A strong breeze, unusual for this time of year, slaps my face, and I breathe deeply. “Enough navel gazing,” I mutter, channeling my dad. I take the reins and cluck my tongue. “Come on, girl. Let’s do this.”
Luckily, the mechanics of riding still come naturally for me. After I mount Oakley, it’s easy to steer her toward the opposite end of the course. Easy in theory, at least. From the way my heart pounds, you’d think I was doing a heck of a lot more than a slow walk.
Breathing through the anxiety bunching my stomach, I tell myself everything is fine.
“Nothing we haven’t done before.”
Oakley’s ears twitch at my voice and I close my eyes, visualizing success. As I rock back and forth in the saddle, I remember everything I need to do. The steps, the posture… the confidence. I open my eyes, exhale the fear, and glance at the doghouse one last time.
With a cluck of my tongue, I nudge Oakley’s flank.
Wind lashes my hair back as we pick up speed. My clucks continue, my spurs nudging us onward, knowing we’ll need to go much faster than this at the event. Hooves pound the earth beneath me as the first barrel approaches, so much slower than I ever remember, but that doesn’t seem to matter, because suddenly and without warning… it’s all too much.
My heart racing impossibly fast.
My chest squeezing with each pulse. I can’t. Catch. My breath.
Fear coats my skin and I tremble as I push my heels out and forward. Self-loathing churns my stomach as I slide myself back in the saddle. My eyes slam shut and I pull on the reins, somehow finding enough air to force out one pathetic word. “Whoa.”
Silence.
The absence of wind.
Only me, my hammering heart, and Oakley.
And the answer to, “What if?”
Fighting back tears, I soak in the moment of defeat. Saturate myself with it. In case I need further proof, I open my eyes and see where we slid to a stop, right in front of the first barrel. A humorless laugh breaks free, along with a blasted tear. We never made it beyond a slow freaking lope. If that doesn’t count as a failure, I don’t know what does.
“Peyton!”
I curse at Cade’s frantic voice, the rhythmic sound of his close, thumping footsteps telling me that my covert ride wasn’t nearly as secret as I’d hoped. Quickly, I swipe the telltale evidence of my tears and put on my game face mere moments before he rounds the fence in front of me.
“Are you all right?” His eyes are wide behind his black frames. I hate that I scared him. Even more that I disappointed him. We both know that I’m far from all right, but I answer the only way my pride will allow. I roll back my shoulders, cluck softly, and nudge Oakley forward, around the first barrel.
Cade watches, leaning his arms against the fence post as Annie and I walk—not trot, not lope, and certainly not gallop—around the second and then the third and then straight out of the ring. It’s not until we are headed back to the barn that I look back and meet his worried gaze.
“It’s time to go to the game.”
JUSTIN
FAIRFIELD ACADEMY LOCKER ROOM 2:00 P.M.
“Gentlemen, we’re almost there.”
Coach Williams stands before us like the god of baseball that he is, a clipboard in one hand and pride in his eyes. The air feels charged, electric. Like the calm before the storm. The storm, of course, being us kicking Newfield Prep’s ass.
“Today is just one more step to glory,” he says, looking around the room. “After today, we move on to the Semi-finals, and then, hopefully, the Regional Championship. For you seniors, that’ll be the curtain call for your time on this team. Some of you will go on to play college ball. Others, potentially drafted.” He swings his gaze to me and I freeze. “I for one am eager as hell to say I coached you when.”
A moment of understanding passes between us. This man has been more of a father to me than my own. It’s his opinion I value, his respect I crave. The thought of losing that in a few short weeks scares the hell out of me, and, perhaps sensing that, Coach holds my stare just a moment more before nodding and glancing away.
“Until then, though, this is your team. This is your family.”
I make eye contact with Carlos, Drew, and Brandon.
“The stands out there are already packed. Parents and girlfriends, your classmates, they’re all here waiting to cheer for you. Scouts are here, too, ready to see what you’ve got. You should be proud. You’ve earned this respect and attention!”
It’s impossible to explain to someone who’s never played a team sport. For someone who’s never put their faith and trust in their brothers, knowing they’ll have your back. To someone like that, this kind of speech can seem lame. But as I look at my teammates, the determination that blazes hot with every word our coach speaks, I know the truth. Moments like these are powerful.