Training Harry

by Meghan Namaste

  I was on Vegas for the first time, and he was more of a dreamboat than I had even imagined. The humming life in his stride, the effortless power and rhythmic floating left me in constant wonder. I had never felt a horse so well schooled, so utterly responsive to the lightest touch. And as I rode him I felt what I had so often witnessed. Vegas seemed to register the mood of his rider. He seemed to read the thoughts in my head. Vegas embodied my emotions, giving something to me through his movement, his responses. Without even being asked, with no clear motive or need, he put it all out there. Every flick of his hoof, each flex of a muscle or joint was a fluent display of joy and enthusiasm. And I simply rode it out, delirious and grateful, so grateful.

  Beside me, Lawrence sat on Harry, smiling as he held the reins lightly. Beneath him, Harry surged along, moving with the intensity and recklessness of choppy surf in a gale. He pulsated with energy, leaping, cantering in place and shooting sideways. Harry’s enthusiasm was nearly uncontainable, but Lawrence simply sank into his back, following Harry’s motions with an ease I still found remarkable. And Harry respected him, trusted him, never blowing through his gentle hold on the reins or going faster than Lawrence asked him to.

  We rode on, across steep, rounded hills of weeds that fell away to rich forests. Harry gradually settled into a rhythm, and we moved our horses closer, until we were separated only by inches. Our legs brushed together gently before Harry took offense and snapped at Vegas. Laughing, I moved the gelding away from Harry’s teeth while Lawrence admonished Harry without conviction.

  Lawrence sat upright as Harry descended a small hill, and we found ourselves in a huge, undulating field, our horses’ hooves touching down on soft, gently waving grasses. We stopped them for a moment and just looked out at the vast expanse of green dotted with trees that looked spun from sugar. Beyond, more fields lay open, bordered by thick stands of trees. It went on and on, unchangingly beautiful.

  I looked at Lawrence, and I was so full, so overwhelmed that it took me a moment to speak. “I’m so glad we’re here.”

  He smiled, and with no further encouragement our horses began moving. A canter quickly became a gallop and soon they were running full out across the field, circling, doubling back and tirelessly, elatedly running on. Lawrence and I stood in our stirrups, laughing, grinning in pure exultation and looking at little else but each other.

  Lawrence slipped in beside me, baggy sweats lying wonderfully low on his hips. I held a tall mug of hot chocolate, heavy on the whipped cream.

  “What’re you thinking about?” He asked me, watching me in that intense, loving way.

  “Just remembering something.” I took a sip, holding his eye. My free hand slid into his back pocket.

  Lawrence bent his head, softly kissing my neck, flooding my body with warmth. A grin spread on my face and I looked out into the yard. There was an inch of snow on the ground, changing the scene to winter, coloring everything pearly white. Covering the burned-out grass and everything else.

  Lawrence paused, breathing in and out against my skin. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I love you,” I told him, and I leaned closer. He wrapped his arms around me, and everything was absolutely right.

  Epilogue

  Nine months before

  Lawrence

  There was no shortage of women at the International Polo Club. Groupies, waitresses, grooms and hotwalkers, journalists. I had been there a couple months and was just starting to feel secure in my position when The Women arrived.

  The Women were different. There were eight of them, the two best teams in the country, and they weren't interested in sleeping with 7, 9 or even 10 goal players. The Women didn't want to be with us. They wanted to be us.

  There was a lot of talk going on before The Women showed up. There wasn't a whole lot of respect going on. The other players around me wrote them off as pieces of ass. Most people seemed to focus on how, to fund their passion, some of them had taken off their clothes for horny strangers or cameras. I withheld my judgment. I was in no position to judge.

  I left my room and headed down a few floors to see The Women come in. I passed Marla on my way to the conference room where they would be unveiled.

  "Come to see The Women?" She asked, a smirk forming on her delicious mouth.

  I nodded, my eyes peeling away the layers of her excruciatingly well-fitting pantsuit.

