I turn to him, pride swelling my chest. “I know.”
On the next throw-in, the Otters don’t get quite so lucky. But Alex gallops down the wing and, by some miracle, manages to take control of the ball, tapping it over to their number three who in turn passes it to Ruby racing up the near side to receive it.
Two of the opposition are flying up the pitch toward her, and I’m literally on the edge of my seat. Bumping has been her least favorite maneuver to get a handle on.
“Sit back, sit back, sit back,” I mumble, as she does exactly that and plows through.
“She’s clear,” shouts Hendricks.
Spinning around, she positions herself perfectly, swings her mallet, and hits the ball between the goalposts.
Our little crowd of ten goes wild—hollering, whooping, and drowning out everyone else cheering around us.
“Yes. That’s my girl. Fucking yes, Ruby. That’s my girl!” I point at her galloping back into position.
“I think we’ve got it, Milo. That Ruby’s your girl.”
Ignoring my sister, I turn to Hendricks. “Did you fucking see that? Did you see what she did?”
“We saw.”
My heart’s pumping harder than if I’d scored it myself. My smile’s bigger, though. “Fuck, that was amazing.”
By the halftime break, the Otters are leading two goals to one and I hurry to the holding pen where Charlie and the grooms have brought the ponies down.
Alex frowns. “Milo, what’s going on?”
“Giving you a helping hand.” I slap his shoulder. “Now, you’re doing amazingly. But we can widen the gap?—”
“Since when did you become our coach?”
“You do play for my club.”
I turn to Ruby, her face red with exertion, and give her a boost onto Clover. “Next half, trail Alex. If you see him go wide, I want you to pull back and go around. No one’s marking you at the moment, so take advantage of that. Clover will look after you.”
She nods. “Okay, got it.”
“I’m so fucking proud of that goal you scored. Let’s get another one.”
When I head back to the stands, the crowds have tripled. Clearly, word has gotten around that low-goal polo is the match to watch today. Before I left, one match photographer was taking photos, and now there are four. And if I’m not mistaken, a couple of sports reporters.
“Ruby’s playing really well. Clearly, she’s been paying attention in practice.”
I grin at Juan and appreciate the compliment he’s paid her. Coming from a person who rarely speaks, let alone says anything more when a grunt will suffice, it’s huge. But it’s true, she is. AndI’ve never been so happy to be a bystander at low-goal polo. I’ve also never been so focused on a game I have no stake in.
Turning back, the first thing I see is the opposing number three crossing the line in front of Alex, causing him to swerve Calamity hard.
“FOUL,” yell the boys in the row behind.
“FOUL,” yells Hendricks and Clementine.
“Ref, are you blind? That was a fucking foul,” I add when he doesn’t give the Otters a penalty shot.
The umpire immediately turns around and gallops over to our seats.
“Uh-oh,” sings Haven.
I know this umpire, and I like him. We’ve played together before, and I have to admit he’s fair. But I’m about to get a bollocking.
