Page 84 of Polo Fever
He sticks his hands in his pockets. ‘Forgive me. I heard your argument with Mateo.’
‘It wasn’t an argument. He’s upset from the match.’
‘I wanted to make sure you’re all right.’
‘I’m fine. It was nothing.’
Sympathy flashes across his expression. ‘You can’t blame yourself, you know that, right? Mateo is who he is. No one can change him. Not even someone like you. Others can achieve balance, but Mateo has always felt like he had something to prove and there was never any time for anything else in his life. I tried to warn you…’
‘He’s dedicated,’ I state, immediately defensive. ‘Unlike other people in this sport, he wasn’t handed the opportunity on a plate. He had to work hard to get where he is. I admire that and I understand that that means losses hit harder. He doesn’t take it for granted.’
‘Believe me, Ash, I of all people admire his work ethic,’ Basilio says in a serious voice. ‘But don’t you see? That only serves to prove my point. For Mateo, polo is life. It always has been; it always will be. Sure, he might have got caught up in something that made him forget it, but in the end, he will always come back to putting polo first. No one can compete with that.’
Chilled to the bone at the hard-hitting truth, I blink back tears.
‘You want my honest opinion? I swear, no agenda here,’ he claims, raising his hands up. ‘Mateo is an idiot. There have been times this season that I’ve never seen him play better. I think that’s because of you. If he pushes you away, he’ll lose the momentum you’ve inspired. It’s like he found his lucky charm in you.’
I hang my head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Ash, look at me.’ He waits until I’ve forced myself to bring my gaze to meet his. ‘Just because Mateo can’t see what he has, it doesn’t mean no one else can.’
He leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek, lingering a moment too long, as though considering something before thinking better of it and pulling away. He emits a small sigh.
‘I hope I’ll see you in Spain,’ he says, before strolling towards his car, looking back over his shoulder at me as he goes.
I return to the ponies, hurt, rattled and confused, and with the sense of foreboding that’s been niggling at me for days thumping at my heart, demanding my full attention.
*
The Ayala Polo Club is a beautiful setting with long stretches of trees around the polo fields providing shade for the pony lines and immaculate stables and pitches. Spectators are dedicated to cooling their faces with fans, or play schedules if they’re less organised, the stands a sea of flushed cheeks, dark sunglasses and Panama hats.
In the sweltering heat of Sotogrande in August, the ponies are changed during chukkas at a constant rate,led from the pitch with their coats glistening with sweat, their nostrils flaring, exhausted from just a few minutes of thundering across the ground at speed. Cooling them down is, like always, a military operation, but there’s absolutely no room for mistakes and the Maycourt grooms and vets work with sharp focus throughout the first match to make sure the ponies are well looked after. I barely catch a glimpse of Mateo playing and am too busy to speak to him in between. There’s a loud cheer at the end of the match and I have no clue who might have won, having forgotten to check the scoreboard the last time I passed it. When I look up to see our team congratulating one another, I give a nod of satisfaction before wiping the sheen of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and returning to scraping the water from Violet’s steaming coat. My only moment of pause is when I hear Fitz’s bellowing voice floating across the pony lines:
‘He’s back! Now,that’smore like the Mateo we know.’
Everything seems calm early the next morning when I’m exercising the ponies. I feel better after getting an early night last night – by the time we’d finished with the ponies, it was late and all the grooms were exhausted. I’d had to message Mateo to let him know I’d be staying at my hotel which is much closer to the stables. I was tired, sweaty, dirty, desperate for a shower and fantasising about climbing into bed and passing out, which is essentially what I did as soon as I got back. I knew he wouldn’t mind. He’s got an important networking event tomorrow with patrons he thinks might be considering him for Argentina, so I knew he’d be happy to be well-rested for that – he’s talked more about that party than the actual tournament.I’d slept solidly the moment my head hit the pillow and feel refreshed and in a brighter mood. Walking the ponies under glorious sunshine and clear, blue skies also helps.
When I’ve finished the sets, I grab some water and check my phone, laughing with Jules over Violet playing up with her this morning.
But as I notice my screen, my blood runs cold.
While I’ve been out this morning, I’ve received alotof messages. Too many. An absurdly unusual amount. And I know what that means. I’ve been here before. No one is this popular. You don’t get this many people messaging you unless you’re in the news. At a glance, I can tell that a lot of the messages are people asking me if I’m all right. Others are calling Chris Courtney a host of insulting names. My chest feels tight as I open my web browser and google his name. A list of fresh news stories appears. My fingers trembling, I click on the top one.
‘She pursued me and I was weak enough to give in.’
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I feel too sick to read on, my hand trembling as I lower my phone.
‘Jules, I… I have to go back to the hotel. I don’t feel well,’ I say, my voice wavering as I gather up my things. ‘Is that okay?’
‘Sure, everything here is sorted.’ She frowns at me and I can understand her confusion seeing as moments ago, I was completely normal. ‘You all right? Maybe it’s too much sun.’
‘I need to lie down for a bit. I’ll see you later.’