  Marla's smirk was full-on now. "Well, if you have not bedded each and every one before the week is out, your reputation is unearned and greatly exaggerated." She hung a quick left and walked away.

  I watched her go, feeling a sudden, strong urge to run after her. I shook myself. The Women. Right.

  I slipped into the cavernous room. The air snapped and surged with the quick-flying questions and flashbulbs of the media. The Women were grouped tightly together and uniformly dressed, making it hard to see individuals. Is that deliberate? I wondered. Or is it just nerves, a herd mentality?

  I made my way from the back corner of the room to an empty space among the journalists, closer to the action. I could see all their faces now. Some of The Women looked eager, excited to be promoting their contribution to the sport. To be among their male counterparts. Others seemed guarded, resigned to their status as second-class eye candy, and not entirely happy about it.

  I liked those women. They intrigued me.

  A journalist fired a question at a tall but wispy blonde. "What is your goal for this week?"

  She looked surprised, pleased and intimidated. "Oh, well, I think what we're able to do as women in this sport is amazing, and I'm hoping to get some respect," she chirped.

  My heart broke. Oh, honey. You are in the wrong place. I saw her teammate cringe and elbow her in the side. I watched their silent exchange.

  Ow. What?

  What the hell was that?!

  I'm sorry! She caught me off guard. Did it sound really stupid?

  Yes. We might as well go home now.

  I'm really sorry...

  Whatever. Just don't talk. Ever. Again.

  Suddenly a small brunette stepped forward. I squinted at her. She can't be taller than five four. Her build was refined, lacking muscle tone. I couldn't imagine her playing polo at the top of the sport.

  "I would like to say something. If I may." Even through her French accent, I could hear the cutting sarcasm at the end.

  Hearing no opposition, she continued. "Tara brings up a good point. We have the best talent in the USA right here. Not the best female talent," she clarified. "The best talent."

  Half the oxygen in the room was sucked into people's lungs in a widespread, prolonged gasp that echoed magnificently. I felt like applauding, but I was on the other team. I settled for snickering into my fist. No one was looking at me anyway.

  Emboldened by the shocked silence, the French girl reopened her mouth to do more damage. "You might say to me, 'That's just a statement'. You might want me to back it up. To prove it. And I would love to! We would all love a chance to prove ourselves!" She swept an arm around at The Women, most of whom looked horrified. Especially poor, unfortunate Tara.

  "But until we have the same opportunities as the men, all we can do is talk. Talk, and fight. For higher funding. Better ponies. More opportunities. They say women do not have the strength to play at the highest levels with the men. That is a lie. We have the physical ability. And polo does not merely require brute strength," she threw in. "It is a mental challenge."

  I was dying. I didn't know how long I could hold back without incriminating myself. I shouldn't be enjoying this. She just basically called us a bunch of idiots. I should be offended, or something. But it's true! It's all true!

  The French girl was glowing. Her eyes sparkled madly. She could not be stopped. "We do not wish for special treatment, or handicaps. We appreciate the Women's Polo Federation. It has given us so much. But some of us have risen beyond women's polo. We implore you: treat us the same as the men. Give us a chance. And see what will happe
n." She smirked, as if The Women winning was an absolute certainty.

  I, for one, believed her.

  She walked off the platform, and the rest of The Women followed shakily. There was nothing to add to what she had said. There was no salvaging the press conference.

  I sprinted after them.

  I caught up with them in the lobby. The Women were gathered around the triumphant French girl, expressing various degrees of shock and awe.

  "What were you thinking?"

  "What are we supposed to do now? We have to stay here for a week!"

  "I can't believe you actually said that! In front of everyone! Because of ME?!" This from poor Tara.

  The French girl shrugged, unfazed, but vaguely pissed that they were raining on her high. "It needed to be said. Do you think those men will give us what we want if we ask nicely? Please. We must beat them over the head and scream and rave to be heard."

  Six heads shook nervously, not invested enough and too afraid to commit. But a tall, strapping blonde stepped away from the pack. "She's right," the blonde said, joining the French girl in her tough stance.

