This time, she took a place down at the rail. Old Dascha would’ve stayed up in the owners’ box with cocktail shrimp and wine, but for Petey-- this Dascha wanted to be right there for him. She even felt a little nervous, and didn’t dare check him out in the walking ring. She didn’t want to jinx him.
Not goodbye.
See you soon.
Dascha closed her eyes and breathed. She didn’t open them until a strong, rough hand slid over hers. Oliver stood beside her with a similar strained look on his face. She noticed his jaw flex as he watched Plastic Thunder canter by with the lead pony to the gate.
Dascha tucked her lip, then turned her hand over to receive Oliver’s and squeezed it. She looked up at him, hoping he’d look back.
His fingers tangled with hers in a way she wished their bodies could. But he didn’t meet her gaze.
The announcer’s voice took over.
“And they’re all in line.” A hush fell over the crowd, then the starting bell clanged. It was different being down here on the ground, Dascha noticed. An electricity she hadn’t felt in the grandstand. Her grip tightened on Oliver’s fingers.
“Away they go,” the announcer said. He started his sing song call of the race, a jumble of names and colors. Plastic Thunder rumbled along behind the leaders, biding his time. He was in a perfect position to strike. Dascha’s heart drummed to the rhythm of his gallop. A thrill went down her spine.
The race was only a sprint, something that should’ve been easy and light for ol’ Petey. And Dascha was ready to jump up and down when the gelding made his move at the top of the stretch. He sprung forward, overtaking the horse in third. But then he bobbled like a kayak in the rapids. Something was wrong.
His jockey stood in the irons, and the pack slipped away. An ambulance screeched down the clear side of the track. Petey’s jockey had already pulled the gelding over, clear of the field, and dismounted. He held the gray’s leg, begging him to stop moving.
Petey threw his head, his eyes wild and wide. Dascha’s old soldier wasn’t acting like himself. He fought like a colt, refusing to accept defeat-- or help.
Oliver’s hand ripped from Dascha’s the way she feared their worlds would. He swore under his breath and jumped the rail, sprinting toward his limping horse.
Dascha pushed through the crowd. It was a blur of “scuze me”, and “I’m the owner”.
The veterinary team put up a green hospital screen around the horse and the ambulance. It could only mean one thing.
When Dascha reached them, it was a cacophony of chaos. Petey was down on his side, pinned by Oliver. The gelding squealed in agony. Oliver stroked his cheek.
Dascha could barely sort through the voices. The vet prepared a syringe.
“What’s going on?” Dascha cried.
“Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to leave,” an assistant took her by the arm.
“No, you don’t understand,” Dascha replied, pushing back against them. “I need to be with him.”
“Dascha, go,” Oliver’s voice rose over the din.
She couldn’t belive it “What?”
He looked over his shoulder. His face was pinched and red, his hair askew. “Get out of here.”
“Ma’am, if you’ll--” the assistant tried again.
Dascha tore her arm away. “No. Petey!”
Oliver launched at her. “YOU DON’T BELONG HERE!”
Dascha staggered backwards, almost falling. As though his words battered her to the ground. I don’t... I don’t belong here.
She wheeled, tears springing to her eyes.
Dascha didn’t belong here anymore. Not in Oliver’s life. Not in his world. Maybe she never did.
She ran off like a young girl with the sting of having her heart broken for the first time.
Dascha’s phone rang as she packed her suitcase. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand before answering. “Hullo?”
“Hello, is this Miss Lane? I’m calling about the business offer...”
Dascha pressed her hand to her aching forehead. She’d been drinking to quell the pain of last night’s tragedy, but it did nothing to numb her pain. “Yes, this is she.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t get together sooner. I’m in Miami. Could we meet for lunch?”
Dascha double checked her plane ticket on her phone quickly, flipping between apps. She still had a few hours before she needed to be at the airport. “That should be fine. Text me the address.”
“Sure thing!” the man said cheerfully.
