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BURN, BABY, BURN
Mariano Arias. Greenshoot Polo Ranch. Gloucestershire, England.
Iwasn’t lying. Lolly Benoit has the stuff that champions are made of—the fire that saysI shall,rather thanhow?But for now, she must hold that flame close and demonstrate only the smallest points of the game. Stroke by stroke, we will reveal why polo is the Sport of Kings.
“You need to understand what we mean by the line of the ball.” Lolly and I haven’t rehearsed, but as soon as I begin instruction, she positions herself in the saddle so that the students can see where the ball is in relation to her horse, and how the swing of her mallet will send the ball down the field. She keeps her arm extended, so they understand that we are drawing an imaginary line away from the head of the mallet. “If you think of the polo ball as an automobile…” I wait until at least Pippa is nodding her understanding before I go on. “The road that automobile is to travel isn’t decided until Lolly hits the ball.”
Lolly taps the ball, gently.
“As soon as the ball is in motion, that line forward has become ‘the road.’” I meet Pippa’s eye. “Is this clear?”
“Clear as mud.” Pippa lets rip a mighty laugh. But in a land of speakers who hedge and say yes when they mean no, I am glad of her bluntness.
“The ball is like a dictator.” Lolly’s almost standing in her stirrups. “Where it rolls, we follow.”
“Got it.” Pippa swings her mallet like a golf club, dropping her hips and following through with her shoulder. If we can harness that know-how, we can make a player of her yet.
“Let’s say the ball rolls ten, twenty, thirty feet in front of me. From the minute I hit it until the minute it stops, that’s ‘the road’ Mariano is talking about.”
“Don’t interrupt the professional,” The Trunchbull screeches from the sidelines. She surely has better things to do than bully Lolly. I need to shut her down. Fast.
“Lolly is correct.” I stare at The Trunchbull, holding the woman’s gaze until she blinks. Only then do I continue. “Imagine a dotted line from the place the ball was to the place it is, and that’s this road I want you to imagine. It’s important because—please listen to this carefully, because it’s at the heart of our safety precautions—you mustnever cross that road, never cross the ‘line of the ball’ when we’re in play.If you do, you’re in danger of colliding. Alan, I see you have your hand up.”
“What you’re saying is, don’t be an arsehole. Don’t overtake on the outside lane and don’t cut the other drivers off.” The students nod and smile. Whatever he said makes more sense to them than what I said. This isbueno. If he can help me keep this small band of riders safe, so much the better.
“This is also why we play right-handed,” I add with a smile to Lolly, who’s a southpaw who trained herself to be a right-handed player.
“Like having all the cars with the steering wheels on the same side in the same country. It’s a bugger going to the Continent and having to drive on the other side when you’re in a right-hand drive vehicle. You’re all arse over tits as soon as you hit Calais.” Alan is on a roll. According to his spec sheet, he’s the CEO of an international luxury goods chain. In his spare time, he likes—and this is a direct quote—“to challenge death to a bare-knuckle brawl.” I’m going to need to keep him on a short leash. Polo has no time for reckless riders. This is a sport of friends. For all our money concerns, and the need to court the photographers for my new boss, it’s still the game of gentlepeople. We abide by the rules so that we may all play the best game we can possibly play.
“Lolly has command of the ball.” I walk Whiskey to her horse’s right flank and pause. “Her objective is to get the ball down the field and through the goal posts without me intercepting her.”
She trots away, her ass bouncing prettily in her saddle as she posts, hitting the ball gently so it doesn’t roll too far down the field. “Hope you’re not too rusty.” I only just catch her taunt, but the idea that she and I might play on the field—explore each other’s styles, find the place where there’s moregivethan perhaps there ought to be, challenge each other to new heights—is as delicious as it is forbidden.
“As I said, I am permitted to approach to her right but not her left.” I take my mount alongside her. “But as long as she retains control of the ball she has right of way. In short, her before me.”
