Daniel felt the heat rise up in him, as if a switch had been thrown, feeling it in his face, the back of his neck, everywhere. Wondering if Gorton could see it.
Chico.
Boy.
It took all of his will not to respond.
“Got anything else to say?” Gorton said.
You have no idea.
Daniel forced himself not to challenge this man, not to take irreversible action. But as much as he wanted to smash a fist into the man’s face, he knew a rash move could ruin everything.
So he kept breathing slowly. Telling himself he was not a violent man. No matter how much he felt like one now.
“Didn’t think so,” Gorton said, and got back into his fancy car, putting it in gear and cranking up the music.
Daniel walked over to his own car and started the engine, turned on the air-conditioning as high as it would go and just sat there for a few moments, forehead pressed against the steering wheel. The heat drained out of him. He felt his whole body unclenching, releasing the fierce restraint that had kept him from hitting the last man in the world he could afford to hit.
NINETY-NINE
THREE EVENTS REMAINED that would shape the United States Olympic team. One was playing out in front of me at the Rolex Ring, Kentucky Invitational.
Mom was one rider out, Tyler Cullen set to go into the ring ahead of her on Galahad. Then Eric Glynn and Matthew Killeen.
Then me.
I’d gotten a second in the three-star event back in Wellington. Mom had gotten a fourth and ridden well, ultimately losing in the jump-off by a second and a half. More important, it moved her back up into fourth place in the Olympic rankings. I was third.
Even people who didn’t follow show jumping had started to take notice of what Mom and I were trying to do, make the same Olympic team. The Lexington newspaper ran a feature when we’d arrived in town, the writer calling us the Kris and Kim Kardashian of our sport.
“Fake news,” Grandmother said that morning at breakfast. “Neither one of you has grown up yet.”
Tyler went clean in the jump-off, a beautiful round, even I had to admit, a time of 35.6. Mom was better with 34.8. Three riders left. I was one of them. I was happy that Mom had done well. No BS. I honestly was. I still wanted to beat her. I wanted like hell to win.
“Use your head today,” Gus said. “And go out there and kick some ass.”
It was time. Nobody was beating Sky and me today.
I looked around the ring from the in-gate and realized all over again how much I loved this. This. The moment. Nobody else mattered now. Not Mom and me or Daniel and me. Not Grandmother or Gus. Not even Steve Gorton. None of the drama we’d all had outside the ring. Not even everything that was on the line today.
Just Sky and me.
I heard the announcer call my name, then Sky’s. Knowing we might be a little more than a half minute from walking away with one of the biggest weekends of the year. By now, after the way things had gone for us lately, it wouldn’t shock anyone if we did. Certainly not me.
Didn’t think Coronado was the best horse now. I thought mine was.
The buzzer sounded. Everything got quiet before what Gus liked to call bat-out-of-hell time. I took one last look around. What I was feeling right now, it was why riders did this, young or old. Man or woman. Million-dollar ride. Or a horse your dad gave you.
The toughest combination came early, a tight one, hardly any time to react after the first jump. Sky treated it all like a speed bump, clearing both jumps so easily it was like they stood half their actual height. Like the ones Mom had jumped at Ring 9 that day.
Just like that we were into it. Big-time. Feeling a strong wind at my back, even though there was no breeze to speak of.
We took a killer inside turn on the rollback two jumps later. No choice but to go inside if I was here to win. And I sure as shit wasn’t here to finish second.
How could anybody have gone faster than this?
Three jumps to the finish. Clock on the huge Rolex scoreboard behind me. But I didn’t need a clock. I knew.
Go.
Next jump clean.
Then the next.
Still flying.
I told myself not to leave anything to chance.
Bat out of hell.
I was going for it all now, deciding, on the fly, to shorten the distance before the last jump, taking out a stride like I had in the middle of the round, with no problem. Sky had done everything I asked. Sometimes the moments of the day all fell into place between horse and rider.
It was at the last second, very last, I knew I’d asked too much.
She didn’t have the length.
Was too far away.
And refused.
ONE HUNDRED