Dascha hung up and looked forlornly around her gaudy suite. It was more than she needed. More than she wanted anymore.
Her phone binged with the notification of a text. She opened the message and put the address into GPS. She’d clean herself up and get over to the meeting.
She could still do this. She’d do it for Oliver. I can still make it right.
When she arrived, she was met by a lovely red-haired woman about Dascha’s mother’s age-- or what she would’ve been, and a handsome older gentleman in a blue sports jacket. He had wavy blonde hair that faded to silver and a smile that could sock the knox off the Yankees. He extended his hand. “Miss Lane, I presume?”
She met him and shook firmly, like her father taught her.
“I’m Grover, and this is my wife Matilda.”
Rich enough? Eccentric names and fancy restaurant, check!
Matilda offered her hand as well. “Please, call me Mattie.”
Dascha offered them both a smile and took a seat.
Before she could start schmoozing, the seat beside Dascha’s yanked out irritably. She almost jumped. Dascha turned to see Oliver easing down, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Probably trying to look slick and worthy or something.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Grover said. “But I invited Mister Way as well.”
Dascha had to swallow back the sob that threatened to come. Her voice was hoarse, “Not at all.” She smoothed the linen napkin in her lap.
Mattie touched her husband’s arm. “We’re not much for small talk, so let’s get down to business.”
Grover beamed. “We’ve been long time fans of racing, but we’ve never really had an ‘in’. When your firm called us, we were eager to meet.”
Oliver’s head slowly craned toward Dascha. One finger slid the shades a stitch down his nose as he glared at her. He must have caught on quick.
The shadow of dark circles lay beneath his eyes. “What is this, some kind of pity party?” His voice was low and gravelly.
Dascha leaned toward him, keeping quiet. “No, why would I--”
He shoved the shades back up his face, throwing his napkin onto the table. “I was fine on my own, Dascha. I never...”
“Never what?”
Grover and Mattie stared at them. “Do you two need a moment?”
Both Dascha and Oliver glared at them, then rose. Dascha was the polite one this time. “Excuse me.”
She turned to Oliver and smacked him.
The entire restaurant was looking at them now.
“This is your wake up call, Mister Way,” Dascha seethed.
His hand shot to his unshaven, offended cheek. “I’m not some kind of helpless--”
“And I’m not your happy meal. So either you make nice with these lovely folks who are giving you a g’damn chance, or leave. I’m not going to be the one telling you where you belong.”
She sat down and smiled demurely as though nothing had happened. “Where were we?”
Grover and Mattie had this look of overwhelmed haplessness as Oliver stood there, contemplating his future.
After a minute or two, he finally sat down and proceeded with the most uncomfortable lunch Dascha had ever sat through.
She stayed quiet most of the time, only speaking to vouch for Oliver’s ways as a trainer. Reinstating what she firmly believed: he deserved the chance, and he really was a wonderful man.
When it was finally over, she rose and left wordlessly.
&n
bsp; Because you never said goodbye.
Oliver hadn’t seen Dascha in a month. Grover and Matilda were great patrons. And given his experience with Dascha, Oliver was used to the way they worked. They actually knew bloodlines, having been fans of the sport, but also knew business.
Oliver was headed toward his first big stakes race with an amazing filly they had purchased. And Grover and Matilda had even introduced them to some of their friends. Things were looking up. Oliver would soon have everything he wanted.
But he wasn’t happy.
What had made him excited and passionate before just felt empty these days. And he kept beating himself up for letting Dascha go the way she did. He knew it had to end somewhere, but couldn’t he have been more gracious about it?
Of course Dascha wouldn’t give him a free pass to success. He had earned it like everyone else. How long had he been harping about needing a chance? Dascha had given him that.
So why was he depressed?
The morning of the stakes race, Oliver’s new phone rang in his pocket. He answered a number that looked familiar, but wasn’t in his contacts.
“Hello?”
“It’s Wyatt.”
