The Glory Game (24 page)

“There is no room at this table. Shall we sit over here?” Raul suggested the adjacent empty table.

“That's fine.” Trisha sat in the chair he pulled out for her, while Rob dragged out the wooden chair on the opposite side of the table.

The barmaid came by as Raul transferred his mug of ale from the other table and took the side chair, placing Rob on his left and Trisha on his right. “What'll it be for you, luv?” The barmaid's red-lipped smile was automatic, matching the boredom in her eyes.

“A Guinness,” Rob ordered. “How about something to eat? I'm starved. Do you have Cornish pastry?”

She nodded affirmatively, then glanced at Trisha. “And you, miss?”

“A bitter.” Which was the English name for the standard draft ale Raul was drinking. Before leaving, the barmaid looked at Raul, but he shook his head, declining to order. His glass mug was still half filled. “I think this may turn out to be an opportune meeting. Rob was just discussing the possibility of buying some Argentine ponies for his polo string. I thought you might be able to offer him some advice or recommendations if you didn't have any horses for sale yourself.”

“I always have horses for sale, but much depends on matching the horse with the rider—and the price you are willing to pay.” Raul directed his response to Rob.

“That's true, but a player is only! as good as the pony he rides,” he said, repeating the phrase Luz had used.

“The reverse is also true. A pony is only as good as the man who rides it.” Raul's long brown fingers gripped the glass handle of the mug and lifted it in Rob's direction. “I did notice today that your game has improved since we played.” He raised the glass to his mouth and took a drink.

“I plan to improve a lot more,” Rob asserted. “I'm taking
a year at least to concentrate on polo. That's why I want to get some better ponies.”

The barmaid returned to the table with their drinks as well as a plate holding a half-moon-shaped pie stuffed with meat, onions, and vegetables. Rob took pound notes from his pocket and laid the necessary amount on the table for the girl. While she made change, he took a bite of the savory regional specialty and washed it down with a swallow of the Irish stout.

“Who is your coach?” Raul asked as Trisha sipped at her dark ale. She didn't mind being ignored in the conversation, since it gave her an opportunity to study Raul more closely without being observed.

On the surface, his face seemed to give away little. Yet there was a hard, relentless quality about the set of his jaw that she'd seen matched by his play on the field. And there was little softness about his mouth or the deep slashes that flanked it. Perhaps most revealing of all were his keen blue eyes with their trace of aloof arrogance. He was a dispassionate man, viewing life from atop his horse and untouched by it. Trisha smiled to herself, wondering if she wasn't becoming fanciful because he seemed so indifferent to her pursuit of him.

“I don't have one—at least, not at the moment. At the academy the team coach worked with me privately on my game, and I've taken classes at the polo club with various professionals.” Rob shrugged.

“If you mean to improve, you need someone to criticize your play and point out mistakes before they become bad habits, You should have your own coach to work with you every day, both on your form and in team play.”

Trisha brightened at his advice, the possibility occurring to her that something might be arranged whereby she could see Raul on a regular basis instead of these hit-and-miss meetings. “Do you give private instruction to young players?”

“I have in the past.” There was a knowing glint in his eyes when he met her look as if he was fully aware of the direction her thoughts had taken. “Now, I mainly give courses in advanced polo for the serious player at my rancho in Argentina. The minimum course is two weeks and the longest is three months. We work on form, technique, and tactics. All lodging, meals, and horses are furnished, so you need only bring your riding clothes. The course begins in the spring—our spring,
which is, of course, your autumn,” he explained, switching his attention back to Rob. “You might consider enrolling. Either way, I recommend that you come to Argentina if you intend to purchase our ponies. There are several polo
estancias
that specialize in raising and training horses for the sport, including my own. It is our high-goal season as well, so you will have an opportunity to see polo played at its best.”

“You Argentines unquestionably have the best polo team in the world,” Rob conceded almost grudgingly. “Your record in defeating the Americans in the Cup of the Americas competition proves that. I probably could gain a lot from taking lessons from the best. And I'd have firsthand knowledge of the methods your gauchos use to train the horses.”

