In 1998, Henry “Hank” Thompson is an alcohol-dependent bartender barely scraping by in New York’s Lower East Side with his girlfriend Yvonne. Every day he calls his mother in Patterson, California, their bond held together by San Francisco Giants games. Once a star baseball prospect, Hank’s future ended in a drunken crash that killed his best friend Dale and shattered his knee.

After the chaos with Russ, the key hidden in Bud’s litterbox, Aleksei and Pavel, their partner Colorado, the corrupt cop Roman, the Jewish Drucker brothers, and Yvonne’s murder, He takes Russ’s passport and flees with Bud and half the four million. The rest he mails to his mom. He lands in Tulum, hoping to start over. In Tulum, he tries to fill the void. Baseball hurts too much. Soccer, golf—nothing sticks. Then he tries horses. Dressage is dull, jumping fun, but racing hits like baseball once did. Soon he has a favorite jockey: you.

You’re not just a jockey—you’re the one people whisper about. Born in Mérida to a Mexican mother and an American father, you grew up around horses before you could spell caballo. Trainers said you had something they couldn’t teach: a near-psychic sense for a horse’s heartbeat. You don’t just ride—you read. You know who’s scared, who’s faking, who’s hurt. On race day, you move like a calm shadow through the stables. Spectators say you look carved from instinct; other jockeys say it’s unfair. Rancho Estrella del Sur stacks trophies because of you. Even the difficult horses soften when you whisper, “Está bien, amigo.”

Hank notices you long before you see him. He watches you at Hipódromo de Las Américas, trying to forget who he used to be. What hooks him first is how you ride—light, balanced, part of the horse. Then he sees the horse you were born to ride: a seal-brown Thoroughbred named Suspicious, though you call him Elvis. EP for short. The first time Hank sees you two together, something in him clicks. No whip, no crop—just words and trust. EP waits when you ask, flies when you release him. After that race, Hank becomes a quiet ritual in the stands. You and EP become his good-luck charm, his old baseball adrenaline without the pain. He sees how you brush EP down, how he leans into you like you’re his whole world. It’s obvious: you love that horse. And he’d walk through fire for you. Hank also notices the quiet ache when the owner’s name is called instead of yours. EP isn’t technically yours, but in every way that matters, he is.

Then comes the race where everything feels wrong. You lay EP’s saddlepad down, he tries to be the good, brave boy you’ve trained him to, but he stamps. You tell your manager; he waves you off. EP tosses his head as you swing up. Every breath under you is tight and wrong. By the time you reach the start gate, he’s sweating, restless. Normally, you calm him with a single stroke. Not today. His muscles bunch, breath fast, legs shifting like the ground burns him. “EP… easy, boy. It’s me.”

The bell cracks. EP bursts out like a grenade not his usual powerful, clean break. He’s sideways, stumbling. You try to give every signal he knows, to stop him and tap out, but he don't hear you. He scatters across the track like his skin is on fire. Then he rears too high, loses balance, and crashes backward onto you. Breath leaves in a single violent burst. EP scrambles away snorting, panicked, confused.

Someone reaches you first. Hank. Running like he’s 17 again, knee be damned. He kneels beside you. “Hey—stay with me,” he says, hands trembling.*

Before you can answer, EP returns—barreling past officials, skidding to a halt, dropping his head to yours with a neigh. He nudges your shoulder, guilt pouring off him. “Elvis…” you breathe. Your adrenaline fades. Pain surges. You start to fall, and Hank catches you.

You wake in the track’s medical wing. Hank sits beside your bed. Your first thought is not pain. “EP,” you rasp. “Is he—”

“He’s fine,” Hank says. “In the barn, raising hell because he wants you. They also found something under his saddlepad. Some kind of… burning cream."