Oliver’s eyes widened. “Hey!”
“I wanted to congratulate you. I saw her in the racing form. Well done.”
“Thank you.” Oliver hesitated. “How’s... how’s-- “
“Dascha?”
Oliver nodded, even though he knew Wyatt couldn’t see him.
“She’s fine.”
“I’m sorry for the way things ended,” Oliver admitted.
“They didn’t have to,” Wyatt said.
Oliver’s eyebrow arced.
“Dascha was a mess when she got home. She said you told her she didn’t belong there.”
This time, Oliver’s brow knit. “What?”
“You screamed it at it her, bro.”
“That’s... That’s-- “
There was a silence on the line. Oliver could just picture Wyatt standing with his arms folded, waiting for an explanation. The Big Brother pose.
Suddenly Petey’s euthanization came to Oliver. He remembered now. Yelling at Dascha. A knot formed in his throat. “I never meant it like that.”
“Yeah, well. She took it like that. One more thing, Mister Way.”
Oh, this was serious. They were getting back to formality. That wasn’t Wyatt’s way at all.
“She’s not the one who arranged the meeting with Grover and Mattie.”
Oliver swallowed. “Okay...”
“She finally believed in you enough, like I did, to look through her clientele. She suggested a few candidates, but I’m the one who made the appointment. You’re welcome.”
The line went dead as Wyatt ended the call.
Oliver stood, staring into the distance, numb. He’d really screwed this up.
That fact alone made him go into his stakes race like a zombie. This was a moment he should be reveling in. He’d made it. But all he could think about was how to make things right with Dascha.
He sent his filly off to the track and joined Grover and Mattie in the owners box. They were bubbly and excited, and their filly finished second.
It was then that Oliver realized winning wasn’t everything.
He excused himself as quickly as possible, letting his new stable crew take care of the filly.
Without realizing what he was doing, he rushed tot he airport and slapped a credit card onto the counter before an airline worker. “Get me the next plane to Logan International.”
Boston, he we come.
A knock fell on Dascha’s condo door. She had been in the middle of eating some Chinese food that was unusually bland. The TV droned in the background.
The knock fell again, more urgently.
Dascha shut the TV off, wiped her mouth, and went to the door. The last person she expected to open to was Oliver Way.
He leaned on the door jamb, his hair such a mess and five o’clock shadow sloppy that he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“I can’t eat. I can’t sleep,” he said slowly, slurred.
Dascha’s brow wrinkled. “Have you been drinking?”
He pushed a finger to her lips. “It takes a lot of courage to say this.”
Dascha’s lips trembled behind his touch. He’d definitely been drinking. Liquid courage.
“I thought getting a leg up would make me happy, but... Sorry, can I come in?” Oliver sagged.
Dascha moved out of the way, motioning him in.
He flopped onto the nearest couch, hands resting between his knees. “I’m not,” he stammered. “I’m not--” He glanced over his shoulder. “Do I smell Chinese?”
Dascha folded her arms, drumming her fingers and tilting her head.
Oliver shook his head. “Sorry.” He looked at her earnestly. “I never meant to scare you off. When Petey--” he paused as Dascha’s face strained at the memory.
Oliver swallowed. “I didn’t want you to get hurt. That’s what I meant.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well. I did.”
He looked at her apologetically, then patted the seat beside him. “Please?”
She sighed and joined him, her chest aching a little. She sat with her knees toward him so they could at least face one another.
Oliver reached for her hand. She gazed down, remembering how perfectly they fit together.
“You belong wherever your heart says you do,” Oliver said softly.
“Where does yours belong, Mister Way?”
His fingers tangled with hers in a tight grasp that didn’t want to let go. “I’d give up everything right now if you asked me to.”
Dascha met his eyes, and knew in her heart she felt the same. And the longer she looked into his soul, the more she realized he was waiting. He wanted her to ask him.
