The Glory Game (5 page)

He frowned, vaguely disturbed. About the only time he felt right about anything was on the polo field—with a horse under him and the juices pumping. He loved that tight, high feeling when all his senses were sharpened and his heart was somewhere in his throat. Maybe that was the problem. He got so up before the game, and high during it, that when he came crashing down it was a long way to the bottom. He stared trancelike at the scraper as he dragged it across the horse's sweat-wet back. He was good at polo—not as good as he could be, but he had potential. And he was determined to realize it fully.

That's where the contradiction within him began. He was proud of being a Kincaid; all his life it had made him “somebody.” Yet he wanted to be more than somebody's son or grandson. He'd grown up surrounded by the sons and daughters of rich and influential families and had gone to prep school with them. Their lineage gained them acceptance in society and the business world. Being someone's son was sufficient qualification for becoming an executive in a family corporation,
usually in a manufactured position with little, if any, responsibility—and everyone knew it.

But on the polo field, it was different. No one cared about who he was, only about his ability to play the game. He received no special favors from his teammates, and certainly not from his opponents. The only way to reach the elite circle of high-goal riders was to excel at the game. The family name and money couldn't buy his entrance into it. Polo was like any other sport—the top players had an identity of their own, regardless of family background. They were not just “somebody”; they were somebody “special.”

A building pressure pounded inside his head. Rob spread a hand across his brow and squeezed at the temples in an effort to check the hammering pain. The problem with always getting whatever he wanted was that it made him want more. Being a Kincaid wasn't enough. Trisha was right when she said there were Kincaids by the score. He wanted to be special. He wanted it all.

But that wasn't something he could put into words; it would sound too greedy. He glanced in the direction his sister had taken; wondering if she ever felt the way he did, and doubting it. All he could see was the muscled rumps of the horses gleaming in the afternoon sunlight as the girl leading them walked at a leisurely pace toward the barns.

A horse and rider entered his side vision, traveling at an angle that would intersect his sister's path. Rob immediately recognized the black-shirted rider who had been his nemesis during the game, the Argentine Raul Buchanan. The bitter taste of defeat filled his mouth. Angrily, Rob turned away from the sight, cast aside the scraper, and picked up a chamois to wipe the sorrel dry.

So much had been riding on today's game. If he'd won, he could have used the victory to persuade his father to let him postpone college for a year and concentrate on improving his polo skills. He wasn't worried about persuading Luz. His mother had always been on his side, always willing to listen, and always ready to help even when she didn't understand.

His father was another matter. Rob knew he could never please him. A good education, college, that's all he talked about. He couldn't see that Trisha was the one with the brains. She breezed through school while Rob had to struggle to keep
his grades high enough to play polo on the school team. He loathed the idea of four more years of classrooms. Let Trisha become the lawyer.

A few spectators who had watched the polo match from the comfort of their cars, some enjoying champagne-and-caviar tailgate parties along the sidelines, were departing. One of the cars blocked Trisha's path while the driver waited for an opening in the traffic on the club road. She halted the ponies on the shoulder and absently rubbed the forehead of the nudging gray horse.

There was a pull on the nearside lead rope she was holding as the blaze-faced Thoroughbred turned its head outward. Trisha glanced idly in the same direction to confirm there wasn't an oncoming vehicle to be concerned about, and saw another horse and rider approaching. She started to look away, then recognized the black-shirted player from the game.

His horse slow-trotted the last few yards to her position before the rider pulled up on the double reins. The blood-red bay horse halted close to Trisha, its front shoulders slightly ahead of her and the saddle even with her. All she could see of the rider was the polished brown boot in the stirrup ring and a white-breeched thigh and hip. To see the rest of him, she had to tilt her head back.

Trisha had forgotten how intimidating a man on horseback could appear to someone on foot. She stood barely at eye level with his hip. When the bay horse stirred restively, shifting its weight and chewing on the iron bits, Trisha had an immediate sense of immense power, yet the brute strength of the animal, an animal six times heavier than the man on its back, was under the control of the rider. Its shiny sides heaved, straining the girth as the horse blew loudly, punctuating the creaking sounds of leather.

