Page 92 of A Photo Finish
He blinks at me, looking surprised by the way I lashed out. To be honest, I’m a little surprised too. Do I like the guy? No. But this is out of character for me.Fucking Cole Harding.
“I just wanted to come and offer an apology to you.”
“You?” I point at him. “Want to apologize to me?” My thumb butts up against my chest.
“For Patrick Cassel’s behavior.”
I snort and get back to tacking Pippy up.
“I was completely unaware of his behavior, and he’s no longer in my employ.” When I look up at him, his jaw ticks and he pins me with his green eyes. His hawkish features leave no room to doubt his sincerity. “His behavior on and off the track is not befitting of someone who works for me, and especially not befitting of any man I want aligned with me. I’m very sorry for all the discomfort he’s caused you.”
I could say something snarky. I could throw his sleazy move last year in his face, but he seems serious. He seems . . . chastised.
“Okay.” I huff out a breath as I tighten the cinch around Pippy’s ribs. “Thank you for that. I appreciate it.”
When I look back at him, he looks shocked by my response. Like he was expecting me to tear into him or something. But that’s not me. I don’t like holding grudges. I don’t like having enemies. I like being on good terms with people, and if I can’t be on good terms with Cole, then I can be with Stefan. At least that’s something.
“Okay. Well. Best of luck.” He holds his hand out to me, and I stop what I’m doing to take it in my own.
“Thank you. Same to you.” I see his body relax as I offer him a small smile, like he was genuinely worried about talking to me. It’s kind of sweet, for a guy who’s been nothing but a total snake in the grass.
I let his hand go and turn back to Pippy with a renewed sense of excitement. If someone like Stefan Dalca can come around, maybe Cole can too? The day isn’t over yet. But now, it’s time to put boys and drama out of my mind. It’s time to work, to get down to business.
It’s time to win a race.
With all our silks on, we walk out of the barn toward the hitching ring. Billie pops out of nowhere like usual, wearing one of the pantsuits she always dons on big race days, gives me my leg up, and leads me down to the circus that is Saturday afternoon at Bell Point Park. Pippy looks around with interest, but not with alarm or anxiety—something that is distinctly not normal for a two-year-old at her debut race.
Other horses prance around anxiously, frothing at the bit, but she just walks her big steady walk with a curious look on her face. It’s like she’s been here before. Like she’s here to teach us all a lesson, and maybe she is. I’m just not sure what it is yet.
When we get to the hitching ring, Billie gives my knee a squeeze and sends me in with a “Go get ‘em, Tiger.”
I’m handed off to the pony horse, and everything else falls away. The noise, the distractions. All I see is what’s between those pointy brown ears. My goal lies straight ahead. All I need to do is reach out and take it. Billie and I talked strategy earlier. The basic plan is: take it easy, and let her find her footing. This race is practice since it’s not a qualifier. It’s a test. There is no pressure, except for the heaping piles of it I’ve put on myself.
After one lap, we load up into the gate, and I can feel Pippy tense up a little bit—finally. Her big ears flop around like windmills on her head, making me chuckle, and I reach down to give her some gentle scratches.
“Good baby. You got this. Everyone ruled you out. They thought you were too small, too weak. We’re going to show them though, aren’t we? We’re going to show them what that rosy little attitude will get you.”
And maybe that’s my lesson. Positive energy begets positive energy. A winning outlook, that’s what Pippy has, and when the bell rings and those gates fly open, I smile. I feel it in my soul.
Pippy is going to win this race.
She drops her head and drives forward, hard. She doesn’t hang back and take some space, she doesn’t assess the competition. It feels like it’s more likely that she’ll run them right over if they don’t get out of her way.
Gone is the sweet little filly. In her place is a competitor. She drops her head and pushes hard from behind. I try to hold her back a bit. She isn’t all that fit yet, and I don’t want her burning all her energy down the first stretch. Running flat out from start to finish isn’t anyone’s ideal game plan. Except Pippy’s, apparently.
She takes the bit between her teeth and drags me down that first straightaway. I sit up, leaning away slightly, trying to ease her off. But she’s not having it. She is full throttle and flying to the front of the pack. And me? I feel like a little kid on a runaway pony. All that time spent turning and stopping and going, all those little nuances that I thought she had a decent enough grasp on, go out the door. At her practice runs on the farm, she was fast. But not like this.
So, I’m left with a choice. Fight with her or let her run the race in a way that feels natural to her. Let her take the lead and show me what she needs.
I barely need to think about it.
I press my feet into the irons, get low on her neck, and let her run away with the lead. She flows through the corner beautifully, and I can’t help but smile. Being on a horse, with the wind on my face, I feel alive. And based on the way she’s not tiring, I’d say that Pippy does too. She uses that final turn to rocket herself into the straightaway. We are absolutely flying, and I’m glad this is a short race, because I don’t know how long she can keep this up.
When I chance a look behind myself, I almost can’t believe what I see. The other horses have to be at least ten lengths behind us. With a small shake of my head, I press my knuckles into her mane and get low. Might as well make it eleven lengths.
We thunder down the straight to the finish post on an even tempo. I can feel her tire beneath me, but by this point, the spread is so big that it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to push her.
We sail across the finish line—it isn’t even close.
