Page 3 of The Front Runner
I know it’s petty—I know I’m jealous. But I really thought this was my year. I thought I had a horse that could beat the spunky little black stallion. My horse, Cascade Calamity, is well-bred. He’s an athlete—a competitor—but the Gold Rush horse is a force to be reckoned with.
They had two races in hand heading into the final leg of the Northern Crown, so while I knew I couldn’t take the crown—I definitely thought I could prevent them from taking it again. Back-to-back crown wins with that horse will make Billie and her boyfriend so much more smug and obnoxious than they already are.
“He ran well.” Nadia slips her hand into mine and gives it a tight squeeze.
I give her a curt nod, still looking out at the track. “He did.”
“Maybe next year.” She says it sweetly, but with a total lack of understanding.
Nothing is certain in this sport. Some racehorses have long, healthy careers, but the vast majority of them don’t. They get sore, they get sour, and I’m not about to push my horses beyond what they’re capable of doing. I’m not going to ruin an animal just to win a race, and it’s my feeling this boy is about ready to retire. He’s sound, he’s happy, and he’s had a very winning career. I can stand him at stud somewhere, and he can spend his days eating grass and making babies.
I respect him enough to let him walk away from the sport while he’s still healthy. Could I run him into the ground for another season and make some cash? Probably. But I refuse to do that to an animal who has run his heart out for me and my business.
He deserves better.
And despite what Billie Black—who clearly hates me—likes to run around telling everyone, I am not a dick. Well, at least not to my horses.
“You know what you need to do.”
I peer down into Nadia’s mahogany eyes. She’s grimacing at me because she knows how much I’m already dreading what I have to do next.
My shoulders heave under the weight of a heavy sigh, and I give her a terse, “Yup.”
A quick squeeze on her slender shoulder and I’m gone, pushing my way through the bustling crowd toward the winner’s circle. I hate watching the race from the owner’s lounge, surrounded by the sorts of people I can’t stand, the types I turned away from when I left Europe. Money. Excess. Lack of sense. Obsessed with their image.
I hate it all.
So, I watch down at track level, among all the Regular Joes. It feels more real down here. More separated from how I grew up. And I’ll do almost anything to distance myself from that.
I make my way through a sea of oversized hats and fancy dresses. Derby day is charming to be sure. The excitement is palpable. It’s hard not to get swept up in the thrill. But right now, as I approach the winner’s circle, all I feel is dread.
I need to walk in there and congratulate my competitors. The Gold Rush Ranch team. Billie Black. The Harding brothers. The little blonde jockey who always looks at me like she feels sorry for me. That expression might be worse than the total distaste the fiery trainer aims my way.
With the circle in sight, my steps falter. Dr. Mira Thorne is also there with them, a sultry smile on her lips and a twinkle in her big, dark eyes. My stomach flips at the sight of her, like it always does. I must be a glutton for punishment because getting turned down by her has become one of my favorite pastimes.
The crowd presses in around the circle—reporters, cameras, fellow owners, and jockeys. Everyone comes out of the woodwork to ask questions and offer their congratulations.
It’s the classy thing to do, and I’m not about to play into their hand with what they think about me. I’m aware they hate me—more than the average athlete hates their closest competition. But I don’t need to give them more reasons to.
Kill them with kindness.
Walking up with a forced smile on my face, I try not to stare at Mira. I have a good idea of how this is going to go, but it still needs to be done. I stop right in front of Billie, who hates me more than any of them. She’s the ringleader in the campaign against me—that much is clear. And I suppose there’s a part of me that can’t blame her.
All is not fair in love and war where she’s concerned. And that chip on her shoulder has proven impossible to smooth out.
“Miss Black.” I thrust my hand out in her direction. “Congratulations on another Crown win. Absolutely incredible.”
And I actually mean it. Back-to-back wins are practically unheard of. An exceptional feat, to be sure.
But her shapely brow arches with pure disdain. “You think I’d shake your hand?”
I should have known she would make a scene.
I tut at her, replacing a fake smile with a smug smirk. “I thought you might value good sportsmanship.”
She steps in closer toward my hand, looking around herself with a wide, phony smile before whisper-shouting, “Youare going to talk tomeabout sportsmanship?”
“I’m happy to let bygones be bygones.”
