however, the girls had been thrust together in the same boarding house and Georgie had developed a grudging admiration for Daisy’s single-minded will to win. While that made it hard sometimes to be her friend, it also meant that Daisy was someone you wanted on your team.
“Daisy King has been eventing since she was eleven,” Tara introduced her. “She won the national UK secondary schools ODE finals last year.”
Tara paused. “Last term Daisy was on the girls’ polo team that won the low-goal award at the Bluegrass Cup. And I think her natural abilities as an all-round rider could further benefit from more polo training which is why I have assigned her to you, Sebastian.”
A man stepped forward from the ranks of the elite trainers. He was devastatingly handsome, in a broad-shouldered and unshaven way. He had jet black hair and startling blue eyes and he wore the number three jersey for his polo team, along with the regulation uniform of polo whites and long brown boots.
“Seb Upton-Baker is an eight-goal player,” Tara smiled at him. “We’ve been friends since school – and we’re very lucky that he divides his time between his polo ranch in Argentina, his polo club in London and his small holding here in Kentucky. Seb will be playing this season on a patron team and Daisy is grooming for him.”
Daisy didn’t notice the envious looks that she was getting from Kennedy and Arden. In fact, she was a bit miffed about being lumbered with the hunky polo player when all she’d really wanted was to work on Tina Dixon’s yard.
Georgie, meanwhile, was on the edge of her seat. With all of her friends already allocated their apprenticeships, she was expecting Tara to call her name next. But instead, Tara worked her way through allocating apprenticeships to every other member of the class. Georgie watched as both Alex and Matt were placed in well-respected Kentucky eventing stables and Arden was put in the hands of a woman named Frisky Newton who ran a famous breaking-in facility for green horses. Even Nicholas Laurent was given a placement at the Bloodstock association offices which ran the Thoroughbred breeding programme.
In the end, only Kennedy and Georgie were left.
“Kennedy Kirkwood and Georgina Parker,” Tara called both their names at once. Georgie had to walk down the stairs with Kennedy so that they were both standing with their eventing teacher in the arena.
“Kennedy comes from the famous Kirkwood showjumping family, and was a showjumper herself before she swapped codes to join the eventing class,” Tara told the assembled riders.
“And Georgie was in the House Team that won the showjumping cup earlier this year…” Tara said.
“So it seemed logical that you should both be placed with Dominic Blackwell. Dominic, as you all know, is a member of the US showjumping team. He has been kind enough to offer to take two apprentices at his stables.”
Instead of shaking hands with his new apprentices like the other riders had done Dominic Blackwell walked over to Georgie and stuck his palm up in mid-air.
“Hey! Team Blackwell! High-five!”
Georgie stared back blankly, leaving Dominic Blackwell holding his hand aloft.
“C’mon!” Dominic Blackwell was undeterred. His enthusiasm amped up even higher. “You’ll be working at the best showjumping stables in the whole of the Southern States! Can I get a high-five?”
“Woo! Yeah!” It was Kennedy, doing a peppy little cheerleader skip and barging roughly past Georgie. She made a lunge at Dominic Blackwell and slapped a high-five on his open palm. Then she gave him a perky grin. “Go Team Blackwell!” she cheered brightly.
“Yess!” Dominic grinned like a maniac. He turned to Georgie once more. “C’mon, Julie,” he said, getting Georgie’s name wrong. “Give me some skin!”
Georgie rolled her eyes but clearly Dominic was not giving up. She stepped forward and slapped the palm of her hand hard against Dominic Blackwell’s.
“Woo! Welcome aboard, Julie! Go Team Blackwell!”
And Georgie knew that she was about to spend the next term in hell.
The track at Keeneland Park was shrouded in fog at five in the morning. Georgie stood at the railing and watched Riley and Marco galloping into the mist, until they disappeared completely at the third furlong. She peered into the gloom, listening to the rhythmic pounding of Marco’s hooves, the beat growing ever more distant and then coming closer as Riley and the horse emerged once more.
Georgie marvelled at the feline grace of the golden Thoroughbred and the skill of the boy on his back. As they turned the corner of the track and came down the home straight in front of the grandstand Riley began to urge the gelding on, pumping his arms above the horse’s neck and suddenly the hoof beats began to quicken.
The chestnut gelding was responding to his jockey, extending his stride so that his body seemed to flatten out and devour the ground as he thundered down the track.
She was so lost in the beauty of the spectacle that Georgie almost forgot to press the stopwatch as the gelding’s nose reached the line.
With an emphatic click, she hit the button. Then she checked the time, popped it back in her pocket and waited for Riley. He had eased Marco down to a canter and then a trot and had carried on around the track to cool the Thoroughbred down before he came over to the railing to join her.
“So?” Riley looked at her expectantly. “How did he do?”
“He covered eight furlongs in one minute forty-one,” Georgie said.
Riley looked pleased and gave Marco a slappy pat. “Hey, not bad, boy!” he told the chestnut.
“Is that time good enough to win the Firecracker?” Georgie asked.
“Maybe,” Riley said, “but there’s a big difference between blowing him out like this on the track all alone and riding a real race when sixteen other jockeys are trying to cut in front or ram you off the track. It’s not until you’re coming down that final furlong with the pack at your heels that you find out what your horse is really made of.”
Georgie looked at the little chestnut gelding dancing and fretting anxiously beneath Riley. Less than six months ago if you had asked any racing pundit in the country whether this scrawny, diminutive horse stood a chance of winning the coveted Firecracker Handicap, a race worth $232,000 in prize money, they would have laughed at you. Marco’s racing career was all but washed up when Georgie purchased him for $150 from his former trainer Tommy Doyle. The dirt cheap price tag reflected the total failure on Marco’s part to win any races – and the fact that the four-year old Thoroughbred had a reputation for doing lethal 180 degree turns in the middle of the track which meant that even the bravest jockeys refused to get on him.
Georgie had bought Marco in the hope that she might be able to put his turning tendencies to good use and train him as a polo pony. But Marco was even more lethal on the polo field than he was on the racetrack and Georgie didn’t have a clue what to do with him – until Riley had offered to swap him for a more suitable polo mare.
At the time, Georgie’s boyfriend was doing her a favour. But it had never occurred to her that Riley could actually see any potential in this difficult
