Page 73 of Polo Fever
At Maycourt, he acts so proud to be with me, it makes me shy. He’s attentive, calm and kind when we’re working together. When we spend the night together, it tends to be at his place – it’s too weird to bring him back to mybrother’s – but one night, when everyone was drinking at The Old Greyhound, it made sense to stay there. He knew I wasn’t completely at ease in this group of his teammates and friends – although I’d consider myself liked by Malcolm and Eric, the jury’s still out on Fitz and I’m definitely not a welcome addition for Clara and the High Fives. But even if he wasn’t talking to me, he found a way to let me know he was there, right at my side if I needed him – a hand resting on my thigh, his fingertips brushing along my arm, his knee pressing into mine. It felt like he wasn’t just showing everyone else that he belonged to me and I belonged to him, but showing me, too.
‘So we have you to blame for Mateo’s late arrival to practice the last few times,’ Fitz said, tipping his wine glass at me. ‘You must beverydistracting to have turned Mateo’s head from the game. I didn’t think that was possible.’
‘You’ve never been on time to anything, Fitzy-boy,’ Malcolm said, carefully putting him back in his place. ‘And until Mateo starts playing badly, I don’t think any of us are in position to say anything, do you? He’s been a bloody bull, recently. With him on our side, the Gold Cup is ours, I know it.’
‘You’re so cocky, Malcolm,’ Clara teased, flicking her hair behind her shoulder.
‘I have reason to be very cocky, Clara, believe me,’ he responded, licking his lips suggestively while she giggled with Paige.
‘I think we’ll win,’ Mateo said calmly. ‘We have the quickest pony in the tournament.’
I gasped, swivelling to face him. ‘You’re going to use Serafina in the Gold Cup?’
‘Yes,’ he said, smiling at my excitement, ‘I’m willing to take the risk this time.’
Fitz suddenly announced a rumour about a well-known player being done for fraud and embezzlement and all eyes consequently turned to him. But not mine, and not Mateo’s. I was lost in his gaze as he reached to brush a lock of hair back behind my ear before leaning forwards to kiss me slowly and deeply, the kind of kiss that sends a tingling sensation all the way down to your toes so you have to scrunch them up in your shoes. Everything and everyone around us faded away.
Which was actually quite embarrassing because it was a loud throat-clearing that broke us apart and I looked up to see the throat being cleared belonged to none other than grumpy Jasper, who had come to take the empties on our table.
‘Sorry,’ Mateo said, picking up a couple of glasses and passing them to him.
He narrowed his eyes at Mateo and swiped the glasses away.
‘I thought he liked me,’ Mateo murmured when Jasper had marched back to the bar. ‘He was a bit hostile then.’
‘Yes, but how many girls have you brought to his pub before?’
He hesitates. ‘I may have brought one or two.’
‘Uh-huh. He’s my brother. He’s going to be protective.’
‘I respect that,’ he said thoughtfully.
In bed that night, when my hand drifted down the ridges of his abs to the waistband of his boxers, he gently moved it away and insisted on nothing more than cuddles.
‘We can’t do that,’ he said on seeing my puzzled expression,before holding me close so I could nuzzle into his neck. ‘We’re in your brother’s house.’
As frustrating as it felt at the time, it was also kind of sweet.
While wary at first, Jasper came round to the idea of Mateo and I dating and, when I saw Noor and Rhys at the pub, they made a joke about the high life of a polo WAG.
‘Hey, I’m not a polo WAG, I’m a pologroom,’ I corrected haughtily.
Despite their affectionate teasing, I assured them I was much happier mucking out and helping in the pony lines than sitting in the stands.
*
After the Argentine Open, the British Open is the most coveted title in the polo world. That’s what the Cowdray Gold Cup brochure tells me anyway, and on the first morning of the tournament, I can believe it. There’s an unspoken tension simmering across the fields as grooms prepare the ponies and players prepare their minds.
It’s hard to imagine this level of prestige could be topped anywhere else in the world, especially with the backdrop of Cowdray Ruins, a strikingly grand Tudor mansion once destroyed by a fire, rising behind the manicured lawns and pitches. The Cowdray estate is vast and the Gold Cup is a long-awaited spectacle of a tournament that comes with a funfair, live music performances, and rows and rows of marquees housing sophisticated, upmarket fashion, equestrian, interior, and jewellery shops, as well as a host of bars, cafés and food trucks for visitors to choose from. For the spectators, Cowdray is quite the day out, but for the players, it’s serious business.
Mateo finds me in the pony lines brushing Serafina.
‘How is she?’ he asks.
Serafina recognises his voice with a gleeful whinny. Shaking her head, her ears move back and forth to listen out for him as he makes his way around to her front, reaching up to stroke her nose. She nibbles at his shirt playfully.
‘She’s ready,’ I tell him, patting her on the neck. ‘I’m trying not to let my own nerves rub off on her. Lots of deep breaths and mindfulness going on over here.’
