Page 13 of Run for the Money

There’s a strand of spectators lined up already at the entrance to the arena, and everywhere I look there are coaches, riders, and horses gearing up for a serious competition. It’s a lot of noise and chaos—noise I’ve been tuning out since I was a kid. Melanie used to be around it all the time, too, but I’m not sure how she’s handling today. I might not be her biggest problem, even though I’ve been a pretty massive tool all day. I’ve fucked up.

On the face of it, her task is simple. Walk the course on her own two feet to get a sense of what’s coming, then guide GT through it. Jump cleanly over every obstacle, in the right order, without clipping any of the jumps with his hooves. Do it all before the timer runs out. But that’s like saying basketball is simple: just put the ball through the hoop more times than the other guys. It misses the nuance.

So much could go wrong today. GT could freak out, either in response to her energy or because he doesn’t like the crowd. Melanie could get in her head about Diana’s accidentand pull back. They could fall. I swore up and down to her they wouldn’t, but I can’t promise that. No one can. The more distracted and upset she is, the more likely an accident is. I’ve got to fix things before she goes out onto that course.

I walk back into the stable ten minutes before Melanie’s walk-through. To my horror—but not my surprise—she’s gone. So’s GT.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

Why would she take the horse? Where the hell is she going to go with him? Did she take my truck, too? Why would she do that?

A woman in one of the event-branded polo shirts walks by and notices my distress. “Your rider’s in the warm-up ring,” she says.

Right. Shit. Of course. Melanie would need to get dressed in the ridiculous little outfit show jumpers wear, get GT’s tack on, and then warm up before her walk-through. That’s basic shit and I should have remembered it. Between the mess my dad’s landed me in with the bank and the hours of Melanie’s silent treatment, I’m not thinking clearly. If I’m this distracted, I can only imagine what a mess Melanie’s head is, so I high-tail it to the warm-up ring to find her.

We’re fucked. Doesn’t matter that she’s wearing gloves; I can tell she’s white-knuckling the reins. Her posture’s too stiff. She looks like this is the first time she’s ever sat on a horse. She takes GT from a walk up to a canter and back down again, but her helmet bobs with every step like a tourist on a trail ride. Between her posture, the tight white breeches, and the spandex-and-jersey-knit blazer, she looks absurd. Melanie never looks absurd; it’s unsettling to see her so uncomfortable in the saddle.

I’d offer her some kind of encouragement, but what the hell could I say? That I’m here for her? That I believe in her? Pretty sure those facts are exactly her problem. I don’t know what I’m doing with her anymore, either. I used to study her when Mom trained Diana. It was my job to know her strengths and weaknesses like the back of my hand, and I was really good at my job.Was. I’m crap at it now.

My athlete is panicked and angry, I can’t even remember the basics of how this all works. I’ve fucked up somewhere along the line, and I have to find the mistake before it’s too late to turn things around. When she was a teenager, Melanie excelled when she had an adversary. When there was no clear front-runner, she got lost in the shuffle. But when Diana pulled out ahead, or specifically goaded Melanie, that’s when Melanie shone. Mom spent a colossal amount of time begging Diana to keep her mouth shut in the daysleading up to a competition because the right combination of insults could give Melanie an edge.

All week, I’ve been trying to prod at Melanie the same way. It was working, at first. Her times were getting shorter, her jumps cleaner, and with the exception of a few inconsequential tiffs, we were on the right track. But Melanie’s not a fourteen-year-old hot-head anymore. She’s not trading insults with her peers ring-side. I can’t even get her to curse at me properly. I need to stop trying to unearth the teenager I thought she was, and start dealing with the woman in front of me.

Another polo-clad official rings a bell to get everyone’s attention, then calls the first group to the course to do their walk-through. One by one, riders dismount and lead their horses over to coaches and trainers. Melanie manages to bring GT over without making eye contact with me, and we fall into line side by side. It’s not until we’re in the waiting zone and an official is herding the riders into a separate line that I realize I have no idea why Melanie is doing this.

I can’t motivate her properly because I have no idea what she wants. Teenage Mel wanted to beat Diana, and she wanted to win. Winning might not be enough this go-round. It’s too late to ask about this today, since she’s already walking the course, counting out her paces and calculating distances between obstacles. In less than five minutes, she’ll be running the course with GT.

I scan the course to see if there’s anything helpful I can offer her, since I’ve failed miserably as a coach so far. The beginning of the course is deceptively easy; overly confident riders run the risk of building up too much speed for the middle jumps, then killing their momentum for the final stretch. There’s a triple-bar oxer at the end which wouldn’t be an issue for GT if it weren’t for the Liverpool underneath it. He hates water, so Melanie will have to push him hard to get close enough to make the jump cleanly. If she hesitates, chances are good he’ll balk and kick a rail.

Melanie steps off the course and comes to stand next to me while she waits her turn to ride. The monitors hanging over the course list the riding order, and she’s up third. She listens attentively as the official at the gate gives instructions. I’ve got about thirty seconds before Melanie mounts GT and gets in line to compete, and she still hasn’t looked at me.

“Watch the final jump,” I whisper. “Don’t let him pull you too far left. Keep your speed up after the last parallel oxer, and make sure GT’s not looking at the water. Don’t hesit—”

“Don’t hesitate. Yeah, really helpful,”she grumbles.

She swings herself up into the saddle without so much as a glance in my direction. I’m too relieved that she spoke to me to care.

“Atta girl. See you at the end of the course,” I say, giving her calf a quick squeeze before I head over to the designated viewing area for coaches, set back a few paces from the jury table.

I might hurl. Just in case, I put a hand over my mouth while I watch the first two riders. They’re clearly human beings on the backs of horses, jumping over obstacles. Beyond that, I don’t process a scrap of information about what I’m seeing.

Someone says Melanie’s rider number over the loudspeaker and she rides into the arena, up to the gate. GT looks incredible, the sun hitting his coat just right. If Melanie didn’t look as nauseous as I feel, it would be a picture-perfect moment. Then the bell dings, the gate opens, and it’s happening. She’s riding the course.

I don’t breathe once during the run. Cold sweat rolls down my spine. My stomach twists every time GT’s hooves leave the ground, and by the time they reach that final parallel oxer before the water jump, my insides are so mangled I’m not sure how I’ll ever eat again.

Melanie’s thighs tense. Her gaze is fixed on the triple bars, determination carved into the shape of her mouth. She’s low in the saddle, her center of gravity balanced perfectly over GT’s back. They go deep, as close to the jump as possible, and then he pushes up into the air, more glide than jump. It’s beautiful, how effortlessly they float above the ground. Then all four hooves sail neatly over the obstacle and come down onto the sand beyond it. My whole body buzzes with relief. She did it.

It was a clean run. No points. Not a single flaw. Then I realize the buzz I’m hearing isn’t in my head. It’s the time clock. She’s got a penalty. White numbers glare out from a red background: seventy-one point one. One and one tenth seconds longer than the course allows.

Fuck.

Chapter 5

Melanie

I’m in nineteenth place. Never in my entire career have I ever been in nineteenth place. It’s quite literally a new low. I got fifth place in my first competition, and never dropped below it. Until today.

What am I doing? Why did I say yes to this? I am massively unprepared, and definitely going to fail.

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