Page 27 of Polo Fever
‘Ash,’ he says, stopping me so I turn round to face him, ‘have you ever seen a polo match before?’
‘No. This is my first time.’
He nods. ‘I hope we put a good show on for you then,’ he says, before patting Byron’s hind leg and continuing on his way.
Slightly dazzled by his attention, I stare at his back until Eduardo comes up behind me to ask for the mats and makes me jump. Handing them to him, I glance back at Mateo as he goes to talk to his teammates, wishing I’d had the sense to say good luck.
*
A polo match starts in what looks like absolute chaos. The players line up on their ponies, facing each other – in this case, Maycourt in their purple shirts and their competition, Orchid Park, in lime green – and an umpire throws the ball along the ground between them and the battle commences to get the ball out. I stand at our end of the pitch, watching the ponies jostle for position, mallets knocking and players shouting, with no fucking clue what is going on. Suddenly, the little white ball appears from the fray, rolling out from beneath the flurry of trampling hooves, and there is Mateochasing after it before anyone else knows where it is. He fires it upfield, hurtling after it with green players, his teammates and the two umpires tearing after him.
The play is so far away, it’s hard to see, but I can make out Mateo, with the number one in black emblazoned on the back of his shirt, glance up for his teammates and spot Fitz in position. He taps it his way, offering a beautifully set-up pass right in front of the goal posts. Fitz wallops it between them, the person behind the goal waves a white flag, and a cheer comes up from the Maycourt side. A group of girls, including the blonde from the pub, shriek with delight, clapping eagerly and gazing out at the field as though a bunch of rock stars were out there. Lady Maycourt, standing next to a man in a mustard-yellow blazer and red trousers by his parked Range Rover over by the sidelines, looks on, pleased. Even when entertaining his conversation, she doesn’t take her eyes off the match for a moment.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Jules says, walking by with a pony and jerking her head towards the others. ‘All hands on deck.’
I hurry over to the pony lines where Eduardo hands me a hose, ready to wash the ponies down with cool water as they come off the pitch. Every groom is working at a hundred miles per hour, whether it’s prepping a pony for a chukka – wrapping bandages, plaiting tails, warming them up at the end of the field – or cooling a pony down when it comes off the match covered in sweat, untacking it and walking it up and down and round in circles, steam rising off its body as its hosed down with cool water. They monitor the ponies closely and constantly, checking them over to make sure they’re okay; they’re standing ready with mallets should theplayers need to change theirs; and they’re on hand for any calm, concise advice about which pony to use for the next chukka and why.
As the match nears the end, Maycourt is leading but Orchid Park is catching up thanks to a few mistakes on Fitz’s part. I’ve been entrusted by Eduardo to walk one of the most docile ponies, Lyra, near the pony lines for her cool down, and I watch as Fitz charges towards the ball, swings heavily and loses his balance a little, causing him to mishit the ball. One of the Orchid players scoops it up, takes it back upfield and whacks it neatly between the posts of their goal.
‘Fuck! Fuck!Fuuuuck!’ Fitz howls, while Mateo mutters something under his breath, his expression twisting with anger.
I’ve never known so many expletives to be thrown around in a professional sport, but Fitz has been cursing at the top of his lungs throughout the match and he’s not the only one. Whenever they mishit or helplessly watch a goal scored by the other team, the players have no qualms in roaring and yelling swear words either to themselves or each other. Mateo doesn’t swear like the others, but there’s no doubting his flares of temper, revealing themselves through his hostile and stony expression and tightened jaw.
As the ball comes back into play and he bolts past with one of the Orchid players racing alongside him, I gasp at their proximity and the roaring thunder of the hooves, my heart leaping into my throat at the idea of one of them falling in a ride-off.
‘It looks so dangerous,’ I say to Jules. ‘Aren’t they scared? The ponies are going so fast!’
‘It’s like any sport; they’re addicted to the rush – a bit like Formula One, but on horseback,’ she explains. ‘For most of these guys, this sport is in their blood. It’s part of their heritage. They eat, sleep, breathe polo. It’s hard work and dangerous, but it’s who they are. They can’t not play. It’s an addiction.’
I turn Lyra round and walk back again, looking over just in time to see Mateo fire the ball between the goal posts, securing the win just before the final chukka finishes, prompting an eruption of cheers from the Maycourt pony lines.
As the players dismount, greeted with high fives and claps on their backs, I continue leading Lyra back and forth. Jules congratulates each player, doing a good job of telling her cousin Fitz how brilliant he was. While the other players greet their adoring fans now spilling onto the pitch from the sidelines, I notice Mateo have a quiet moment with the pony he’s ridden for the final chukka, a strikingly beautiful and fast black horse called Violet.
He glances up and catches me staring.
Blushing, I offer him a congratulatory smile. Our eyes locked, he smiles back and a flutter ripples through my chest. A beaming Eduardo approaches him to lead Violet away and I turn Lyra round again, relieved that the moment between us has been broken.Shit. What is wrong with me?I can’t develop a crush on someone like him. I’ve learnt my lesson about falling for an athlete. I won’t let myself become so vulnerable again.
*
That night, the Maycourt team celebrate with some drinks at the clubhouse. I’m on the fence about going, but Jasper persuades me otherwise.
‘You’re a part of the team now,’ he reminds me, dropping me off after I’ve been home to shower and dress once I’d helped the other grooms to sort the ponies after the match and put them to bed. ‘You deserve to celebrate this win as much as they do.’
I’m not sure that’s completely fair since I’m not even trusted to plait a pony’s tail for a match yet, but I am hopeful that tonight, I might get to know some of the grooms better.
The moment I walk into the clubhouse, I realise I haven’t got the dress code right. I’ve rocked up in a mini dress, leather jacket, ankle boots and gold hoop earrings. After a couple of days of smelling like horse hair and hay, and having suffered a knock to my confidence thanks to Chris, I was excited to smell and look good, taking my time earlier with choosing my outfit and applying smoky eye make-up, styling my hair in soft waves around my shoulders. But scanning the room on entering, I realise my mistake. All the other girls are dressed in long, floral dresses and tailored, cropped, preppy blazers, some wearing panamas and straw hats. They look like they’ve stepped out of a Tommy Hilfiger photoshoot, while I wouldn’t be out of place in the smoking area of a Camden nightclub.
As I take in everyone sipping champagne, laughing loudly together, chatting and embracing, I recognise this churning feeling in my stomach from when I first started attending fashion events with Ren: the uneasiness of knowing I don’t belong here amongst these people. Not yet anyway. I spot Jules talking to her mum in the corner and make my way over, keen to talk to Lady Maycourt or ‘Lady M’ as the other grooms call her. I haven’t spoken to her since I startedand I want to thank her, but by the time I’ve weaved my way through the crowd, she’s slipped away, leaving Jules on her own.
‘Hi,’ I say, pleased that at least she doesn’t look irritated by me joining her.
‘Veuve?’ She jerks her head towards the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket surrounded by spare glasses on the table near her. ‘Courtesy of my mother.’
‘Thanks.’ I help myself, standing awkwardly next to her and taking a glug before I notice her intently watching the group of girls who were on the sideline earlier. ‘Are they your friends?’
She raises her eyebrows at me. ‘The High Fives? No.’
‘The High what?’