Her glance flicked upward, pausing on the polo helmet the right hand held propped against his hip, then traveling up the sun-bronzed arm sinewed with hard muscle. The thin material of his short-sleeved jersey was cut to fit his flatly muscled torso snugly and allow complete freedom of movement. What began as an idle inspection of a man she had watched ride all afternoon shifted to feminine interest when Trisha saw his face.

Deeply tanned by the sun, it was angular and broad, masculine
and strong in its composition of jaw and chin. Dark brows and blunt lashes framed a pair of piercing blue eyes that glanced restlessly about him. Fatigue deepened the grooves around his mouth and the creases near his eyes, but an impression of latent vitality remained. His hair was a dark shade of brown. Its damp thickness showed the furrows made by careless raking fingers. The blue eyes surprised Trisha. She tended to think of Argentines as being of Spanish or Indian descent, although the Buchanan surname should have given her a clue. As if sensing her study, he glanced down at her.

“Good game,” she said.

“Thank you.” His reply was distantly polite, with little trace of an accent in the low-pitched voice. A second later, he was looking away, preoccupied and aloof. His apparent lack of interest didn't discourage her.

Trisha switched her attention to his horse, the one that had performed so brilliantly in the fifth chukkar. “Your horse is a beauty,” she remarked. “He won Best-Playing Pony, didn't he?”

His glance came back to her. “Yes.”

“He deserved it.” The corners of his mouth lifted in a tired semblance of a smile, acknowledging her praise. The driver in the waiting car gunned the motor, attracting their attention, but the steady trail of slow-moving vehicles gave him no entrance to the road. “It looks like we're going to be here all afternoon.” Picket lines and a parked horse trailer made it impossible to go around the car. “You'd think someone would let him in.”

“Someone will.” He dismounted. The bay moved back a step as he bent to run a hand down its near foreleg, checking for any abnormal heat or swelling.

The horse stood quietly until he had finished the examination, then it turned its head to look at Trisha's three charges and lifted its nose, blowing softly at their scent. A narrow white streak ran down its face, contrasting with the dark red of its coat. The animal had an intelligent head, Trisha noticed, and large velvet brown eyes with none of the white showing.

“Your horse has kind eyes.” It was a quality a player looked for in a polo pony, Trisha knew. A nervous, high-strung horse rarely made a good game mount. She held out her palm to the animal so it could smell her, mindful of the man walking to its head. “What's his name?”

Her persistent effort at conversation finally commanded more
than a passing look from him. Raul Buchanan preferred to spend these few minutes alone to replay the game in his mind and isolate his mistakes, but the girl's chattering kept distracting him. He wondered why all female grooms seemed to be horsecrazy.

“I call him Criollo.” Stable girls came in all ages, shapes, sizes, and backgrounds, so Raul wasn't surprised to detect an air of cultured breeding about the girl. But he hadn't expected to find her looking at him instead of the horse.

“That's Spanish for ‘native-born,' isn't it? The translation is Creole.” She reached out to stroke its forehead, but her interested glance was slow to leave him.

Although it was a different twist, he'd seen it before. During his years on the polo circuit, Raul had run across women who transferred whatever sexuality they saw in a horse to the man on its back. This one was young, which wasn't to say he didn't appreciate his view of the firm young breasts outlined under the T-shirt, the nipples clearly discernible. Few women wore bras anymore, he'd noticed, especially the
chicas
who didn't have to worry about sagging breasts.

“Do you speak Spanish?” He lifted his glance, taking note of the blue-and-gold sweatband. Her chestnut hair was cut in layers, creating a shaggy mop of loose curls.

“I only know some words and phrases, mostly from helping one of my girlfriends study for a language test. I took French.” The lack of embellishment or claim to worldly experience indicated a high degree of self-confidence to Raul.

