The field smelled of grass and sweat and polish.
Celeste's silver coat glimmered under the morning sun, her breath a steady rhythm against my hand.
I could feel the pulse beneath her skin, strong, quick, alive.
The kind of heartbeat that always calmed me before a match.
The wind brushed against the collar of my uniform, sharp and cool.
Everything was arranged with military precision: banners swaying, horses lined, handlers whispering, the polite chatter of the crowd.
The world of equestrian polo always pretended to be graceful, but underneath all that silk and posture was violence, speed, collision, the fight for control.
I liked that part.
"Smile," my mother said behind me. Her tone didn't ask, it ordered. "The photographers are circling."
I didn't turn. "They can take what they want."
Her heels clicked closer.
I could smell her perfume before I saw her face, heavy, floral, suffocating. "Aurora, remember what we discussed. This is not just your game. This is the Zobel name. You will conduct yourself accordingly."
"Of course."
My father stood a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes cold and calculating. "We expect nothing less than first place. Don't make us regret letting you compete abroad."
I almost laughed.
Letting me.
As if it had ever been a choice.
Calix was leaning against the fence, hands in his pockets, watching everything in that lazy, half-interested way he did.
But I noticed his jaw tighten when my father spoke.
I stroked Celeste's neck gently. "Ready, girl?" I whispered. She flicked her ear, answering me the way she always did, wordless loyalty.
"Don't disappoint us, Aurora," my father said.
"She won't," my mother added quickly, as if willing it to be true.
Calix pushed himself off the fence, walking toward me. "You two done breathing fire on her? She's about to play, not perform surgery."
My mother's eyes sliced through him. "This doesn't concern you."
"Maybe not," he said easily, "but I'm married to her. That gives me a front-row seat to the family drama, doesn't it?"
I hid the small twitch of a smile and adjusted my gloves. "It's fine," I said quietly. "They're only doing what they know best."
"What's that?" Calix asked.
"Demanding."
—
Then the announcer's voice echoed through the speakers, calling the players to the field.
My mother pressed her manicured hand against my arm. "Do not come back here a loser, Aurora."
I looked at her, straight into those eyes that had never once seen me as anything more than a reflection. "I'll do my best," I said simply, and mounted Celeste.
The world narrowed.
The crowd disappeared.
The thud of hooves became the only sound that mattered.
Celeste moved beneath me like she was made for this, power and grace bound into one.
For a few stolen minutes, I wasn't a daughter, a wife, or a disappointment.
I was just her rider.
And we were free.
But freedom has a price.
The first half went flawlessly, clean strikes, sharp turns.
The wind against my face felt almost forgiving.
But by the second round, fatigue set in, the weight of expectation pressing harder than the saddle.
My grip faltered once, just once and the opportunity slipped.
Third place.
Close, but not enough.
The whistle blew.
Cheers scattered across the field, polite and detached.
Third.
Not failure, but not victory either.
The kind of result that earned tight smiles and quiet scorn.
I dismounted slowly, hand still resting on Celeste's mane.
She nuzzled my shoulder as if apologizing.
"It's not your fault," I whispered. "You were perfect."
My parents approached, faces carved from ice.
My father didn't even look at Celeste. "Third?" he said, voice calm but edged. "That's what we flew here for?"
My mother's smile was brittle. "You had one job, Aurora."
"I played well," I said.
"Well isn't enough," she snapped. "You've embarrassed us."
I nodded once.
No defense.
No reaction.
I'd learned long ago that silence hurt them more than words.
Calix stepped in, his tone suddenly sharp. "She just finished a match. Maybe save the lecture for when she's not covered in dust?"
My father gave him a look of disdain. "Stay out of this, Lazaro."
Calix took a step closer, defiance in his eyes. "I'm in it whether you like it or not."
I turned away, leading Celeste back to the stable.
Their voices faded behind me, replaced by the steady rhythm of her breathing.
I unbuckled the reins, brushed her coat, fed her an apple.
My palms stung, but I liked the ache.
It felt real.
Human.
Later, Calix found me sitting by the stall, staring at nothing.
"Hey," he said softly. "You were great out there."
I shrugged. "They didn't think so."
"Forget them."
"I can't. They built the walls I live in."
He crouched beside me, watching me the way people watch fragile things they don't understand. "You don't deserve that."
I looked at him then, meeting his gaze without blinking. "Deserve has nothing to do with it."
He sighed. "You ever get tired of pretending you don't feel anything?"
"I stopped pretending," I said. "I just stopped feeling."
He didn't answer.
He just stayed there, beside me, quiet in the way people are when they don't know how to fix something already broken.
Outside, the crowd was dispersing.
The sun was sinking, throwing gold across the field.
Celeste shifted in her stall, restless. I reached out and touched her muzzle one last time.
"It's fine," I whispered. "They'll get over it."
But we both knew they never did.