  The rest of The Women skittered away, talking nervously among themselves. The French girl suddenly looked vulnerable and on the edge of crying. "Thanks, Court."

  "It was the right thing to do," the blonde named Court said. "It was freaking crazy, and I can't believe you did it. But it was right."

  The French girl's eyes suddenly skipped over to me. "You. What the hell do you want?"

  I stepped forward eagerly yet apprehensively. "I just wanted to say that I love you." I grinned briefly. "Seriously, that was awesome. You have some balls."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Who do you play for?"

  Now that I was close to her, I realized she had the build of an Ironman tri-athlete. Nothing but muscle.

  "The Pony Express," I answered.

  "I don't know what kind of little game you are playing here, but I will not participate." She made a move to leave.

  I should have realized how this would look. "I don't play games," I said hurriedly. "I really liked what you said. If you have the talent, you should be able to take it as far as you can. Tradition is bullshit."

  She paused, trying to figure me out. "Wait a minute. I know who you are. And I will not be sleeping with you. Ever." She turned away. "Come on, Court. Let's go."

  Court didn’t go. She looked at me. "Yvette is a force of nature. But she doesn't trust easily. She ends up doing everything by herself." She smiled in a stiff, sideways way. "Aren’t you Lawrence Cavanaugh?"

  "You caught me."

  She smiled an easier smile. "Everyone underestimated you, too."

  I nodded.

  "You're an outsider. You don't fit in here, do you?"

  "Not with my team, no. But I never have. I don't really know what that feels like."

  "Well, maybe we'll be on the same team someday." She stuck out her hand. "Courtney Silva."

  I shook her hand, welcoming the warmth of the gesture. "You're doing a demo, right?"

  "Yes. Tomorrow."

  "I can't wait to see you play."

  She smiled, looking down. "I should go find Yvette." She turned and left the building. She left me motivated and hungry.

  I fell into bed that night after practicing for six hours straight. It was the first night I fell into bed alone.

  Courtney

  We didn’t feel like much of a team as we warmed up for our much-anticipated demonstration. Our big chance to show what we had. Everyone had been so excited to prove herself. Now nearly everyone was freaking out, thinking that if we didn’t prove ourselves, we were screwed in a big way. They weren’t wrong to think that.

  I wasn’t worried. Our team, and the formerly united force of The Women, might’ve been splintering under the pressure, but as Yvette reasoned, perhaps it was time to let the weak fall. She was intense. Some days I doubted my ability to reach our shared goal, but I never doubted hers.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Lawrence Cavanaugh materialize and claim a spot on the edge of the field. My body jolted. Yvette saw him too, and she hissed something vulgar in French. I waited until she cantered away before nodding at him. He raised his left hand in acknowledgement.

  I urged my pony, Hermione, into a sweeping trot. She was butt ugly standing around, but a lovely mover. I posted quietly, back and forth. Eventually I moved her into a canter and rose up out of the saddle, poised over her back. Hermione motored past Lawrence. I glanced at him almost without intention. His eyes were on me. I quickly lost my balance, catching Hermione in the mouth. Her studded hooves sank into the ground as she stopped efficiently and rigidly.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Yvette spat at me as she galloped past. “Focus!”

  I clucked to Hermione, and she sailed back into a canter. I focused. I would not humiliate myself. Again.

  We finished our warm-up, and silently aligned ourselves in our starting positions. “I still don’t know about this music you picked,” I hissed to Yvette.

  She shot me a look. “We all know what you’d rather ride to, Courtney.”

  “No, I don‘t mean…I just don’t know about riding to Lady Gaga. I wonder if it undermines the message we’re trying to send.”

  “We all agreed on this eons ago. We are making a statement here. We will ride out to pop music and be cute and perky like they expect, and then we will go to war.” Her eyes snapped into position and stared straight ahead. The conversation was over.