She turns and grins, pulls her arm back, and thwacks the ball down the field. The students disappear. The cameras are no more. There’s only me and Lolly galloping beside each other, distilled down to the essence that drives us both. She blocks me easily and often, rebuffing my attempts to snag her mallet, shifting her horse toward mine so that their hindquarters or shoulders bump and I’m buffeted away from my goal. We’ve abandoned all pretense that we’re teaching, we’re just riding now for the pleasure of it, matching each other stride for stride the way we did at the wishing well. My mount reads my thoughts at the same instant Lolly’s horse does, and we surge forward with a thrust of power that is both wild and focused, four minds intent on a singular goal, all of us tracking the ball down the field. In a split second I intuit Lolly’s intention and she mine, and our horses respond to our urgings as if they are one. The exhilaration pulls a whoop from my throat even as Lolly pulls ahead, her laugh rippling back to me as she leans closer to her horse’s neck and thunders away from me.
By the time we circle back to the students, I’ve learned three things about Lolly Benoit: she has something that looks like recklessness but is in fact a tactical feint; her right arm is as strong, if not stronger, than at least half the men I’ve played against, and her laugh will throw me off my game every damn time. I’ve also forgotten where we are in the lesson, but what do I care? I’m high on Lolly and riding and polo and thoughts of a real match, of the promise I made to Lolly to help her with her polo career. My blood is up for the sport I love, and the thought of not playing—at least not until the exhibition match with theGolden Horseshoes, which is the jewel at the end of theSpills, Kills, & Thrillsadventure—seems like an impossible challenge.
But duty requires it of me, and Lolly makes all things—not justpossible—but luminous.
“I guess you’re not too rusty.” She leans forward to hug her horse around the neck, giving the mare a kiss along the crest of her roached mane. It is a sweet gesture, a recognition of her partner, but from where I sit, it gives me a full view of her ass, the way she would look if I bent her over a bed and took her from behind. She straightens, throws a glance over her shoulder at me, and I can’t be sure, but from the gleam in her eye and the wicked grin, it’s as if she knows exactly what effect she’s had on me. “But you could do with a bit of a polish.”
The laugh comes out of me in a rush and we sit like schoolchildren in an impossible laughing match, simply staring at each other through round after round of wheezing laughter. Once I catch my breath, I dismount and distribute the mallets to the waiting students, careful not to look in Lolly’s direction. Yep. That’s what I need to do: not look at her.
The students are infected with our joy, laughing and chatting as I wind the thongs about their thumbs and give them a few pointers on how to swing the head towards the ground without digging bloody great holes in the pitch the way Alan is doing.
“First, we’re going to practice hitting the ball. Like so…” I check behind me to make sure I’m not going to take anyone’s eye out, then swoop through the arc and connect with the ball with a satisfying thwack.
“On the ground? Walking?” I should have guessed that Alan would protest, but I’m not letting ten students—some of whom have never ridden—onto a pitch, on horses, with bamboo sticks that could do serious injury. “What about having ‘grit’ and ‘passion’ and all that m’larkey?”
“Passion can be a million small moments,mi amigo.”
Once again, Lolly snorts with laughter and I realize—the pleasure spreading through me likedulce de lechestraight from the jar—that I understand the source of her pleasure. For us, passion not only can, but will be, a trillion small moments. The hitch in her gait when she doesn’t think anyone’s looking as she adjusts her waistband, the curl of hair that has come loose from her braid, her face before the smile breaks and the sun pours through her unbidden. Every moment I am near her is a moment I cherish. Every second the definition of passion. Lolly has lifted a thick veil that cut me fromlife lived passionately.I’ve known ambition, drive, single-minded focus, and duty—but I’ve never had this before.
“Passion without discipline is little more than a night at the dilettante’s ball.” Pippa adjusts the grip on her mallet, tightening the strap so there’s no slack. “One must apply oneself, not dabble. Now for god’s sake, Alan, do as the man says. Dribble your ball down the field without crossing anyone else’s line.”
In fact, I said nothing of the kind, but I’m glad of Pippa’s assist. She’s a fabulous teacher, and I look forward to attending her class when I have a chance.
