Page 30 of False God

But I have no problem recognizing the voice that says, “You forgot his martingale, Cal.”

“What are you doing, Lili?” Cal asks.

“Exactly what it looks like,” she replies. “The Carmichael twins didn’t show up, so I volunteered.” Lili nudges her mount forward without acknowledging me at all, transitioning to a trot.

Cal mutters something beneath his breath.

“Is she a bad rider?” I ask, already knowing the answer. She’s handling the horse expertly.

“No,” Cal says grudgingly. “She’s just … she’s making a scene. Women don’t play in the charity matches. Or any matches at the club. It’s just … not done.”

So?I want to ask.

Maybe it’s a side effect of growing up with an über-independent sister, but I’ve always been sensitive to small-minded views of gender norms. For all of his convictions about societal roles and obligations, my father never allowed Blythe to believe she was inferior to a man in any way.

“Tripp!” Cal calls to a guy lounging on the sideline. “We need an extra.”

Tripp raises the glass he’s holding. “Fuck no. I’m relaxing,” he calls back, prompting scattered laughter.

“I’ll play,” I say impulsively.

Cal’s gaze returns to me. “Really?”

“As long as you’ve got gear and a horse.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” he repeats, warming to the idea. “Hey, Ezra.”

A passing groom pauses. “What’s up?”

“Can you show Charles here to the locker room, saddle up one of the club’s polo ponies, and”—he glances at the rider now cantering in circles—“bring me a martingale for Lexington?”

“Sure thing,” Ezra replies, then nods at me. “This way, man.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m back on the field, atop a chestnut mare named Amarillo. In addition to a borrowed horse and clothes, I was lent a helmet, knee guards, and a polo stick. All brand-new, top-of-the-line equipment.

The look on Lili Kensington’s face when I ride up beside her is one I never want to forget. The color of my borrowed shirt doesn’t match hers, which is fine with me. I’d rather play on opposing sides.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hisses at me.

“Exactly what it looks like,” I reply, parroting the line she gave Cal earlier.

I can hear her teeth grinding as she eyes the3on my navy shirt. Her green one has a2on it.

I nudge Amarillo forward, adjusting to her rocking gait. My feelings toward riding are complicated. Most memories feature my father. Atop a horse is where I feel his presence most keenly, expecting to glance over and see him riding alongside me.

The two teams line up, and then one of the mounted umpires tosses the ball down the middle. I tune out the commentary on the loudspeaker as Amarillo canters forward, focused on the green shirt with possession of the ball. I can’t tell if he’s someone I’ve been introduced to, and I don’t care. Amarillo pulls up even to his horse, and I prepare to ride him off.

It’s been several years since I last played polo, but my muscles remember exactly what to do. The game is a welcome distraction from … everything.

Whoever the green shirt is, he doesn’t put up much of a fight. Less than a minute into the chukka, I score the first point.

I look at Lili as soon as the ball rolls through the goalposts. In time to see the annoyance flash across her perfect features.

It’s immensely satisfying. On the surface, all of our conversations have been completely civil. But there’s always been something simmering beneath, and it makes me feel a little saner to see that it’s not just in my head. To learn that she’s affected too.

The umpire throws the ball again. I scan the field for an opening, now headed in the opposite direction. Amarillo’s hooves hammer against the lush grass, probably carving a few divots that spectators will get to stomp later. My grip on the mallet tightens as I drop the stick. My muscles tense as I prepare to swing.

Another mallet appears seconds before I make contact with the ball, hooking the end so I miss the angle. I know it’s her before I read the2. I have to yank the right rein to swerve back toward active play. Amarillo responds immediately, but it’s not fast enough. Cal has possession, the1on the back of his shirt stretching tight as he bends over Lexington’s withers.

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