Page 83 of Polo Fever
Knowing he’s thrown tonight by this revelation from his teammates, I try not to read into that statement too much. Malcolm appears next to us to ask if we’re up for another round. Mateo drops my hand, my fingers cold without his grasp.
‘No, thank you. Early morning tomorrow,’ he says, looking around for his jacket. ‘Apparently, I have a lot of catching up to do.’
Twenty-Seven
In the final match before we fly to play for the Sotogrande Gold Cup mid-August, Maycourt lose to the Titans at their club with a humbling score of eleven goals to six. My heart sinks as Mateo hands Serafina over to Eduardo and comes storming off the pitch, undoing his helmet and yanking it from his head as he mutters a string of expletives in Spanish. I make the mistake of accosting him – I should wait until he’s cooled down, but the pull in me to speak to him is too strong.
My desperation to engage with him is heightened by how he’s been gradually distancing himself from me ever since the night of the grooms’ match.
He didn’t try to pretend that things hadn’t changed; he told me it might be best if we don’t spend every evening together so he could get early nights and be on better form first thing in the morning. He’s become a little less affectionate with me in the yard, but he said that was because he needed to boost morale for the rest of the team, and he needed them to know that he wasn’t distracted at work. He’s graduallypulling away more and more to the point where I think it’s actually making his performance worse. He won’t let me comfort him when he loses; he’s harder on himself, which only adds to his frustration; he’s actively avoiding me during half-times or even after stick and ball. It’s like he doesn’t want anyone thinking I’m in his ear.
But every athlete needs their support team.
‘I’m sorry about today,’ I say, falling into step with him as he barely acknowledges me. ‘You played so well in the first chukka. We were leading and—’
‘I wasn’t focused.’
‘You were focused; it was a bit of bad luck. That foul in the third chukka wasn’t completely your fault in my opinion and I thought it was great that you were playing with a bit more aggression.’
He shakes his head.
‘Mateo, it was one match.’
He stops abruptly, turning to me. ‘It wasn’t one match, Ash. It’s been the last few. Soto is right round the corner. If I keep playing like this, no patron with a brain is going to sign me to their team. I’m not showing any consistency. I’m… distracted.’
I bristle. ‘You’re acting as though you were the only person who lost today. Like the responsibility is all on you.’
‘Those guys were right,’ he says, running his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve lost my way. I should have ended the UK season on a high. It’s finishing on a disaster.’
‘That’s not true. Fitz said a stupid comment when he was drunk and you’ve let him get to you! He’s inside your head; that’s why you’re not playing at the top of your game. You need to be kinder to yourself.’
‘This is my career!’ he cries, emphasising his point by pointing his helmet at me. ‘You know how this goes. I’m signed for a season, Ash. I can’t just do whatever I want and take some days off to bekindto myself.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying and you know it.’
‘Everything is at stake. We won the Gold Cup. We should be seen as a serious threat. Instead,’ he gestures to the opposing team high-fiving their supporters, ‘we’ve become a joke.’
I try to reach for his hand but he pulls away. My cheeks flush at the rejection.
‘Ash, if I want to go to Argentina, I need to prove I’m not a fuck-up,’ he mumbles.
‘Oh my God, you are not a fuck-up!’ I say in exasperation. ‘It isone match, Mateo.’
‘As a polo player, you’re only as good as your last match. Or your last two or three. All of those, I’ve lost.’
‘You’re a great player. You have an amazing handicap.’
‘Not for long. Fuck’s sake. How did this happen? How did I let this happen?’
‘You need to fight the demons in your head telling you you’re not good enough.’
He sighs heavily. ‘What I need is some time to think about my mistakes during that play. I’m sorry, we’ll talk later, okay?’
My stomach twisted into a knot, I nod, letting him walk away from me. I wait a moment to collect myself and then turn around to almost stride straight into Basilio, who has sauntered over to me without me realising. He’s here to watch the youngest player on the Titans team, a Brit named Tom, who quit school at sixteen to complete several stintsin polo yards abroad before returning a top-league player by the age of twenty. This is his first season with the Titans, but everyone knows Ambrose has been sniffing around him.
‘Ash,’ Basilio says with a dashing smile, placing a warm hand on my arm as he gives me a kiss on each cheek accompanied by a waft of expensive cologne. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t stick around after the grooms’ match. You played beautifully.’
‘Thanks,’ I mumble, eyes downcast.
