Page 20 of Run for the Money

“You have to eat before competing,” I grunt. “Consider it a thank you for the lawyer recommendation.”

“Did you hear back from him?” she asks.

I hate the raw hope in her eyes almost as much as I hate stupid Paul with his boundless generosity and expensive suits.

“Haven’t reached out yet. But I’ll keep you posted,” I say.

I shove the coffee at her, way too aware of the way her fingers brush mine when she takes the cup. I tell myself not to watch her lips as she takes the first sip, but I’m not a good listener. Her tongue darts out to catch a bit of milk foam and I squeeze my own coffee so hard the top nearly pops off.

“I got you a bagel, too,” I say, pulling the slightly crumpled paper bag out of my jacket pocket. No one looks sexy eating a bagel. At least I hope not. I hold it out to her, embarrassed by how squashed it is. “Wasn’t sure what you’d want.”

Truthfully, I panicked when the cashier asked if I wanted any food, then jammed my finger toward the pastry case and let fate take over from there.

Melanie fumbles with the bag, the brush, and the coffee, and the brush slips through her fingers. I catch it, nearly dropping my own cup. If GT starts knocking things over, the three of us could give the Stooges a run for their money.

“Are you okay? Nervous?” I ask.

She shakes her head rapidly. “I’m not nervous. What do I have to be nervous about?”

“The competition?”

“Oh, right. Totally normal to be nervous about that.”

Jesus, what are we doing? What amIdoing?

GT bites at the bag with Melanie’s bagel, then snorts in annoyance when she pulls it out of his reach.

“You have your own breakfast, my love. But don’t worry, I’ve got a treat for you for later,” Melanie says, gazing at him affectionately.

I have to get out of here, before I get jealous of my damn horse. My treat for later is a cold shower and stern talking-to about appropriate ways to think about the young woman I’m coaching, who’s clearly hung up on her ex, and is in no way, shape, or form a treat for me. My animal hindbrain takes this opportunity to remind me that the age difference between 28 and 36 isn’t all that large, so my higher reasoning has to reassert thehung-up-on-Paulandyou-are-her-coachparts of this situation. The internal struggle results in a prolonged silence in the horse stall, where Melanie and I sip our coffee and try to avoid staring at each other. She does better than I do, which I know because I’m staring at her like a creep.

“Um. Did you…need something else?” Melanie asks after a while. “I have to finish getting ready.”

I hear the words, “I have some pointers for today,” leave my mouth, which is fascinating, because at this precise moment, I don’t remember a damn thing about show jumping.

Melanie nods, waiting for an answer. Her eyes are such a bright blue in here, surrounded by the thousand shades of brown and beige that make up the stable. But I need to stop gazing into her eyes, and think of some kind of coaching advice to offer her before she comes to the conclusion that I’m a fool and finds a new coach.

I try to guess what my mom would tell her if she’d watched yesterday’s race, and that clears the haze in my brain. I’ve got no idea what my mom would say, but I suddenly know exactly what Melanie needs. She wants to make herself proud? Her Junior career is something anyone would be massively proud of for the rest of their life. Pride’s a safe answer, not the real one. I think I know why she’s really here, even if she hasn’t admitted it to herself yet.

“Be ruthless,” I say. “Take all those fancy manners and shove ’em in the garbage. You have one competitor in this event, and only one: yourself. But not the you from yesterday, or the you from last week. Look fourteen-year-old Melanie in the face and tell her to eat your dust.”

Melanie arches an eyebrow at me, unimpressed.

“I mean it. Show that teenager how pissed you are that she took the high road and walked away from all this when she was so close to victory,” I continue. “Just because you did the right thing doesn’t mean you’re happy about it. Let it rip, baby. Show everyone in that arena it’s a mistake to underestimate you. You’ve got unfinished business. Let’s finish it.”

I regret the, “baby” the second it’s out of my mouth, but I was on a roll, and it tumbled out before I could think better of it. If she asks, I’ll play it off like it’s part of the expression, as if I’ve never said, “Let it rip” without it. But if Melanie’s put off by the term, she doesn’t show it. She just looks stunned.

“Okay. Let’s finish it,” she says with a curt nod.

“See you in an hour in the warm-up ring,” I tell her, then I get the hell out of the stable before my mouth gets any more brilliant ideas.

Because of her nineteenth-place finish yesterday, Melanie’s slated to ride second today so she’s in the first warm-up group. By the time I get to the warm-up ring after my cold shower, she’s settled into competition mode. I’m grateful because it means we don’t have to make awkward small talk. Nothing I say at this point will be helpful, so I quietly watch her warm up, then walk with her to the holding area. She walks the course with the first group of riders, then rejoins GT and me. Her mouth quirks up in a smirk and she gives me one of her sharp little nods. She oozes confidence, and I’m cautiously optimistic.

Today’s course is trickier than yesterday’s, which is to be expected, but it works in our favor because it plays to GT’s strengths. The first three jumps are closer together than the others, so a slow start could sink a run before it’s even halfway done. But GT isalwaysitching to run; he won’t have any problems getting up to speed in time or holding onto momentum. Melanie knows it. She’s usually fighting to hold back his power in the first half of a run. There aren’t any water jumps to spook him, and the highest jump is right in the middle of the course. Any rider who gets past the first three jumps without a penalty is in for an easy run to the finish, and then it’s all about speed. We’ve got a real chance to make the podium today, not just the top ten finish we need.

Melanie swings into the saddle while the first rider thunders onto the course and immediately knocks down the top pole on the first oxer. The crowd gasps in sympathy, the hum of conversations in the stands getting louder. It only gets worse from there. Little mistakes pile up, and the rider finishes with three points. Barring catastrophe, Melanie’s going to be in first place after her run. Whether or not she can hang onto the lead while the next eighteen riders jump is the question.

The bell sounds for her to enter the arena and I give her calf a squeeze, and like yesterday, she doesn’t react. I’m strangely calm, especially when I hear her whisper, “Let it rip,” right before she steps onto the course for her run. Notably, she leaves off the, “baby,” but I’m not going to let that bother me.

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