Moonshot(32)

“You think he’s the one?”

“Definitely.”

“He’s a longshot,” he pointed out, running his hand over, past his name and to his stats. “Hasn’t won a race all season. 14-1 odds.”

“I like the longshots.” I beamed at him and something in his eyes changed, a look that I was starting to see more and more. Awe was too strong of a word but close. It was a look that made me feel a million feet tall. And it came at the most unremarkable times. Like this. He leaned over and kissed me, a soft press of lips that he followed with another, then another, our kisses turning to laughter as I almost fell sideways from his enthusiasm. “Stop,” I giggled, pushing him back. “Now focus. We only have a few minutes.”

“Moonshot,” he said, pushing to his feet. “I got it.” He held out his hand, and I surrendered my savings, forty-three dollars scrapped from my stipend fund. We had decided, on the drive over, that I would be the primary investor of this evening. He had wanted to cover it, but I had been greedy with the possibility of winning, wanting full ability to pick my own horse and then be obnoxious with all of my excess cash. “You want it all on him? Win-place-show?”

“Just win,” I said confidently. “He can do it.”

He raised his eyebrows skeptically, and I gestured at him to hurry. I watched him go, my eyes following until the last minute when he stepped through the doors. They returned to the page, my finger running over the horse’s name. Yes, he was a longshot. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t come out on top.





He didn’t come out on top. Kirby’s Moonshot struggled through the first corner, fighting for a third place position before hitting the first straightaway and getting left in the dust. Literally. I almost lost him a few times in the cloud of dirt created by the horses ahead of him. I was dismayed, Chase laughed, his mouth finding mine at every opportunity, my lost fortune blatantly unconsidered.

I insisted that we find the horse, to give him a consolatory pat, something for his harrowing journey. Chase remarked, with worrisome sincerity, that we might walk in on him being put down, the racer’s performance less than ideal. My steps quickened at that possibility, my breath held until the moment I rounded the corner and saw him being hosed down, his head hanging low, mouth munching contentedly on something. Surely they wouldn’t bother to wash a horse destined for death. And surely they didn’t do that anymore, the glue factory a mythical thing designed to torture the minds of small children trying to happily paste school projects.

I approached the horse and dug in my bag for the apple—one I had snagged from a welcome fruit tray in Dad’s room, the bright green skin catching the eye of a handler, who stopped me. “Can’t give him that, ma’am.”

Chase stepped in, and there was a moment of celebrity fandom, one where the man smiled brightly and hands were shaken and photos requested, and my fingers itched to sneak the fruit into the racehorse’s mouth. He flapped his lips at me, his big brown eyes watchful, and I inched closer.

There was a negotiation of sorts, tickets to tomorrow’s game mentioned, and then Chase waved me on, the apple allowed, and I stepped up to the horse, holding it flat in my palm, my fingers running along his face as he crunched into the apple, half of it gone, the other half quickly taken, my palm wet from his contact. I had a horse once. One winter. Boarded fifteen minutes away. I had memories of standing in our kitchen, in front of the blender, a concoction of apple cider, carrots, and oats in the blender. I poured it into a thermos, and Dad and I went to the barn on her ‘birthday,’ pouring the dubious mixture into a bucket, my excitement mounting as she ate it all. There were winter days where schoolbooks were pushed aside, and I climbed upon her back, riding her bareback through the ring. But then there was spring training, those months in Florida and far from her. And then there was the start of the season, and somewhere along the way she was sold, and I barely noticed, my world dominated by pinstripes, little time for anything else. Suddenly, with my hands capturing the racehorse’s muzzle in mine, his breath huffing against my palms, I missed her.

On the ride back to the hotel, I told Chase about her. Her name had been Rosie. She’d been an Arabian, fiery and ill-mannered. “Like you,” he said, and I made a face. He reached over and took my hand, pulling it to his mouth. “You are never allowed to pick winners again, Ty Rollins.”

“It wasn’t my best moment,” I conceded. “But in all fairness to Moonshot, I think he was robbed. There was clearly some unfair jostling at the start.”

He raised a brow at me. “I saw no jostling.”

I shrugged. “You’re old. Your eyes are getting weak.”

Then he laughed and leaned over the center console. “I’m falling in love with you,” he said softly.

I swallowed hard, my eyes lifting to his. They were steady on me, sure and unwavering, as if he spoke an absolute certainty. My smile began, a runaway train out of control, no force able to stop its spread. “Okay,” I whispered, unsure of how to respond.

“I just wanted you to know.”

“Okay,” I repeated. “That’s good to know.”

And it was. It was, actually, great to know. My smile grew, until the moment that he pulled me forward and kissed it away.





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