Page 31 of Polo Fever
‘Symptoms can be delayed.’
Relenting, I thank him again and pick up my helmet from where I dropped it on the floor before I make my way to the exit, my body bruised, my ego shattered.
In bed that night, I wince at every movement, my limbs aching and my heart sinking at how I’d made such a fool of myself.
I go into work the next day, hoping to bump into Mateo at some point to apologise again for my stupidity, but I don’t see him until two days after when he comes to seek me out as I’m finishing my jobs for the night.
‘Ash, there you are. How are you feeling?’ he asks, his brow furrowed.
‘Better, thanks,’ I say, pushing my hair out my eyes as I shut and lock a stable door. ‘I’m so sorry for taking Serafina out. I feel like such a—’
He waves his hand dismissively to cut me off. ‘It’s fine. What are you doing now?’
‘I… uh… I’m about to go home. Why? Is there something you need?’
‘I need you to tack up Elinor,’ he says.
‘Elinor,’ I repeat in confusion, knowing her to be the most docile pony in the yard.
‘Yes, I’m going to give you a lesson,’ he states.
‘What?’
‘You want instruction. I’m going to teach you how to ride. I can’t promise it will be every day, but when we have the time, we can do it. I have the time now.’
‘But…’ I stare at him, stunned. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s important that you don’t let the fall put you off riding completely, and you should keep riding. You don’t have any experience, but you’re good at it. I think you could be very good.’
‘You… you do?’
‘Yes, Ash, I do.’ He turns on his heel to stride out of the stables, calling, ‘I’ll meet you in the indoor arena,’ back over his shoulder while I stand frozen to the spot, speechless.
Ten
It’s difficult to tell if I’m making good progress with an instructor like Mateo who isn’t naturally talkative and seems guarded in his expressions. He doesn’t give much encouragement, focusing on pointing out the things I’m doing wrong, but at the end of my third lesson, he nods and says, ‘Better,’ with the hint of a smile. I grow about two inches taller.
I was shaken after my fall, so he took it slow the first lesson and went through all the basics. The second lesson, I felt less nervous and he told me that my pony, Elinor, was naturally responding to that lift in confidence, making both of us look more comfortable. And by the third, I’ve been too focused on his stern voice nitpicking every detail as I went from trotting to cantering to feel afraid of falling:don’t rush the transition, engage your core, upright posture, legs relaxed, heels down, don’t tense your shoulders…
His instructions were drowned out by the whooshing of the wind in my ears and my heart rate accelerating with the rush of thundering on a horse down a field, beforeI executed a smooth, sharp turn, and pelted the other way again. It was euphoric and I’m on such a high afterwards, it’s hard to fall asleep that night. I only wish Mateo had more time for lessons, but I’m lucky he’s given me any time at all, especially with his training in the run-up to the Prince of Wales Trophy tournament, the high-goal tournament held at The Royal County of Berkshire Polo Club that essentially kicks off the official British season of polo.
When we arrive in Berkshire with lorries of ponies in tow, the estate is calm and serene, grey skies over stretches of beautifully maintained green polo grounds lined with pristine white fences. All the grooms are in a good mood. Match days are exciting, but this is the first high-goal tournament and there’s a crackle of excitement in the air as I help tie up the ponies to the iron rails before embarking on the first of many coffee runs of the day. A steady stream of cars begin to trickle into the grounds later in the morning, either flashy sports cars or mucky old Defenders, fans arriving early to get a good parking spot at the side of the pitch so they can picnic by their car whilst watching the matches.
The sun eventually breaks through the clouds and, as the grooms warm up the ponies for the first chukka, spectators mill around the edge of the ground in their sunglasses, wide-brim straw hats, linen shirts, colourful trousers and floaty dresses. Champagne bottles are popping, jugs of Pimm’s are filling, and the stand is swarming with people taking their seats.
All four of the Maycourt players are with their patron, her dogs pestering Mateo for a fuss while he sits to zip up his boots. As I hold some spare mallets on Eduardo’sinstruction, I spot Mateo crouch down to give Lady Maycourt’s two lurchers a neck scratch and a kiss on the head, before Garfunkel the corgi succeeds in getting a belly rub from him.
I’m smiling dreamily at the adorable exchange when someone knocks into my shoulder from behind as they pass by, causing me to stumble forwards.
‘Perdón,’ a voice says hastily, and I turn round to find it’s a polo player.
With light-brown hair, sharp cheekbones, a clean-shaven jaw and the way his lips naturally form a resting pout, he looks like a model. I know he’s a player on an opposing team thanks to the branded polo shirt clinging to his muscular and sculpted torso.
Jesus, I think, drinking him in.
It’s like an unwritten rule that you’re only allowed to play polo if you’re handsome.
His eyes widening at me, a warm smile begins to creep across his lips.
