MILLIONAIRE'S SHOT: Second Chance Romance (2 page)

Swallowing, she glanced across the field at the clubhouse. The Club had definitely prospered in her absence. A swanky deck and awning had been added, and white tablecloths and women wearing colorful sundresses gave an air of festivity. Everyone was smiling and holding champagne flutes, and a few people were even watching the game.

She jerked her head away, concentrating on navigating the narrow road that skirted the opposite side of the field. The playing area was the size of nine football fields —plenty of distance between her and the clubhouse. Even if
he
were here, it was unlikely she’d see him.

She squeezed the truck between a shiny pickup and a rusted sedan, breathing much easier on this side of the field. The brilliant canopy still gleamed beneath the sun but now all the clubhouse faces were an indistinguishable blur. Which meant nobody would be able to see her either. Perfect. The tightness in her shoulders eased and she turned off the engine.

“You’re going to be impressed by this mare,” her grandfather said, focused on his horse. He pushed open the door and scrambled to the ground before she could help. “Santiago has a six-goal handicap,” Gramps went on. “He’s a playing pro but is also advisor to the collegiate team. He’s the one who recommended they check out my horses. Everyone in Virginia listens to him.”

“I’m surprised he’s riding at our club,” she said. “At the Ponhook Club,” she corrected. This was no longer her club or her home. Nor did she want it to be. She was quite content living in California.

“He has a sweet deal,” Gramps said. “Rachel Sutherland assembled a dream team.” He paused, looking rather puzzled. “She must pay ungodly amounts for Santiago to put up with her.”

Cassie fought a swell of satisfaction. Rachel may have snared Alex but it seemed his money hadn’t made her any more likeable. As patron of a team, she could stack it with top players…and then insist on riding with them. But that meant Rachel and Alex were both here, and her throat thickened again.

“I’m hoping my mare will win Best Playing Pony,” her grandfather went on, oblivious to her turmoil. “That would cinch the college deal. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to show off a horse in a real game. Not since you left.”

Not since you left.
Those words always twisted a knife in her heart, and seemed to be the dividing point for everything in their lives. She reached behind the seat, fumbling for the blanket and binoculars, craving news of Alex—yet conversely dreading it.

Besides, this visit was all about helping Gramps prepare for retirement, and if he wanted to talk about the Sutherlands, she no longer intended to change the subject. That family had ruled supreme here for generations and had always been an integral part of the horse community. And Gramps didn’t only have Ginger to sell. He had three more polo ponies back in the barn that urgently needed buyers.

His heart attack proved it was time to slow down. Training and selling horses was stressful, especially when cash was a constant struggle. She’d been home less than a week and found his pallor frightening, so different from the tanned and youthful man who’d raised her. Of course, his decline had probably been gradual. She just hadn’t been around to notice.

She locked the truck and followed him to an empty space on the sidelines. She was home now, and able to help. Selling his four polo ponies would be a huge boost for his retirement. And if they needed the Sutherlands to make that sale happen, so be it.

She spread the blanket on the grass, checking the score while she waited for him to sit. The original board remained, along with the traditional way of keeping score by hand. But the familiar scoreboard was now shadowed by a massive digital display. Numbers showed not only the goals but the time remaining in the game as well as the temperature and humidity. Bold letters on the bottom proclaimed: ‘Sponsored by Rachel Sutherland.’  

Cassie jerked her head away, determined to concentrate on her grandfather’s excited commentary. And maybe even enjoy the game.

“It’s the third chukka,” Gramps was saying. “So we’re here in plenty of time. Santiago said he’ll ride Ginger last.”

She nodded. Here, the polo matches were divided into six timed periods, each called a chukka. Riders generally used four to six horses, switching after each seven-minute chukka. It was a relief they didn’t have to watch the entire game. It would be fun to see her grandfather’s mare in action, but she didn’t want to be stuck watching Alex and Rachel pass the ball back and forth. Didn’t want to see their hand slaps, the team toast, their intimate hugs.

Even after nine years she felt edgy, the fluttery feeling in her stomach refusing to go away. She was no longer a local and this was Sutherland territory. The sooner she could help her grandfather sell his polo ponies and leave, the better it would be.

