**Chapter 22: Race Day**
The sun was dipping low over Monbetsu Racecourse, casting long shadows across the open-air grandstand as Kitano arrived. The air buzzed with the hum of anticipation, laced with the faint scent of grilled meat and spilled beer.
"Yo, Kitano's here!" a slurred voice called out. Takashima, swaying slightly, raised a half-empty beer can in greeting, his cheeks flushed from the evening's revelry.
"Good evening, Mr. Takashima," Kitano replied with a polite nod, weaving through the crowd toward the top row of the grandstand.
He barely knew Takashima—or most of the regulars, for that matter—but in a small place like Monbetsu, where seats were scarce, familiar faces stood out. Kitano was one of them, a fixture on race days, his quiet presence as much a part of the scene as the thundering hooves.
He exchanged quick hellos with a few others, their voices bright with the day's excitement, before settling into an empty seat. The Horse Owner's section, separated by a flimsy fence, offered no better view than the open-air stands.
On busy days, anyone could slip in, registration or not, blending into the casual chaos. Kitano preferred the grandstand anyway—closer to the pulse of the crowd, where every cheer and groan told a story.
The early races had already warmed the air. "Kawaranu's got heart, no way he's done yet!" one fan bellowed, jabbing a finger at the track. Another countered, "It's all about Iwahashi's riding—Agishi's too green!" The grandstand was alive with passion, faces alight with confidence or crumpling in despair. Betting slips fluttered into the air like confetti, carrying dreams and disappointments alike.
Kitano leaned back, letting the sounds wash over him—shouts, laughter, the distant clatter of hooves. The races moved too fast for him to catch every detail, a blur of color and motion that left him squinting. Still, he loved it, the raw energy of it all.
"Kitano!" A voice broke through the din as he passed the blue-painted Horse Owner's seats on his way down. It was Kimura, a man he'd met only once, grinning broadly from his solitary perch. His horse must've just won—his smile was too wide to hide.
"Congratulations, Mr. Kimura," Kitano said, pausing.
Kimura waved a hand, his humility unconvincing. "Just luck, nothing more." His grin betrayed him, though, tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Got a horse running today?"
Kitano shook his head. "Just here to watch."
"Really?" Kimura's brows lifted, surprised. "Didn't peg you for being such a racing fan." He loosened his tie, fanning himself. "It's sweltering out here. Want to join me in the preparation room later? Better view, cold oolong tea on tap."
The offer was tempting—the preparation room, a perk for Horse Owner's Association members, was quieter, cooler, with a fridge always stocked. But Kitano glanced down at his shorts and short-sleeved shirt, still dusted with the day's work as a veterinarian. "Not today," he said, gesturing to his clothes. "I'd look out of place."
Kimura chuckled, clapping Kitano's shoulder. "Fair enough. But swing by Newborn Ranch sometime—my wife's lobster bisque is something else."
"Will do," Kitano said, nodding absently as Kimura headed toward the awards area, his steps light with victory. The mention of lobster bisque stirred Kitano's stomach. Two energy bars had gotten him through the afternoon, but now hunger gnawed at him.
"Might as well eat here," he muttered, scanning the food options. The racecourse had two spots: a Hokkaido-style Genghis Khan barbecue joint and a snack bar slinging fast food. The barbecue's side dish—bean sprouts—ruled it out immediately. Picky eating was a small rebellion, one Kitano indulged without guilt.
He stepped into the snack bar, the air thick with the smell of frying oil and curry. "One curry rice, please," he said, claiming a seat near the entrance. The broadcast screen on the wall flickered with the race card, names scrolling lazily. Before it finished, a steaming plate of curry rice landed in front of him. "Enjoy!" the server chirped.
At 620 yen, "Winning Horse Curry" was quick, if nothing else. Kitano scooped up a bite with the plastic spoon, the mild heat spreading across his tongue. It was exactly what 620 yen bought—no more, no less. Beside him, a racing fan methodically stirred a raw egg yolk, rolling a slice of sizzling Korean beef in it with deliberate care.
The next race began, and the snack bar fell into a hush, as if the world held its breath. The starting gate clanged open, and all eyes locked on the screen. Kitano took another bite, unfazed. The fan next to him rolled his beef again, the yolk glistening.
"Hokuriku Wago, number five, takes the lead at the third turn!" the commentator's voice crackled, gaining speed. Kitano's plate was nearly empty now. The fan's beef, coated in yolk, still dangled from his chopsticks.
A faint sting bloomed on Kitano's tongue. "Hiss—spicy," he muttered, caught off guard. Indian curry, not the mild katsu he'd expected. He shot a mental glare at the shop's sneaky owner, silently vowing to skip both food spots next time. "Boss, ice water, please," he said, keeping his voice low.
The fan finally lifted his chopsticks, poised to eat, just as the commentator shouted, "Number three, Ooyuki Nadare, closing in! Only a hundred meters left—can he catch up?"
The chopsticks froze midair. "Hokuriku Wago! Number five takes it wire-to-wire!" The snack bar erupted—cheers, groans, the clink of glasses. The fan sighed, muttering, "So close," before popping the yolk-coated beef into his mouth.
Kitano drained his water, the ice clinking softly, and stood. He fished a Shibasaburo Kitasato note from his wallet, paid, and pocketed the change. Stepping outside, the evening air felt cooler against his skin, the crowd's energy still humming in the distance.
"Next time, I'll eat in town," he thought, a small smile tugging at his lips as he headed for his truck, the racetrack's lights glowing softly behind him.
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