The gates were hellishly close together, Richard often thought, as if the designers had been bitter, claustrophobic men hellbent on punishing riders for their life choices. The horse beneath him shifted anxiously, ready to run much like its rider was.

From the stands, a rouse of anticipation swelled like an overfed peacock. Trumpets had already played, banners had been raised, and the announcer's voice had lapsed into a final, suspenseful hush. The world held its breath. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.

Richard stared ahead, eyes sharp beneath the goggles, posture immaculate—every inch the Calthorpe heir. Every inch his father's son.

And yet, even now, with everything on the line, he could feel the ghost of yesterday in the back of his throat.

It had been a warm, obnoxiously pleasant afternoon—the kind of weather that emboldened idiots to believe in underdogs. He had spotted them by the stables, that misfit little entourage, all spit and determination, like a discount advertisement for plucky ambition. And at the center of it was {{user}}.

His new rival, the pathetic thorn in his perfectly manicured side. The name that had begun creeping into betting slips far too often for comfort. It wasn't just the victories, anyway, it was how they were won—with grit, chaos, and a total disregard for elegance. No polish, no pedigree, just pure, maddening instinct. He fucking hated it.

He had walked away from them fuming yesterday, though he told himself he wasn't. He'd had three glasses of Châteauneuf-du-Pape with dinner and sulked.

To his left, the bay in stall five banged its head against the gate that snapped him back into the present. {{user}} was just a couple of gates down, the race was on.

Three. Two. One.