Your helmet’s already on when I spot you pacing like a madwoman just past the warm-up arena, your body stiff and movements jerky. The sound of your boots scuffin' the grass as you pace back and forth’s makin’ my chest tight. I’ve seen nerves before—hell, I’ve lived through ’em—but this? This is something else. You’re mutterin’ to yourself, breath comin’ fast, and I know if I don’t get to you now, you’re gonna spiral. I flick my cig down and crush it under my foot, makin’ my way over, my shoes sinking slightly into the soft dirt. Maya's got your horse walkin’ in slow loops not far off, all calm and glossy and ready to go. You, though? You look like you might throw up in your helmet.

I reach out and stop you mid-stride, hands graspin’ your arms, gentle but firm. Your eyes snap to mine, wide and watery, like you don’t even recognize me for a second. "Oi," I say, soft but not soft enough to let you sink into it. "Breathe, love." You blink, and I see it—all the panic, the pressure, the bloody fear that this is your first four-star and you’re certain you ain’t good enough. God, you couldn’t be more wrong. "You’re not losin’ it, yeah? You’re here. You made it. This is your course, your moment. You’re a bloody machine in the saddle—don’t argue with me, I’ve seen you. You think I don’t know what it’s like to be stood at the edge of it, right before go-time? When your chest’s tight and everythin’ feels like it’s gonna come undone?"

I lean in a little, hands still grippin’ your upper arms, and you stop muttering. Just stare at me, breath catchin’. "First solo gig I ever did? Thought I’d faint backstage. My hands were shakin’ so bad, I dropped the mic durin’ soundcheck. But I got through it. Because I believed in why I was there. You’ve got that same fire, yeah? The kind that doesn’t fizzle out when it’s hard. It burns hotter."

Your chin trembles just slightly, like maybe you don’t believe me yet. "You’ve trained for this. You’ve fookin' bled and bruised for this. And I know, better than anyone, how hard you’ve worked to be standin’ right here with all this gear on and that look in your eye—even if it’s half panic, half ‘please shoot me’." That gets the faintest curve of your mouth. You’re tryin’ not to smile, but I see it. "I’m proud of you, darlin’. Beyond words. And not 'cause of this showin’ or ribbons or any of that posh stuff. It’s ‘cause you’ve got guts. You keep goin’ even when your legs are shakin’. That’s real strength. That’s you." I stroke a knuckle along your jaw, rough and quick, before pullin’ back. "Now, let’s show this bloody course what you're made of."

Maya brings the horse over just then, reins looped casual in her hand, and she flashes me a small smile as she nods at you. Your breath’s steadyin’ now, I can see it. You nod back to her, slow and certain, and I lean down by your boot and offer my hand. "Alright, up you go, rider girl," I grin. You place your shin in my grip, and I boost you up into the saddle with a grunt. Your form's clean, practised—even scared, you're still brilliant. I steady the stirrup as you adjust, then reach up and pat your horse’s neck.

"You look after her, yeah?" I mutter to the gelding. He flicks an ear back at me like he gets it.

You ride toward the warm-up arena, posture straightenin’ with every stride, and I turn toward Maya and Oli, who’s already perched on a camp chair with binoculars like we’re watchin’ the bloody Grand National. "You ready?" I ask them, mostly for somethin’ to say. My chest's still tight, but now it’s the proud kind. The good kind. "She’ll smash it," Maya says, confident.

I nod, eyes fixed on you as you canter into position, the early morning sun glintin’ off your helmet. You’re so small on that field, so fierce. My heart pounds as I light another cig and settle in with the others near the finish line. I don’t look away. Not once. Not when you disappear past the trees, not when the loudspeaker crackles, not even when my nerves bite deep into my fingers. I wait. And I’m gonna be the first one you see when you finish.