“He’s so hot?—”
Because Maverick’s snoring is so loud and my brain isn’t quick enough to catch up, I don’t immediately realize the words I hear are not in my head. I’m not dreaming.
Rubbing my eyes, I shift on Maverick when something in my peripheral vision startles me violently. It’s a real-life nightmare.
I’m looking up straight into the blue eyes that I’ve annoyingly not stopped thinking about since the first time I saw them, because Miles Burlington is leaning over the stable door staring at me, along with the infuriatingly smug grin I want to smack off his extremely tanned face.
“Hello again.”
CHAPTER 2
Miles
Each year, across the polo calendar, matches take place at varying levels of skill and professionalism, split across high-goal, medium-goal, and low-goal competitions.
High goal is where the professional players, like me—with handicaps of seven and over—tend to hang out. Medium goal where a mix of amateur and lower handicap professionals spend their time. Then there’s the low goal, the strictly amateur polo players and clubs.
High-goal polo attracts the international crowds, the prestige, the money. The people who want to be seen.
Only a handful of clubs in England have the status and respect needed to host big games, and my club—Foxleigh Park—is one of them. We host our own tournaments—such as the legendary Foxleigh Gold Cup, held annually since 1879—but the location of international matches, such as the World Polo Championship, is determined by the respective governing polo boards.
Since 1922, the England’s Cup—a highly charged, competitive tournament—is held every two years midway through the polo season between the two highest-scoring teams. It’s recorded on a points table from the first match, and ends aweek before the England’s Cup is due to be held. That way the teams have time to prepare.
One match. One day. Everything to play for.
The locations alternate between the American circuit and the English circuit. The last time I played, two years ago, in Florida, the Foxleigh Flyers were winning four goals to two against the Sunshine State Warriors, when I was involved in a collision that kept me in a coma for two weeks, in the hospital for a month, and from riding for six months.
During the darkest moments of my recovery, I thought I’d never ride again.
But I’m not a Burlington by name only. The grit and tenacity I possess come directly from my late father’s side of the family.
I’ve spent every day of the past two years focused on getting back to England’s Cup fitness, not only to play but to win. Because this time around, the Cup is in England.
I’ve dug deep into my muscle memory, worked my way back up the handicaps, and I’m on the verge of ten-goal again—the highest level a polo player can achieve.
There are currently only eight players in the world holding that accolade, and seven of them are Argentinian. I first achieved it just before my twenty-fourth birthday, but following my accident, I dropped down to five.
Handicap assessments take place twice a year, and three months ago in January I moved up to nine-goal. I plan to be back at ten before the end of the summer.
I’m on a mission to prove to myself I can return to the level I used to play.
As I’d imagine is the case for most people who cheat death, it hasn’t been the easiest journey. While I was born with a natural, fearless talent for chasing a ball around a field on the back of a pony, the confidence I once possessed is something I now struggle to find, though I’ve become adept at masking it.
I was one of the best players in the world, and now, if I allow it, doubt creeps in.
More frequently than I’d like, I wake in the night, dripping with sweat as my mind takes me back to the day of the accident. Beyond the frightened whinny of Feather, my pony, the only thing I remember right before I became tangled in her stirrups and knocked unconscious was the dead black eyes of my opponent, Santiago Torres.
Second only to getting my handicap reinstated, the thought of revenge is what keeps me going.
Healthy? Probably not. But if revenge is a dish best served cold, I’ve been keeping mine in the deep freeze since I relearned how to walk.
Which is where the England’s Cup comes in, because it takes place this summer, and if rumors are true, Santiago Torres is playing a season for the first time since he finished his playing ban for nearly killing me.
The England Polo Association came back with the answer I’ve been waiting for—Foxleigh Park will host the England’s Cup.
Leadingmyteam to victory atmyclub would make the past two years worth it. Almost.
Which brings me to the present.