But this time she was determined to take Gramps with her. She couldn’t bear to leave him again. Besides, it wasn’t as if she were asking him to give up his life with horses. She understood and shared that passion. Her boss had already promised to find him a low-stress job, a spot where he could ride and train when his health allowed. It would all work out beautifully.

“Filming for that race series I told you about starts in a month,” she said, watching a chestnut mare whose nose was jammed in the air, despite the martingale. The mare was bold and quick, but so out-of-control she cut dangerously across the path of an opposing horse. A mounted umpire blew his whistle, instantly calling the foul.

“Have you thought any more about working with me,” she went on, “and helping train horses for the movie? It would be like a vacation except you’d get paid a consulting fee. Food and accommodations are free. Best of all, you never have to worry about the selling part. Don’t you think that would be fun?”

Riders shouted and hooves thudded in the background, but her grandfather didn’t answer. In fact, he was oddly quiet. The most noticeable sounds were the snickers of spectators beside them.

“Gramps?” She shifted on the blanket, alarmed by his silence.

He’d looked pale on the drive over, but now his face was parchment white. His mouth twisted and he struggled to breathe. Sweat dotted his forehead.
Oh God, he was having another heart attack.

She fumbled for her phone, frantically trying to remember her CPR training and wondering how long it would take for an ambulance to arrive.

“I don’t believe it,” he mumbled, his voice so weak she could barely understand the words.

“What is it? Does your chest hurt? Just lie back, take slow breaths.”

Gramps leaned forward, craning to see the field. “That’s Ginger, my good mare,” he said. “But that’s definitely not Santiago riding her.”

“Are you all right?” she asked, holding her phone so tightly she could no longer feel her fingers.

He didn’t answer, but he was clearly breathing. And obviously just agitated. She loosened her grip on the phone and followed his gaze.

Four riders wore the purple and white uniform of the Sutherland team. Three appeared like extensions of their mounts. But the fourth rider clung to her horse’s neck, her mallet jabbing precariously close to the animal’s eye. When the ball bounced beneath a cluster of legs, her horse twisted in pursuit, dumping her to the ground. The spectators beside Cassie guffawed.

Her grandfather, however, dropped his head in his hands and groaned. His breathing was labored but he wasn’t having another heart attack. He just looked completely and utterly defeated.

“So that’s Ginger,” she said as understanding dawned. “But that rider’s fall wasn’t her fault. She’s just following the ball.”

“Ginger is too good to be ridden by someone like that,” her grandfather said, jerking to his feet. And now his face was no longer white, but a blotchy red. “I have to talk to Santiago. Right now. We had an agreement!”

“Sure. But it’s better to talk tomorrow,” Cassie said. “After the game. When you’ve had time to think about what to say.”

“But my horses don’t get treated that way. And Ginger looks like a bronc. It’s not fair to her.” He shook his head, a tendon in his neck bulging dangerously.

Cassie couldn’t pull her eyes away from that bulging tendon, imagining the flood of blood his heart was struggling to pump through his body. This was exactly the situation doctors wanted him to avoid.

“Don’t worry,” she said, trying to keep him calm. “We’ll call Santiago tomorrow and figure out when he can ride Ginger next. How about I look up the schedule of other games? Right now on my phone. There’s probably one here next week.”

Gramps wasn’t even listening. He twisted away and stomped toward the truck.

“There’s no sense going over there now,” Cassie said. “Santiago will be busy with the game. It’s best if you talk to him later.”

“The third chukka is almost over,” her grandfather said. “I can see him at halftime. He was supposed to be the only one riding that mare.” To Gramps, a man’s handshake was as good as a written contract. He honored his word and expected others to do the same. “If you don’t want to drive me,” he added, his voice hardening, “I’ll walk. But I have to check on Ginger. She’s upset. And I need to find out why Santiago switched riders.”

“No problem. I’ll drive you.” She pulled in a resolute breath, rose and folded the blanket. His urgency was understandable. A trainer’s livelihood revolved around his reputation, and her reluctance was mostly based on her desire to avoid Alex.

