Page 75 of Polo Fever
Moved by her reaction, I swallow the lump forming in my throat.
‘I didn’t have much to do with it; it’s Mateo who hastrained her to perform like this, and her natural talent,’ I remind her with a giddy smile. ‘I knew she had it in her.’
‘That’s what I mean, Ashley. Your belief in her made today happen. You may not have trained her, but you didn’t give up on her. That means everything.’
She pulls me into another hug and then, with a parting squeeze on my arm, steps around me to congratulate Fitz as he comes rushing off the pitch. In moments, I find myself in the middle of a group hug as Mateo grabs me from behind swinging me around and then, as my feet are planted back on the ground, Malcolm jumps on top of him, Fitz piles in, too, and anyone else in the vicinity gets involved. In the centre of it all, I laugh until my jaw aches, held firmly in Mateo’s arms. I officially feel like I’m part of the team.
It’s a good feeling.
*
Throughout the tournament, the Maycourt team provides a masterclass in teamwork and mental resilience, refusing to let mistakes or bad luck affect their performance. When tensions mount during the semi-finals and Fitz is sent tumbling to the ground in a ferocious ride-off, a chorus of gasps and yelps ripple through the stands. Once we can all breathe a sigh of relief as he stands up and dusts himself off, seemingly unharmed, I expect his temper to flare, but instead, he has a few words with the groom who assists him in getting him back up on his pony. He thanks his teammates, who’d come rushing to check on him, and nods in agreement with the umpire awarding a penalty in his favour. After a shock like that, he’d be forgiven for a wobbly hit, but he lines himself up and hits the ball withmeasured composure and we cheer as it rolls through the centre of the posts.
Maycourt win the match and will face DQ in the finals.
On the final day of the tournament, the sun is shining and the estate is heaving with spectators. The bars are noisy, there are screams of joy reverberating around the fields from the funfair, and everywhere you look, celebrities and influencers are having their photograph taken as they get into the spirit of the event. I love admiring all the fashion and smirking as I overhear yet anotherPretty Womanreference. Everyone who has come along today seems impossibly beautiful and elegant, handles of designer bags looped over their elbows, their towering block heels wobbling across the grass, decorative and colourful hats perched on their heads, chosen to catch the eye. And everyone is smiling. That’s one of the best things about the polo: people are here to have a good time. The atmosphere is buzzing.
Somewhere amongst the crowd are my mum, Jasper and Sam, all of whom have made the journey to be here today. They’re in one of the private enclosures and I’m sure are making the most of the complimentary champagne and gourmet dining.
I can already feel the layer of sweat forming on my forehead as I finish braiding and taping a pony’s tail. It’s been a busy morning and it’s a hot day. Across the pony lines, you can see a trail of ears flicking and shaking to ward off the pestering flies, the string for today impatient and agitated, raring to go. Serafina is at the end being checked over by Eduardo.
Please do well today.
She’s been the talk of the polo set, drawing the eye of envious patrons and even prompting Ambrose to reluctantlycongratulate Lady M on sticking to her guns on that ‘fine chestnut mare’. When a mutual acquaintance asked her whether she’d ever agree a price, Lady M believed they’d been sent by Ambrose to sniff around.
‘She’s not for sale and never will be,’ she said, shutting down the conversation.
There’s not much conversation in the pony lines before the final. I think everyone’s too nervous, trembling with anticipation. Double checking the tail is neat and securely fastened, I give the pony a pat and a kiss on the nose to wish him luck, and then spot Mateo with the rest of the team in the shade of the Maycourt tent, hashing over tactics as they zip up their boots. He catches my eye and gives me a fleeting smile before pulling back his focus.
Biting my lip, I turn to find Basilio jogging past on a grey speckled mare, slowing as he sees me. I can’t pretend I haven’t seen him – our eyes have accidentally locked and he’s on a horse for Christ’s sake, so he’s kind of hard to miss.
‘Fine day for it!’ he calls out in a mocking posh English voice, as he gestures to the blue skies with his mallet.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it and he gives me a spectacular grin before cantering away. It was funny and completely innocent, but I still glance back at Mateo, feeling awkward that he’s witnessed the exchange. I’m almost certain he saw it, but he looks calm and controlled, no hint of irrational anger that his enemy should joke with his girlfriend. Satisfied that I haven’t accidentally scuppered Maycourt’s start by fuelling the fire between those two, I get ready for the match to start.
*
‘Fuck me, what a shot!’ Jules cries.
I’m still too shocked to speak, but she’s spoken my thoughts exactly as we’ve just witnessed Mateo accelerating towards the right-hand corner of the pitch only to play an angled neck shot towards the goal, putting such spin on the ball that it curls in between the posts. It has to be the most skilled shot I’ve seen him, or anyone else for that matter, play all tournament, and the crowd are cheering wildly, their applause reverberating across the field.
I can see Basilio at the other end of the pitch roar something in frustration at his teammates, violently gesticulating as he speaks. His flare of anger is understandable: it’s the last chukka and Mateo has nudged Maycourt into the lead from being tied in the fifth chukka at ten-ten.
My heart is pounding so hard as the play continues. I want Mateo to win every match he plays, but this one feels particularly important. Not only is it the final of the British Open, it’s a final against DQ, a team that goes out of their way to make Maycourt feel inferior. Howgoodwould it taste to beat them here today on a ground as prestigious as Cowdray in front of a crowd as VIP as it gets. That sort of thing is important to Ambrose, I bet. It would sting much more for DQ to lose here today than anywhere else. Watching Eric, who currently has the ball, spin his pony round in a lovely bit of false play to shake off Basilio, I clench my fists as he sends it firing upfield to Malcolm.
Come on.
Glancing up for Mateo or Fitz, Malcolm finds his own path ahead clear and makes a go for it, thundering past the halfway line and setting up a perfectly placed pass to Mateo who streaks ahead on Serafina, the goal in his sights. I hearBasilio shout in fury before the ball has even gone through the posts, but he knows as well as everyone else that it’s about to. We hear the resounding, satisfactorythwackof the mallet striking the ball.
There’s a moment’s pause as everyone holds their breath, the flag goes up and the noise from the stand is deafening. Jules is screaming in my ear, her arms flinging around me and squeezing me tight. I don’t hear the whistle declaring the match is over, but it must be because everyone around me is hugging and jumping and running onto the field. I’m released by Jules and caught in a tornado of purple shirts as every member of the Maycourt team celebrates this unbelievable win together; players, grooms, trainers, vets, partners and children descend upon the field in elation.
Somehow in the midst of the chaos, Mateo finds me, spinning me round to face him and, before I can say anything, kissing me hungrily, one hand on my hip, the other gripping into my hair. He pulls back, his hair damp from sweat and plastered to his forehead, his eyes blazing, his breath ragged.
‘That win was a reminder to Basilio that he doesn’t always get what he wants,’ he says gruffly, nipping at my lip. ‘Promise me later I can get whatIwant?’
I laugh, the adrenaline pumping through my veins. ‘You’ve already got the Gold Cup, Mateo; what more could you possibly want?’
*