“The true gaucho vanished long ago, the same as your cowboy. Only the myth remains,” Raul stated dryly. “You are likely to find the gaucho of today driving a tractor.”

“Or riding a polo pony?” Trisha suggested.

A dark brow arched briefly. “The comparison could be made, I suppose.” Raul leaned back in his chair, an arm sprawling over its back while he absently stroked the mug handle. “The gaucho of old had little regard for life and limb. His only need was a horse to ride, and he usually had a string of thirty so he could travel far and fast. Danger was his companion, and he loved her. It was said about the gaucho that his wants were few and basic. His bed was his saddle. And he ate with a knife, because a fork would mean a plate and a plate would require a table, and a table would mean a dwelling with a roof and walls.”

“Much of the same could be said about a professional polo player.” Trisha was intrigued by the analogy she saw. It made her wonder how much of his attitude was inbred, a throwback to the past.

“I remember Jake's saying that poverty was the only cure for polo,” Rob recalled with a half-smile quirking his mouth. “And that didn't always work.”

“It gets in the blood and leaves little room for anything else,” Raul agreed.

“That isn't very encouraging,” Trisha protested.

“It wasn't meant to be,” Raul informed her.

Her tongue had an acid taste, and she let it taint her mood.
“Since you're never in any one place too long, what's your next stop after England?”

“I leave next week for France.”

“What a coincidence! We seem to be on the same itinerary. We'll be in Paris next week as well.” Trisha was amazed by her luck.

“I'll be in France, not Paris,” Raul corrected pointedly. “Staying in the country at the chateau of a friend … playing polo.”

“But surely there's a way we can get in touch with you while we're there,” she reasoned.

“For what purpose?”

She glanced at her brother as he lowered his glass and wiped Guinness from his upper lip. “If Rob is interested in any of your horses or wants to attend your polo school, he'll need to contact you somehow.”

“Here.” Raul took a business card from inside his pocket and handed it to Rob. “My address in Argentina. Hector Guerrero will supply any information or make any arrangements you might need. And he knows where I can be reached, if necessary.” He signaled the barmaid for another round of drinks.

“I've heard about these polo colleges in Argentina.” Rob studied the printing on the card. “But it's game experience I need.”

“That is a slow way to learn, because you cannot control what the other side does and no two plays are ever alike. In practice games, we can recreate a sequence of events to show how and where you got out of position and teach you to anticipate the actions of your teammates as well as the opposing players. Polo is more than just skill with a mallet and a horse. It's knowing where every rider on the field is at a given moment and where he is likely to go next. I am certain your previous coaches have explained this.”

“Yes.” He combed a hand through his hair, then rubbed the back of his neck in a thoughtful gesture. “I know I could use a coach, but maybe I should mention this school of yours to Luz and see what she thinks.”

“Raul is coming to Henry's party on Saturday. You can introduce them.” Trisha guessed that their mother would agree to anything Rob proposed.

“Hey, Buchanan.” One of the men at the next table rocked his chair backward to intrude between Raul and Trisha. “What was the name of that Aussie bloke who took a header in yesterday's match? A spectacular crash, it was.”

“Carstairs.”

“Bart says he ended up with a concussion.”

“He was lucky,” someone else said. “They had to put his horse down.”

“Reminds me of the time old Sawyer went down with me. You were there, Buchanan. Hell, it was your black horse that rode us into the ground. Raining, it was, and slippery. Three of us went down at once. You talk about a tangle of bodies and thrashing legs. When I opened my eyes, there sat Buchanan, astride his horse, as calm as you please, waiting to see who walked away from the mess. I swear that damned black horse he rode that day had webbed feet.”

