap in half. Ruby sprints onto the field with a replacement.
“You need to stay wide on their number four!” she yells, shoving the new mallet into my hand. “I think his elbow’s bothering him. He keeps shaking it out. Stay to his right, and you might be able to take advantage.”
I do exactly as she says, andunsurprisingly, I score. I’ve already lost count of how many times I’m thankful Ruby’s here.
We head into the sixth chukka three goals up.
Unfortunately, that’s when the heavens open. Torrential rain hammers down, and within seconds the pitch turns slick with mud. Rain lashes our faces while the ponies churn up the sodden ground beneath us, and twice the ball gets stuck. The ponies slam shoulder to shoulder. Mud and turf fly through the air.
“Stay steady!” I yell to the boys, though I doubt they can hear me. “Keep the ponies straight!”
“Three minutes,” the umpire shouts.
Somehow, we manage it. Through the worsening conditions, both us and the Devils become more cautious, and neither side scores again.
When the final bell rings, I throw my mallet high in the air and catch it. The Foxleigh Flyers are crowned Chatham Cup champions.
“We did it. We fucking did it,” Billy roars. “Biggest game of the season so far, and we’re champions!”
“England’s Cup, here we come!” Jack yells.
But I’m barely listening, because Ruby is running toward us, her face glowing through the rain and dark clouds. Shethrows her arms around Calamity first before turning to me, and suddenly, I forget all about the trophy.
“Oh my God, that was so awesome. You fought them off so well.” She’s talking to me and smiling at me, but she’s covering Calamity with kisses, and it’s hard work trying not to be jealous of a horse. “You won, Miles.”
I jump off Calamity, so I’m level with Ruby, and her arms are immediately transferred from my pony to around my neck, smothering me with the same attention she lavished on Calamity, minus—much to my disappointment—the kisses. My reflex is to pull her into me, revel in the feel of her hot body against mine, breathe in the sweet hay-filled scent of her as she wriggles excitedly in my arms.
And she might not be covering me with kisses, but it doesn’t stop me from dropping one on her shoulder . . . her neck . . . her cheek, all smacked in quick succession before I lean back and match her grin.
