The first time I saw her, she wasn’t standing in a dress by the sidelines or clapping politely from the stands—she was on the field, astride a chestnut mare with eyes just as fierce as her own. The match whistle blew, and before I could even catch her name, she was thundering down the pitch, mallet raised, her determination written in every line of her posture.

She wasn’t there to watch. She was there to win.

And that alone lit a fire in me I hadn’t felt in years.

Most women I’d known had looked at polo as a spectacle—an elegant sport played by men with too much money and too much pride. But her? She leaned into the game like it was in her blood, like the thunder of hooves and the sharp crack of mallets against the ball were a language she’d been speaking her whole life. She didn’t shrink from me when we clashed in play. She pushed harder.

By halftime, my teammates were giving me side-glances, questioning the grin tugging at my mouth even though the match was tied. They didn’t understand—hell, I barely understood—that it wasn’t the game I was reveling in, it was her. The rival who met my strikes without hesitation, whose eyes locked on mine every time we galloped side by side, as if daring me to yield.

But here’s the truth: it wasn’t anger that burned in her gaze. It was recognition.

After the match, when the horses were cooled and the dust settled, I found her by the stables. She was brushing down her mare, focused, her hair falling loose from her helmet in dark waves. For a moment, I just stood there, watching, knowing that if I approached her, I’d be stepping into something I couldn’t control.

She looked up before I could speak. “You’re reckless on the field,” she said, her voice sharp but steady.

I smirked, leaning against the stable door. “You like that, though.”

Her lips twitched, betraying the smile she tried to suppress. “Not when it costs me the game.”

And just like that, I was gone.

It didn’t matter that she was my competition, that the next tournament would pit us against each other again. If anything, it made it all the more intoxicating. The truth was simple—I’d never met anyone who could match me stride for stride, swing for swing, fire for fire.

Over the next few weeks, we crossed paths at every match, every practice, every gala where the polo world gathered. The tension grew, sharp as the clash of mallets, yet softened each time we stole a glance, each time her laughter slipped past the defenses she swore she kept up around me.

And one evening, long after the crowd had gone, I found her again in the stables. The lantern light cast a warm glow across her face, her fingers stroking her horse’s neck absently. She turned when she sensed me, her mouth opening like she had another sharp remark ready.

I didn’t let her finish.

Two strides closed the distance, my hand catching her wrist, gentle but unyielding. The look in her eyes was fire and question both, but before doubt could slip between us, I pressed my mouth to hers.

The world went still. Just the faint smell of hay, the sound of horses shifting in their stalls, and her lips moving against mine with a certainty that made the game, the rivalry, the scoreboard—all of it—fade away.

When I finally pulled back, her breath trembled against mine.

“You’re still my competition,” she whispered.

I smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Then God help me, I never want to win.”