There was a gap in the traffic, and the waiting car slipped into it. With the way clear, they both started forward, leading their horses. The swish of horses striding through the grass was accompanied by the muffled thud of hooves and the odd rattle of a curb chain or lead shank. They were faint echoes of the game, played at a slower speed, and his thoughts started to wander back.

“What did you think of the game?” Again her voice intruded on his thoughts.

He'd already recognized the horses she was leading, especially the gray from Jake Kincaid's old string. Raul had played against Kincaid many times, but never for him. Kincaid had approached him in the past when he was putting together a team for a particular tournament, but there had always been
a conflict of schedules. The old man had been a tough competitor, playing the game well into his sixties, and had continued to sponsor teams after he could no longer play. The string of ponies was testament to the quality of teams he put together, and the grandson had ridden the best of them today, playing the Number One position.

“It was a good contest.” Politically, there was little else he could say to someone on the losing side.

“It would have been a good contest if you throw out the fifth chukkar,” she mocked good-naturedly. “You spoiled an awful lot of Rob's shots. Of course, your horses were better than his.”

“He has an excellent string of ponies, especially that gray.” The best money could buy or train.

“I'm afraid the old gray ain't what he used to be.” She shook her head to reinforce her opinion. “He's seventeen years old.”

“Is that why he was afraid to ride him?” Raul wondered absently.

“Rob? Afraid?” The young girl came to an abrupt stop, a sudden anger flashing in her dark eyes. “What do you mean by that? My brother isn't afraid to ride anything.”

Pausing, he arched a brow in surprise. “Your brother? Then you are—”

“A Kincaid, yes.” There was something more than indignant anger in the decisive snap of her answer, as if she resented the name. “Who did you think I was?”

“The groom.” Raul smiled dryly at his own mistake.

She appeared frozen for an instant, then the temper that had flared so quickly dissolved into a laugh as she looked down at her stable clothes. “I guess I do look like a stablehand. I promised Rob I'd help with the horses today. It sounded like more fun than sitting with the family.” She started forward, resuming the walk. “By the way, my name's Trisha. Trisha Thomas. And yours is Raul Buchanan.” With a half-turn of her head, she eyed him. “Why did you say Rob was afraid?” This time there was more curiosity than demand in her voice.

Since he had made the critical observation, Raul felt compelled to support it. “Toward the end of every chukkar, I noticed that he let his mount go wide on the turns, and he did not use his spurs or go to the whip. He saved the pony.”

“Some of them aren't young horses anymore. They were
tired.” She was quick to come to her brother's defense. “I don't see that what he did was so wrong.”

“Games are not won by sparing your pony. It is an athlete. A rider cannot be concerned whether his mount is tired. Whatever the command, the horse must obey, and if he protests, the rider must make him obey. The horse has to push itself the same way a man pushes himself to do more than he thinks he can. At no point should your brother have cared whether his horse was too tired to make a hard run. And if they were too tired to play competently, he should have switched to a fresh horse during that chukkar of play instead of waiting until it was over.” When he'd finished, Raul looked at her. “I am sure I sound very harsh to you.”

“Yes,” she answered frankly. “But it fits. You were relentless out there this afternoon.” And he sensed she wasn't sure whether she approved of that. As they neared the barns, there was an increase in activity. Horses were being walked to cool them down; others were being loaded in trailers; some were being rubbed down by their grooms. Trisha seemed to throw off their previous conversation. “What are you doing tonight?”

At six o'clock, he had an appointment at the health club with the masseuse, but he knew that wasn't what she meant. “Chet Martin is having a party tonight to celebrate winning the cup.”

“You mean, to gloat over winning the cup,” she corrected, then warned, “You won't like it. The Martins give dreadful parties. Why don't you slip away earlier and I'll meet you somewhere?”

“How old are you?” It was impossible for him to tell. He'd met some girls that he'd thought were eighteen or older and had learned later they were only fourteen, mere children. And children were not enticement for him.