Page 40 of Polo Fever
‘I don’t see why not,’ she says calmly. ‘I meant what I said in there. Mateo has every faith in your riding ability, so I do, too. You dedicate yourself to polo the way you have to the stables and you’ll be a pro in no time.’
‘Lady M, if you go ahead with this,we are going to lose!’
‘No, you won’t,’ Mateo says, coming down the steps behind us.
‘Mateo,’ I groan, looking at him in wide-eyed panic, ‘I’ve only just startedridingagain. How am I going to learn how to play polo in one summer? There’s no way I’m going to be good enough for us to win!’
‘Yes, you will. I’ll teach you.’
‘But… this is serious,’ I say, pleading for him to see sense. ‘I’m going to need alotof training to get anywhere near their level, and you don’t have time for that. This isn’t only my reputation on the line, it’s Maycourt’s, too. Please, we can’t do this.’
‘You have my word that I will be dedicated to your training.’
‘Mateo—’
‘With your natural talent and me teaching you, I think you can be better than anyone DQ have got,’ he says in a manner that won’t be argued with. ‘I can tell that it’s worth my time and effort to believe in you.’
Fourteen
Mateo makes it clear early on in our polo lessons that he’s not going to take it easy on me. We start by covering all the basics – the rules, equipment etc. – and then he teaches me to master the different strokes with the mallet while I’m still on the ground. I practise forehands and backhands and learn the nearside shots, before I’m declared ready for the wooden horse. I hit the ball nicely on that, practising my swing and being rewarded with satisfied nods and even a few comments of, ‘Good,’ from my instructor.
Since the party, I’ve been trying to manage feelings I’ve developed for Mateo. I think they’ve been simmering under the surface for a while, but they violently flared when he practically slammed that DQ jerk against the writing table without even touching him, backing him into a corner with pure protective rage.
On top of that, there’s the sweet, vulnerable side to him that he’s revealed glimpses of to me: when he was talking about his childhood and when I fell off Serafina and he knelt down beside me with an expression so adorably worriedand terrified, it’s burned into my memory. Then there’s the matter of how sexy he is, with that thick, dark hair I want to thread my fingers through, broad, muscled shoulders, and dangerously beautiful, intense dark eyes. And the way he effortlessly and fearlessly commands a horse going at breathtaking speed, yet how gentle and playful he is with them. Of all the players, the ponies love him the most, whinnying and kicking their stalls whenever they spot him as if to say,Pick me! Pick me!
I’m starting to think he may be the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.
But when my stomach flutters at the mere sight of him, it’s not difficult to remind myself of the recent pain I’ve suffered after making the mistake of falling for someone I work for. I’m starting to rebuild my life and reputation. Mateo admitted to me openly that nothing else matters but polo to him. If anything were to happen, I’d be a temporary distraction to him. He implied as much. Allowing my heart to run away with itself has already cost me everything. I won’t let myself make such a silly and reckless mistake again.
When it comes to Mateo, I have to keep things strictly professional.
Anyway, it doesn’t take long before he takes the shine off those feelings himself. When I mount one of the smaller Maycourt ponies, Lyra, after a positive stint on the wooden horse, I’m distracted by the fantasy of what it would be like to throw my arms around Mateo and kiss him – but by the time I dismount Lyra, I’m ready to throw this stupid mallet at his stupid head. His stern instructions and criticisms are relentless, a few levels up from when he was teaching me to ride for fun. The stakes are higher now and we’re both feeling it.
‘Stop going so fast! You’re getting overexcited!’
‘Don’t yank the reins so much! Polo ponies are incredibly responsive.’
‘You’re leaning too far back! You’re not at a bloody rodeo.’
‘Your weight is too far forward. Why are you acting like a jockey?’
‘Up out of the saddle!’
‘Stop worrying so much about hitting the ball and focus on the positioning of the pony as you approach it.’
‘You didn’t hit the ball because you’re not watching it.’
‘You’re too tense up there. Try to relax into it. She’s reading you.’
‘Don’t slump your shoulders!’
That is a small selection of the orders he barks at me throughout the first lesson, and when he comes to grab Lyra’s bridle as I slip off her, exhausted, frustrated and irritable, there’s no,Well done, or,Good job for your first proper lesson.
Instead, he says, ‘Now you know how heavy the mallet feels when you’re riding with it in one hand, and the importance of using your core, you should focus on strength training outside of our lessons. Yoga or Pilates, as well as cardio and weights.’
I glare at him, but he’s too busy fussing Lyra to notice.
The second lesson is even worse. Whatever gentleness I thought was lurking beneath his serious, muscled exterior is either gone completely or only reserved for ponies, because he seems to be incapable of giving me any compliments, even when I think I’ve done okay. The ponies respond well to me, I feel comfortable up in the saddle so am going quickand turning nicely. I admit that my success with hitting the ball at speed has been less than good, but from his teaching methods, you’d think I was utterly hopeless.