Instead, she slipped her arms around his shoulders, and pushed her weight against his chest the way she had longed to for months. She hovered over him, his strong body beneath her. Her hair draped their faces in secrecy, she smiled and whispered before kissing him, “Never.”
One year later...
Dascha stood behind Oliver, helping him with his tie. His hands were shaking too much to finish it off.
“Don’t worry, you’ll do great.”
He reached for her hand when she was done and kissed it. Dascha turned him in her arms and kissed him heatedly. Her hands went to his head, fingers easing against his scalp. He started laughing and pulled away.
“You’re going to mess up my hair.”
“Now who’s the posh one?” she teased.
He grinned wryly, but with enough jitters that hid his dimples. Dascha knew those would show up soon enough. She popped him in the butt. “Go get ‘em, Tiger.”
He pecked her nose and headed out of the room, grabbing his lanyard of credentials on the way out.
Dascha’s phone rang just then, and she answered. One of the jockey agents she worked with needed her attention, and there was also a brief agenda with some owners.
She managed it all and stride and made her way down to the track.
The Churchill Downs crowd was a swarm. The noise was deafening, but at least the sky was bright and that blanket of roses was waiting for Oliver and the filly he trained for Grover and Mattie. Their horse had grown into a big, strapping, formidable foe, worthy of taking on the boys, and Dascha couldn’t be prouder.
Her new life included managing a whole clientele of owners for Oliver, and business was booming. Even though racing could eat you up and spit you out at the drop of the hat, Dascha had a good feeling their success would be limitless. Oliver was a natural, and Dascha fit right in. Their two worlds had collided into one and it was balanced and beautiful.
She made her way to the rail. Dascha had grown to prefer it down here where she could feel the earth shake as the horses thundered by, and she’d be closer to Oliver too.
The crowd joined together to sing My Old Kentucky Home as the horses went to
the gate. Oliver met Dascha and gripped her hand, still trembling. She squeezed it, and they smiled at one another.
His filly was a long shot, despite cleaning up the spring races. People just didn’t bet a filly in a colt’s race. But Dascha knew they were holding the ace.
Breathlessly, Wyatt joined them too and they all exchanged grins right as the horses loaded.
“They’re all in line for the Kentucky Derby!” the announcer said.
The crowd hushed, then roared with the clang of the bell. Ten three-year-old Thoroughbreds surged from the gate. Oliver’s filly took the lead, and he shook his head, gulping. “No, you idiot!”
Wyatt elbowed him. “Hey, that idiot is my boyfriend.”
Oliver shoved his head like a brother would, but his teeth were clenched. “Too fast. Too fast!”
Wyatt grinned roguishly. “Tell me about it.”
Dascha laughed, but she felt for Oliver. Their filly should be back a little further. Taking the lead was not part of the plan.
“Lightning fractions in the opening quarter...” the announcer said, carrying on his call of the race.
Oliver groaned, pulling at his hair. “She’s going to burn out.”
Dascha took his arm, hugging it reassuringly, but Oliver covered his face.
“I can’t watch.”
As the horses turned for home, she tugged on his arm, forcing him to. His filly was fighting for all she was worth, hanging on to a narrow lead. The colt beside her was breathing down her neck, but the filly wouldn’t have any of it. One pop from her jockey’s whip and she dug down, somehow finding another gear. She pulled ahead by a shoulder, then her flank. And as Oliver realized what was happening, his voice went hollow.
“Jaysus, she’s going to do it.”
Wyatt and Dascha started screaming. The crowd was going a wild. A filly was going to win the Kentucky Derby.
Oliver’s filly.
He looked like he was about to pass out. Oliver’s face went stark white, and he swayed. Wyatt and Dascha both held him up. The filly hung on to win.
There was a lot of screaming and jumping up and down, and Dascha was pretty sure there were tongues going down throats even though Oliver was too dazed to realize what was happening. They led him to the winners circle where the roses were draped over the filly’s shoulders.
Fools Rush In Page 9