Right now, it was more important that she help Gramps stop fretting. He wouldn’t relax until he worked out another game date with Santiago. Besides, she didn’t care about Alex. After almost a decade, she was well over that pain—and totally happy with her life.

And a part of her almost believed it.

The sign above the door warned: ‘Club Members Only.’ Their memberships had expired long ago but that didn’t stop Gramps. Besides, they didn’t intend to linger. They just had to cross the patio to reach the horse grounds on the other side.

“Hello, Jake,” a man in a white seersucker suit called. “Hi, Cassie. Good to see you both.”

The man looked vaguely familiar and Cassie acknowledged his greeting with a polite wave. But her grandfather didn’t stop. He plowed through the spectators, intent on reaching the picket area on the other side. When she’d ridden here the clubhouse had been open to the public, in an attempt to attract wider interest and prove that polo wasn’t reserved for the wealthy. She’d managed to participate on a tight budget but that was only possible because Gramps had been able to retrain affordable horses.

Most well-trained polo ponies cost at least forty thousand, and a competitive rider needed a minimum of four horses, along with a support system that included transportation and capable grooms. Gramps had always found her horses off the track, picking up Thoroughbreds who either weren’t fast enough or simply didn’t want to race. Often they’d been as cheap as five hundred dollars.

“Hello, Cassie.” A woman’s long fingers wrapped around her arm. “What are you doing here? Thought you’d moved to sunny California?”

Cassie nodded, remembering playing polo against the brunette, a divorcee with two sons. But the woman’s name drew a blank. “I’m just home for a couple weeks,” Cassie murmured. “It’s good to see everyone.”

“I’m married again.” The woman’s voice contained a note of triumph. “To Jonathon Stiles. You must remember him. He’s President of the Board.”

“That’s great. Congratulations.”

“What about you? Husband? Children?”

“No,” Cassie said, her voice amazingly level. “Keeping busy with horses.”

“Indeed. Well you look exactly the same as when you were a groom here.” The woman’s eyes swept over Cassie’s jeans and now she sounded almost spiteful. “Lots of changes here. The Club made a ton of improvements after you left.”

“Yes, it looks a lot bigger.” Cassie peered over the woman’s shoulder, keeping an eye on her grandfather as he maneuvered around the tablecloths. He didn’t look sideways at the seated patrons and strode with a single-minded purpose. She didn’t want him talking to Santiago without her. Gramps was often too blunt, especially when it involved his animals.

“The clubhouse isn’t just bigger,” the woman said. “The horses and players are much more talented…you know, compared to when you used to play.”

Yes, the brunette’s smile was definitely spiteful. Cassie still couldn’t recall the woman’s name—Jocelyn maybe—and she didn’t want to waste any more time listening to her blather. Gramps was almost out of sight.

“Luckily the days of picking up cheap Thoroughbreds from the track are gone,” the woman went on. “We have a committee that steers members toward appropriate mount selection. We don’t want to risk injuries, especially with the quality of our players. The Sutherland team is amazing now. Actually, anyone who rides here has to be good—” The woman gave a pointed pause. “Not like before. And we only rely on qualified horse trainers now.”

Cassie had developed considerable patience working with a variety of needy movie stars, both adults and children, but this woman had just slurred her precious grandfather. Gramps was the best trainer she’d ever met, including her current boss, and she wasn’t going to stand back and let anyone insult him.

“That’s wonderful the players are so good here now,” Cassie said. “So you don’t play at the Club anymore?”

The brunette’s eyes narrowed as if struggling to process the comment. Then she gave a haughty sniff. “I certainly do play. I have a plus two ranking now, only one below my husband and his brother. We won the Family Tournament the last three years in a row. Maybe some day you’ll be able to watch. I’m sure my husband could get you a pass.” Her gaze lowered over Cassie’s jeans. “For the tailgate section of course.”

“Great,” Cassie said. “Those fans there are always the most knowledgeable.”

The woman opened her mouth to retort but Cassie cared too little to stand and spar. She definitely wouldn’t be around to watch the Jonathon Stiles team compete on Family Day. Once, that had been her dream. To have a family of her own. To ride with her grandfather, with Alex…