Page 21 of Run for the Money

The buzzer sounds, and she’s off. GT puts on a burst of speed and soars over the first jump easily. I hold my breath and watch Melanie’s hips. She keeps her body low over the saddle, ready for the next jump. They clear it, too, and I can feel the energy in the arena sharpen. People are paying attention now, because a third clean jump is going to launch her into the spotlight.

GT’s over the third jump before I’ve finished processing the excitement of the second. He’s not slowing down, either. Melanie’s eyes are laser-beam intense on the course ahead of them. There’s a parallel oxer ahead, and I know before they take off they’re going to nail it. They’ve tapped into that magic slipstream where nothing can go wrong, and the whole arena can feel it, too. Each time they clear a new obstacle, the excitement in the arena inflates a little more; the usual whispers from the spectators quieting more and more the closer Melanie and GT get to the end, like they’re saving their breath for a final cheer. When they pass the finish line, no mistakes, under the time limit, there’s a roar from the stands that makes my heart swell with pride.

“Yes!” I shout, clapping louder than anyone else in the stands. They should all be whooping and hollering, but this isn’t the cheap seats at the racetrack; most of the bluebloods gathered around me wouldn’t be caught dead being that undignified. Instead, they give Melanie a thunderous round of applause that wouldn’t be out of place in a symphony hall.

Melanie smiles graciously at the crowd and the judges, but her energy is contained. Her name pops up on the leaderboard in first place, and there’s another cheer. I meet her at the exit that leads to the holding area. She passes me GT’s reins, then swings herself down from the saddle to land beside me.

“That was incredible,” I say.

She shrugs. “You know as well as I do I’m not staying in first place. Once the real contenders ride, I’ll plummet down the board like a stone.”

“Did you see your time?” I ask.

“No, but it doesn’t matter. It takes more than a clean run to win,” she says, proving she has no idea what she’s done.

“Fifty-seven seconds,” I say. “You ran a sixty-two second course in fifty-seven seconds, no mistakes.”

She whips around to look at the screen again. It’s right there in black and white: Melanie Archer, Score 0, Time: 0:57.35.

When she turns to face me again, there’s a new sparkle in her eyes I’ve never seen before. She yanks one of her gloves off and presses two fingers under her jaw at her pulse point.

“Okay, I’m definitely alive. Am I dreaming? Is that real?” she asks.

“Not a dream, Miss Manners. You did that, and it was un-fuckin-believable. That’s a top-five finish, easy,” I say.

“Ah! Don’t jinx me,” she says.

Applause sound around us, and I glance at the leaderboard. The third rider didn’t come close to her time—a full sixty-eight seconds, and one point. I know the gap is going to narrow as more riders take their turns, but she’s got a strong lead.

“Oh God, I can’t watch,” she says. “I’m going to go get GT comfortable in his stall.”

“Find me after,” I say. “You’ll want to be here for—”

“Don’t you dare say, ‘for the medal ceremony,’” she hisses. “No. Jinxes.”

I pretend to lock my lips closed. She exhales slowly, her breath shuddering, then takes GT’s reins back. Once they’ve disappeared into the stables, I find a spot in the portion of the stands reserved for athletes and their teams. We’re not even halfway through the twenty riders for the day. I have no idea how I’m going to sit here through the rest, watching and waiting for scores to roll in. I’d rather hide in the stable with Melanie, but I have the sense she wanted to be alone.

Ten riders deep, I’m more convinced than ever she’s going to make the podium. She’s in second place, and the first place rider only has a one and a half second lead. There’s still a chance that two riders could score better and knock her down to fourth. But based on the way everyone’s riding today, it seems unlikely. Even if the three best riders from yesterday replicate their scores, Melanie’s score is still good enough for third place.

As the eleventh rider comes into the arena to start, Melanie slides onto the bench next to me. She’s carrying her helmet, so I know she’s been watching the scores, too. If there’s a tie for first, second, or third, the judges will call for a jump-off on a new, shorter course—and there could very well be a tie.

“I forgot how much I hate this part,” she says quietly. “In an ideal world, I’d ride straight off the course and never stop running.”

“We’ll start a petition for a rule change next season.”

She nudges my shoulder with hers, and I catch the edge of a smile on her face.

“Will you judge me if I vomit?” she asks.

“Aim away from my boots. I didn’t bring any other shoes,” I say mildly.

“I need you to freak out more. The more calm you are, the more jittery I feel,” she whines.

Because I’ve lost my mind, I hold my hand out to her, palm up. Then again, if she holds my hand, Iwillprobably freak out a little more. I don’t get the opportunity to come to my senses, because she clutches my hand in both of hers like a lifeline. Neither of us says a word for the next five riders. Then we’re down to the last three—yesterday’s top-ranked athletes.

“No matter what happens, I’m proud of what you did today,” I tell her.

“If you jinx this, I will personally ensure you never know a moment’s peace, ever again,” she says darkly.

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