  The highly suggestive opening line of “Love Game” blared out over the field. Our ponies surged forward, embodying the beat. We formed two quadrilles, crossing in front of one another, spreading out, then coming back together. Our choreography was sharp and well hammered into us. Our execution was seamless. The ponies were moving well, amplified by the tense atmosphere.

  We sent the ball around a bit, still working in time with the music. I wanted to see the reaction around us, but I had no room for wavering. The big finish was almost upon us. I turned Hermione down the exact center of the field, and subtly shifted my weight back and forth. Under me, she burst into a series of one-tempis, changing her lead at every stride. Behind me, the others followed in shoulder-in. As we dropped to a halt, the music shut down. And we turned on each other.

  The ball was out in the middle of the field, lying innocuously in the grass. Moments earlier it had been a prop in our little exhibition. Now it had changed. It changed us. We tore up the turf and each other to get it in our power. There was no structure in polo. There were rules, of course, and boundaries and limits and strategy. But once you got out on the field, you were at the mercy of the game. The game was never steady, never predictable. It was always shifting. The direction of play, the balance of power. The strength and weakness of the players. Nothing holds for more than a moment. And a moment doesn’t last long in polo.

  That was what had us all addicted. The change. And the speed.

  The deep cacophony of hoof beats vibrated in my head. Yvette got out in front and deftly sent the ball halfway up the field. The other team’s defense began a frenzied chase. I got alongside and knocked one of them off her precise line, buying Yvette enough time to get to the ball. I heard her make contact. It went squarely between the goalposts. We were ahead by one. If we could stay ahead until the seven minutes ran out, we would be victorious, for all intents and purposes of the exhibition. But the team ranking directly below us in the nation wasn’t about to hand us our little win. They swiftly took the ball, and now we were the ones scrambling.

  They were tight and determined, and now they were getting bombarded by Yvette. They wouldn’t let her in, but she distracted them and took up a lot of their resources. I hovered ten feet behind and then floored it when I saw an opening. Hermione slipped in and I sent the ball flying backward. My mare rolled back without wasting a second and churned toward the ball. Tara, who’d hung back a bit, dashed in and took aim. She could be a ditz, but she had a good arm. Two ahead.

&
nbsp; Our opponents’ desperation had ratcheted up quite a bit. We all wanted to put in a good showing. It wouldn’t look so good for them if they were annihilated by us. Even if we were number one. The play turned dirtier, more physical. We were locked together, an angry swarm at midfield. The ball went back and forth, staying far from either goal. There wasn’t much time left. If we could just keep them from scoring, we would win decisively, if unofficially.

  Maeve Ridgeby took over the ball. She was ranked number three in the country by the Women’s Polo Federation, and she was out for blood. She took the ball away and passed it to Lana Stewart, who was out in front. Yvette swore creatively. I took chase. Lana had momentum. The clock was running out, and she wanted to score for her side. I had to stop her.

  I was gaining on her. She hit the ball again. It arced weakly and came up short of the goal. Hermione flattened out, beating the turf. I was right with Lana now, and I hooked her mallet, slowing her down. She soon got away from me. She was nearly on top of the ball. Hermione made a flying, sideways leap, knocking Lana off her course. Her mallet whistled through air. I swung my mallet through the tangle of Hermione’s legs and hit the ball. It rolled straight toward Yvette, who charged at it. The bell sounded. Our chukker was over. And it really had been ours.

  There was polite, slightly stunned applause. We raised our sticks in victory, and, without much celebrating, left the field, shaking hands with the losing team as we passed them. Maeve and Lana looked absolutely pissed. The others just looked disappointed. I didn’t feel too sorry for them. We’d outplayed them. That was just how it had gone. And we’d had a lot more riding on this, after Yvette’s bold statement. We had needed this. A lot.

  Outside the field, I patted Hermione, taking in her ugly head and various mix-’n-match parts. She sure didn’t look like the indispensable high goal pony she was. Hermione was a special favorite of mine. I handed her to a hot walker, who took her away to cool off and unwind. I went off to try and do the same.