The Glory Game (47 page)

There were two polo pits on the
estancia
. One was located outside and the other enclosed for use in inclement weather. Luz headed for the small building at the end of the stable row where the road made its circling bend.

As she entered through a side door, she heard the
thunk
of the ball slamming into the protective netting, then the sound of it rolling back into the pit. Raindrops tapped on the corrugated
iron roof. She closed the umbrella and propped it against the side wall near the door.

The rectangular polo pit itself was surrounded by a wire netting stretched between four corner posts, the lower half lined with a double thickness of netting and cushioned with cloth sacking to break the force of a hard-driven ball. About halfway up the posts, the netting curved in toward the center to turn back the ball, then out again. The flooring sloped downward to a lower platform roughly eight and a half feet by ten. A wooden horse stood in the center, four wooden legs supporting its barrel-shaped body and a board extending from it for the head. A three-foot-wide walkway encircled the pit, providing a spectator area where the onlooker, or instructor, could watch the form of the wooden horse's rider.

Facing the netting, Luz looked into center pit, a foot and a half lower than the floor of the walkway. Rob had the mallet tucked under his arm while he stood on the floor and retied the reins to the cotton threads fastened to the end of the board “head.”

“You jerked on the horse's mouth again, did you?” Luz observed.

The cotton strands broke under any strong pull or jerk on the reins, simulating an undesirable jerk on a horse's mouth while the rider hit the ball.

“Yeah,” Rob grumbled as he climbed onto the saddle strapped on the wooden horse's barrel. “I can't seem to get my nearside forehand swing right.”

“Are you reversing your grip?” Luz walked around to his left side so she could observe his stroking form.

“Yeah, but I keep jerking on the reins. I must have tied those bastards four times already.” He tapped the ball into position for a hit on the left side, then rose in the stirrups to brace for the shot and brought his right arm over, with the mallet, arcing it behind his head.

Luz watched his swing. “The reins were too loose that time. You had no contact with the horse's mouth. And I don't think you're bringing your right arm high enough. You want your hand level with your left cheek. Your head has to move or your neck will be in the way of your swing.” Rob tried it again. “That's better. Now tap the ball up the incline so you can hit it when it rolls back.”

Over and over, he practiced the stroke while Luz's observations continued and she warned him against straightening his elbow too soon, swinging too late, and not bringing his hand high enough. She could see his frustration mounting when he broke the reins' strings a fifth time.

“You're getting too tense, Rob. Relax. Try some simple forehand shots, then we'll go back to it,” she advised, as he dismounted to retie the reins.

“If I don't, there won't be any threads left to tie,” he replied. The strands were getting shorter and shorter with each knot he tied.

With the reins secured to the “mouth” again, he stepped back into the saddle and practiced the basic strokes, sometimes hitting the ball when it rolled toward his horse and sometimes letting it go by and up the rear incline to roll back, then hitting it in a simulation of a ball being passed to him.

The overhead light was situated in the center of the peaked roof ceiling, focusing its illumination on the wooden horse and rider in the lower pit and letting the walkway receive anything left over. As a result, shadows hugged the walls. When the side door opened, the tall figure of a man was silhouetted against the gray rain. The door swung shut, and it was another second before the figure moved out of the shadows, shaking off the rain.

The thickness of two walls of netting veiled Luz's view of Raul, but she could see the wetness of his hair shining black in the overhead light and the damp patches of rain on his lightweight jacket. So far, he hadn't noticed her, and she didn't draw attention to herself when he walked to the mesh webbing around the pit. Rob drove the ball into the net with a powerful forehand swing, testing the reinforced section padded with burlap.

“I thought you were going to practice the nearside forehand.” Raul frowned.

“I was. I did. I couldn't seem to put it all together, so Luz suggested that I switch to something else.” The instant Rob mentioned her name, Raul's narrowed gaze sliced across the space to find her. He appeared to straighten, drawing himself up to his full six-foot height.

