I knew I didn’t need to win today. But I couldn’t look like a total loser, either. I wanted to get around clean and pick up some points on what was known as the Average Ranking List, which was about results, but consistency, too. By the time summer rolled around, the top three American riders on that list would be chosen to represent the US in Paris.
Fifty horses entered, almost all of the top riders, men and women, riders as old as sixty and as young as sixteen. I really did love this distinctive quality that separated our sport from all others. Men against women. Teenagers against grandparents. All that mattered was being good enough, having enough horse underneath you.
I, along with all the other riders, was using this event as a warm-up for the Grand Prix happening in two weeks, in this same big-ass arena.
Matthew Killeen, number one in Ireland, just ahead of his best friend, Eric Glynn, was walking with his trainer about two jumps ahead of us. He wasn’t just a great rider. He was a good guy. At one point he’d turned around and yelled at me, “Slow down, McCabe, you’re already making me nervous.”
I’d grinned and given him the finger.
“Always the lady,” he said.
“My way of saying you’re number one, Killeen,” I yelled back.
Matthew was good-looking, too, if a little old for me at thirty-five. It hadn’t stopped me from having a major teenage crush on him when he’d started competing more regularly at WEF.
Behind us was Tyler Cullen, always near the top of the American rankings, but currently number two behind Tess McGill, whose father was lead singer for the rock group Snap. I’d waved at Tyler when I’d first gotten on the course. He ignored me, even though I knew he’d seen me. Daniel saw what I saw, and just shook his head.
“If Mr. Steve Gorton were a rider,” Daniel had said to me, “he’d be Tyler Cullen.”
“Oh, hell, no,” I said. “Even Gorton isn’t that much of a prick.”
When we finished the course, we stopped briefly at the in-gate, where we made out like high school kids. Amazing how sometimes everything could still feel like high school. Daniel hadn’t mentioned the kiss since that night. I hadn’t, either. Maybe next week I could pass him a note after chem class.
Focus, I told myself, but not, Relax.
I’d always felt nerves, what Mom liked to call the good nerves that came with competition.
Never like this.
I was happy to be going thirtieth in the order. I’d have a chance to watch how the preceding riders and horses handled the course—where in the second half to pick up speed, where others had taken chances and they’d played it safe.
Today’s event might have been titled “Power and Speed.” The course seemed to break at the eighth jump. That’s when the clock started. That’s when a rider who could manage to keep the last eight striped poles off the ground had the chance to post a score.
As nervous as I was, I was stupidly excited at the same time. This was the biggest jumping event of my whole stupid life.
Focus.
Up in the tent, Mom and Grandmother were at their table. They’d decided to watch from there, even though Grandmother said she couldn’t curse freely without scaring the decent people. Daniel would shout any instructions from the in-gate, though he was convinced that if he’d done his job during the week, I’d be fine out there on my own.
“What do you want to do until Emilio brings up Coronado from the barn?” Daniel said.
He meant the small Atwood Farm barn at the show. The way it worked, Emilio would bring Coronado to the schooling ring about twenty minutes before my spot in the order, and we’d start jumping in there until my name was called.
Mr. Gorton would be here eventually. Knowing him, he’d demand a private viewing stand next to the central announcer’s gazebo.
“I just want to be alone for a few minutes,” I said. “You okay with that?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Relax,” he said again, smiling at me.
“Callate,” I said.
I found a place high up in the bleachers, on the opposite side of the ring from where Mom and Grandmother were. Matthew Killeen went out early and posted 30.19, a banging score that put him right into first place. Tyler Cullen, going twentieth, posted a score of 30.58. When he finished the round, he turned to look at the clock and I could see how pissed off he was. He’d come so close to Matthew’s time, and he hated to lose to anybody, Matthew most of all.
Ten out now.
I heard my phone beep with a message, pulled it out of the back pocket of my breeches and saw: he’s here.