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Pippa is on Esther’s team. What a good showsheput on. Not only is she titled, she’s a fabulous horsewoman, one who grew up circling the polo events of the British season, which is what earned her a spot in the full exhibition match. She had me fooled. Though, looking back, she knew how to do alotof day-to-day horsey things that should have tipped me off.
Along the sideline, beneath white, sun-warmed tents, the crowd of hatted and buzzed spectators gathers, laughs, cheers. In the VIP tent, Mummy sits with Aunt Dottie and Mr. Wiggins, both humans peering through binoculars, while Alan and the rest of our students mill about, toasting each other’s future successes in the students’ chukka, the chance of which diminishes with every sip they take.
ButI’mnot in the tent! No siree-bob!Idon’t need binoculars to watch the match, to hone in on the best of the best! But that is not all Mariano and EFF are to me—they’re my love and my friend, the keeper of my heart and the keeper of my horse, which are almost the same thing, and watching the two of them, the world recedes to a single spotlight focused on Mariano and Esther. I follow as they move down the field toward the goal, Esther intent upon scoring for her team, Mariano determined to stop her. Who ever dreamedthiswould be my life!?
I also know something no one else does.
It’s in Mariano’s grin—the hottest grin that ever was flashed my way. That expression of his, and the glint in his eye as he makes a quicksilver glance back at me—even now in the heat of play—beams straight into my heart and makes me feel like I’m radiating pure, incandescent, golden love and light, and it fills me with joy.
That and unadulterated, competitive glee. Hispassion.Because I know what Mariano is going to do next. And I know exactly what to do.
Just when it looks like EFF has outmaneuvered him and will keep possession of the ball, he urges Whiskey forward. Or not so much forward but sideward, pressuring EFF, harrying her. It’s the kind of move calculated to make the other player miss their shot. But Esther is a professional. She goes to swing. At that exact moment, like the champion she is, Whiskey bumps into Esther’s horse’s shoulder and pushes them off the line of the ball. Before EFF or anyone can react, Whiskey, every bit a pro as Mariano—and tracking the ball just as carefully as him—lines him up for the backshot. He swings for the ball and almost before he’s even made contact, Whiskey is wheeling into the perfect turn and shooting back toward the goal.Our goal.
But Mariano doesn’t ride for the ball. He makes a strategic move, one calculated to save his horse for the duration of the match, because today we must each play our one horse for the entirety. Rather than racing Whiskey, pushing her full-out for the goal, he turns at an angle, heading off Esther, who has come back around. He shields the ball, curtaining it from her, refusing to allow her to get near it again. Giving me the opportunity to take possession of it.
Mariano Arias, 10-goal polo player, winner of the Queen’s Cup, hunk of my dreams, my man, is defendingme, givingmethe chance to shoot for the first goal of the match.
And I take it.
I bend low over Rum Punch’s neck, urging her forward. Like she proved during our very first ride, she is the kind of fierce fighter that makes an excellent polo pony on the field. She digs deep, ears pinned as she chases after the ball, muscling around it, so that we cross the open lane of play and gallop to Mariano’s right.
As I swing and Miss P kicks into an even higher gear, I’m dimly aware of Mummy and Dottie leaping to their feet, of Alex and Mick clearing a path for me, using their horses much like Mariano used Whiskey to push the others away.
I score, just as we planned, and the moment is everything I’d ever hoped it would be.
The instant we gallop through the bright red of the goal posts I drop the reins and throw my hands up, only realizing the second after I’ve done it that I’ve given Johannes the perfect shot of theTS&Klogo emblazoned upon my shirt.Mummy will be pleased!
The team is around me, everyone’s face flush with victory, though it’s only the first chukka, only the first goal, but it’s Mariano’s smile, his praise, that shines through everything else, and that warms me even more.
“Well done, Lolly!”
To train, to teach with Mariano is one thing. To learn from him and improve my game with him is another. But to play with this man and love him as equals is the beyond-beyond. It isel cielo. Heaven.
The whole match is like that, intuition and communication igniting as one. It’s as if we share synapses, as if our neurons fire in unison, in chorus. The teams are well matched.
TheGolden Horseshoes, most especially Mariano and Esther, could play as if Pippa and I don’t exist, but just as there is a certainsimpaticoconnection between Mariano and me, there is that same spark of understanding among all of the players, but most especially Esther and Pippa. If I didn’t know better—if I hadn’t seen EFF kissing her Bellatrix Lestrange on the dance floor at Gustavo’s wedding, if I didn’t know EFF and Pippa have only just met—I might think there is something more between them, like there is with me and Mariano.
The score is tied when Pippa pushes me from the lane of play and clears the way for Esther to make another bid for possession. But as Rum Punch and Kahlua jostle and Esther makes one of the risky under-the-neck swings she is known for, something happens.
I take my own shot—one of a score I’ve been able to take during this chukka—but my mallet bites into Esther and yanks. I grab my hand away, let loose of the mallet, but it’s too late. It’s snagged on herTS&Kbum bag. The one that’s been stapled to her shirt.
Esther loses her balance, tipping dangerously to one side. She twists and jerks—but her precarious position pulls her horse off balance and off course—and she tips forward, her arms at dangerous angles, her head over her horse’s neck, her feet way out of her stirrups. Gasps go up from the crowd.
“Pull up!” Mariano shouts, but of course every rider on the field is already doing exactly that, reining in our mounts, as if slowing our horses might slow time, might stop what’s unfolding before us.
She’s all but off her horse when she miraculously—thank all the gods that have ever been named—rights herself.
Esther untangles my wayward mallet and swings it with her left hand. Her dominant hand. The hand she never plays with. It’s a throwaway gesture meant to indicate she’s okay.
Through sheer muscle, determination, and athleticism—along with the “pure grit” Mariano talked about—Esther pulls off the miracle we’re all praying for, re-seating herself. She’s the world’s greatest player for a reason and that save, right there, was it.
But in that second, Esther’s horse shifts her trajectory. Mariano and Alex Yanez were already angling toward Esther before anything was amiss, barreling down on her horse, making their own bids to pressure her and ruin her shot, Esther the tip of the triangle, they the sides. The disaster is already in motion and as much as Alex pulls on his horse’s reins—the horse’s head shooting up, her mouth open against the pressure of the bit—he cannot stop her in time.
His horse rams into Esther’s horse’s hindquarters.
The impact sends Esther flying—but not far enough. Her horse careens, stumbling and then somersaulting over his rider before righting itself directly in Mariano and Whiskey’s path.
We’re all of the same mind, we need to will them to safety. How, I do not know, but I want it more than I’ve wanted anything, ever.