“Try it again,” Raul ordered, and a muscle flexed along his jawline when Rob darted a quick glance at Luz.

“Sure.” Rob tapped the ball to the left side of the wooden steed.

Tense, Luz watched Raul follow the walkway around the webbing, but he didn't come all the way around to where she was standing. Instead he stopped directly in front of the horse, facing Rob head-on, protected by the wall of wire netting around the pit area. Silently, he watched Rob strike at the ball.

“You are turning your body too much,” he stated. “Practice the swing in slow motion. Forget the ball. Do you see where you force your bridle hand to move?”

“Yes.” Rob sat back onto the saddle seat.

“Try it again, and keep the elbow bent until you have a straight line from shoulder to ball. You are trying to stiffen your arm too soon.”

Three more times, he ordered Rob to practice the swing and unlearn the bad habit he'd acquired. He managed to keep from turning his body too far to the left, but he continued to straighten his arm too soon. Luz clenched her teeth together to stop herself from saying anything.

On the fourth swing, the words were forced through. “The elbow, Rob.”

“Again,” Raul ordered.

“I can't seem to stop it,” Rob muttered angrily.

“You're trying too hard. Relax,” Luz said.

“No more today,” Raul stated, and retraced his path to the rear of the pit where a wood-and-mesh door opened into the pit.

“I'm not tired,” Rob said.

“You can work on it tomorrow.” Raul took the mallet from him, giving Rob no option.

“Come on, Rob,” Luz said as she walked around the pit to the side door. “We'll go up to the house. Maybe we can talk Ramón into fixing us a cup of hot chocolate. How does that sound on this gloomy, rainy day?”

“Just the ticket.” Rob smiled, but without enthusiasm, appearing to forget that when he was small, it had been his favorite.

“One moment, Mrs. Thomas,” Raul said. “I would like to speak to you.”

“Privately” was the unspoken word. “Go ahead, Rob.” Luz
moved away from the door so he could leave. “I'll meet you at the house.”

“Okay.” He ducked out the door, closing it quickly behind him.

The patter of the rain on the roof sounded louder in the ensuing silence. Luz hesitated, then walked over to the pit doorway and stepped inside. Raul stood beside the wooden horse and watched her walk down the incline to the platform.

“You wanted to speak to me,” she said, reminding him it was his place to begin the discussion.

“Which one of us is the polo instructor?”

“You are, of course.”

“Then why are you teaching him? He cannot listen to two people at the same time. Either I am teaching him or you are. But not both of us. Do I make myself clear?” The muscles along his jaw were tautly flexed, standing out in a rigid line.

“I was only trying to help.”

“Your help is not wanted.” The anger that was trembling just below the surface vibrated in his voice. “You are only confusing him. Every time I say something, he looks to see if you agree. This cannot go on.” His hands were tightly wrapped around the body of the stick. “I want you to stay away from the practice sessions and the training work—and from all instruction!”

Incensed by his edict, Luz crossed to the wooden horse, impelled by that inner force that demanded movement. “I am his mother! I have a right to be there. You can't forbid me to watch!” When she stopped, the wooden horse was between them.

“Do the teachers in his schools allow you to sit in their classrooms?” Raul swung around to face her, one hand letting go of the mallet to grip the neck board while the other still held the polo mallet as it rested on the curve of the saddle seat. “Are you permitted to coach him while they are giving him lessons in history or English? No! And I will not allow it here!”

“You
will not allow?” She leaned toward him, pressing her hands against the rough board sides of the structure. “I am paying you! It is not you who dictates to me!”

Only the width of the saddle seat separated them. “Then let me do what you are paying me to do and stay away!” His eyes glittered with anger. “He does not need you to wipe his nose.
And he does not need you to tell him what is right and what is wrong. I am paid to do this.” Raul drew back, the line of his mouth tight. “I have seen parents like you. You want to control everything that happens in the lives of your children. You know what is best for them, no? But what is best for them is for you to stay out!”

“Is it my son we're discussing here or my daughter?” she demanded.

