Page 119 of Double Bucked

RANSOM

Ifeel fucking stupid.

For all my bluster, I’m actually not much better off than Everett. I might be good in the saddle, but I’ve never played polo.

I get to mount this beautiful filly named “Fancy.” I walk her out to the field and stand side by side with Everett.

“The word on the field,” Everett says, “is that Arris is watching. If a player impresses him, he’ll invite them to the Coronation Ball.”

“Huh. Is that something we want?”

“If we want to get to the bottom of this, yes. From what I’ve gathered, the most important people in town will be there.” He glances at me, and his voice hardens. “Mr. Preacher’s killer will be there.”

Resolve fixes around my veins. “So we’ll be there.”

Everett measures me with his gaze. “You know how to play, don’t you?”

“Hit the ball with the bat. How hard can it be?”

“A mallet. Not a bat.” His voice is tight, like a warning. “There are two teams. Two goals. Try to hit the ball into yours.”

“What’s my team name?”

“I don’t think they don’t have names.”

“That’s lame.” I tug at the strap of my helmet. “This uniform sucks. Helmet’s too tight.”

Everett’s mouth crosses in a thin, tight line, and I feel like I’ve come to the very long tail end of his patience. “Any other complaints?”

“Yeah. How come I’ve got the pink bat?”

“Mallet.”

Loren rides up to us, sneer stamped across his face. He yanks his horse’s reins too sharply, and the horse’s head whips back. My stomach twists. “Hey, dumbass,” he says.

“What?” Everett and I snap in unison.

He blinks. Probably surprised two grown men responded to his insult without flinching. He’s got the face of a kid who has just walked in on his parents mid-decision to get divorced. Now, he’s too thrown for whatever great comeback he was amping himself up for, so he just says, “Uh…good luck.”

He kicks his horse’s flank, and it lets out a whine before bolting forward.

Everett gives me a look. “Try not to make an ass of yourself.”

Dick. Give this man a little kindness and he hangs me on it.

“I’d say same to you, but I think it comes naturally for you.”

Everett squeezes his thighs (like I taught him), and we guide our horses toward the center of the clearing, where everyone else is already lined up.

A woman in a tight-fitting outfit and cream pants meets us in the center of the field and explains the rules. We’ve got the red team and the green team, four horses on each. The horses have bands on their ankles to designate the different colors. Everett and Loren are red, I’m green. The field is wide, green, and has two goalposts on either side. The object of the game is to be the team to hit the ball through the opposing team’s goal.

Seems easy enough. I look around at my competition. They’re all stiff-backed and got silver spoons sticking out of their mouths. They may’ve been playing polo ever since they’ve been in diapers, but no one knows how to handle a horse the way I do.

“Ready to knock ’em dead, Fancy?” I ask.

She twitches her ear and huffs, which I translate to Eat the rich, sir.

But then the game kicks off, and I’m eating dust.

---