Conversation jumped between the two tables after that as past falls were recounted and injuries compared. Soon pints of beer and bottles of stout were commandeered and used as pawns to reenact the placement of riders, and the circle of chairs was widened to encompass both tables. As the only female present, Trisha found herself slowly crowded out and forgotten. Finally she left her chair on the periphery, took her pint of ale, and stood against the back wall to watch and listen.

Once she caught Raul's eye and felt the pulsebeat of his attention center on her, but it was soon claimed by someone else. A woman would have a difficult time fitting into his world, she realized. There was so little room in his life for one beyond warming his bed wherever he happened to be sleeping that night. She was intelligent enough to recognize that as part of his attraction, but it didn't lessen his appeal.

Shortly before ten o'clock the barmaid came around to warn them the pub would be closing in a quarter of an hour and it was time to order their last drink and settle their accounts with her. As the gathering began to break up, Trisha rejoined her brother. Raul was standing beside him.

“Can Rob and I offer you a lift?!' she asked.

“No. I have a car at my disposal.”

“Then why don't you drive me back to Seven Oak?” She tipped her head to the side, faintly challenging him with her
look. His hesitation lengthened as he appeared to weigh her suggestion against some inner suspicion.

“It's probably out of your way …” When Rob ventured the beginning of an excuse, Trisha could cheerfully have belted him, but it wasn't necessary.

“That is of no importance,” Raul interrupted. “I will drive your sister safely back.”

“Good night, brother dear.” She pointedly signaled him to get lost. Rob glanced at her uncertainly, then took his cue and left the pub ahead of them.

They were delayed a few minutes while Raul took leave of his companions, then they crossed the smoky, ale-rank room to the door. Trisha waited while he opened it for her, then stepped outside. The air was fresh and cool. She paused to breathe it in, listening to the muffled voices in the pub disrupting the night's stillness. The quiet encouraged hushed tones. When the light touch of his hand directed her up the cobblestoned street, Trisha stole a sideways glance at him.

“Are you angry with me?” she questioned lightly while their footsteps made a companionable echo in the night.

“Because my friends will think I am robbing the cradle. That is the phrase, no?” The Spanish accent seemed slightly more pronounced, a certain thickness in his low voice, perhaps caused by irritation.

Actually, she had meant because she had maneuvered him into giving her a ride home, but she let it pass. “If it arouses anything, it's likely to be envy. If you think you are old enough to be my daddy, you should see the woman my father is going to marry.”

“If it is permissible for your father, it is permissible for you?”

“Something like that.” She waited for him to say he wasn't her father, but he made no response. Rectangular patches of light spilled from the windows of houses along the street. “After ten o'clock, nothing moves in these small English villages. It isn't like London.”

“The car is here.” He directed her into a shadowed side street where a cream-colored car was parked at the curb.

“An Aston Martin.” She trailed her fingertips over its smooth, hard surface in appreciation of its sleek power and beauty, as Raul unlocked the passenger door.

“It belongs to a friend.” His hand assisted her into the left front passenger seat, then he walked around and slid behind the wheel.

“I'd rather have this than a Rolls any day.” She caressed the smooth leather upholstery, liking the rich feel of it under her hand. “Now I know the second thing I'm going to buy with my inheritance. Imagine tootling around campus in this.” Her laugh was quickly drowned by the rumbling purr of the engine springing to life at the turn of the ignition key.

The headlamps illuminated the cobbled street and the old stone buildings that loomed on both sides. She felt the surge of power when the car accelerated forward, cornering like a cat at the intersection and turning onto the main street. The buildings seemed to fall away. Within minutes, they were outside the sleepy village and speeding along an empty road, the gentle English countryside hidden in darkness.

“Turn left here,” Trisha said when they approached a crossroads.

“I am familiar with the way to Seven Oak,” he informed her. “I have played at Sherbourne's field on the estate before.”

She settled back in her seat. “It feels so strange sitting on this side—and the car going down the wrong side of the road.” She smiled and glanced at the dashboard in front of Raul. “And looking at the speedometer and seeing the needle pointing at a hundred and thirty. I have to keep reminding myself that's kilometers.”