“You want Rob to learn polo, do you not?” His expression became hard and cold at the mention of Trisha.

“Yes! And I want you to stay away from my daughter!”

“So you have told me. But she is the one you should be telling to stay away from me! I have no interest in her. I have been polite to the daughter of a client, and that is all. I see nothing in her worth having. Would you prefer that I treat her like the nuisance she is?” he challenged.

“Polite? Is that how you describe your actions? Just how far will you go to keep a client happy? Let's see … I know you've kissed Trisha and you've danced with me,” Luz mocked sarcastically. “Can't you make up your mind which one of us you're supposed to please?”

His gaze narrowed on her. “Maybe I have misunderstood. Why do you wish me to stay away from your daughter?”

“Because you're too old for her. She's barely eighteen—'

“—and much too young, no?” The low tone of his voice made her wary.

“Yes, she is. I'm glad you see that.” A tension that had nothing to do with her anger rippled through her as she turned and walked slowly around the rear of the wooden horse.

“And you, what of you?”

She halted, stiffening instinctively. “I don't know what you mean.”

“I am old enough to be Trisha's father. And you are her mother, divorced, without a man. Lonely, I've noticed. Perhaps I did not make myself clear before you came here to Argentina. My polo skills are always for hire, but when you buy them, my services in bed are not part of the bargain.”

Waves of heat seemed to engulf her. “Of all the arrogance! What makes you think I'd want you in my bed?” Hot tears burned her eyes as she angrily denied that she had ever entertained such an idea.

‘That night in your hotel room in Paris, you were not inviting me to your bedroom?” he taunted.

“No! And if you remember that night very well, you'd recall that I told you to get out.” Luz trembled violently from a mixture of shame and anger.

“You are not the first wealthy woman who has attempted to … proposition me,” Raul countered.

She could feel the tears gathering on her lashes and turned to leave the pit. “There is no point in continuing this conversation,” she declared thickly as she moved toward the door cut into the netting.

“You will stay away from the polo lessons in the future,” he stated as she ducked through the opening.

The shadows by the wall reached out to enfold her in their concealing darkness. Luz paused by the side door. “I will do as I damned well please. And if you don't like it, Mr. Buchanan, then you can tell me to get out!”

Tears ran down her cheeks, and she bolted out the door while she still had the last word. The heavy drizzle had turned into a downpour that drenched her the instant she stepped outside. Too late, Luz remembered the umbrella propped against the wall of the polo pit. But it would take more than a soaking to make her go back in there. At the moment, she wanted to get as far away from Raul, and everything associated with him, as she could.

As she started to run across the road toward the house, a car pulled up and the driver hopped out, one of the stablehands. He dashed through the rain, slowing when he saw Luz.
“El señor?”
He gestured toward the polo pit, supplementing his question with sign language to ask whether Raul was inside. He said more, but the only word that sounded familiar to her was
tel
é
fono
.

She nodded, her face too wet from the falling rain for him to notice the salty tears mingling with the moisture. As he continued to the polo pit, she glanced at the old car, its fenders dented and its sides splattered with mud. The motor idled, sending a blue-gray trail of vapor fumes from the exhaust. Luz ran to it and climbed quickly behind the wheel.

There wasn't any solid thought in her head except to get away. Her vision was still blurred with tears as she scanned the unfamiliar instrument panel and tried to locate where things
were. The second knob she turned sent the wipers slapping across the windshield. She shifted the car into drive and stepped on the gas. As the vehicle shot forward, she heard someone shout and pushed the pedal to the floor.

Despite the driving rain and her blurring eyes, she managed to follow the muddy road that circled behind the stables and the gray stone house. She didn't want to go back there, not yet. Another road branched off from the machine sheds, taking off toward some distant point across country where the flat land and the clouds met. The open stretch pulled her, urging her to race across it—to run and run and never look back. She swung the car onto the narrow track and tromped on the accelerator again, spraying muddy water from the wheels.