Young Blood

Chapter One: The Job That Never Sleeps

Would you consider yourself a coffee addict if the local coffee shop on the way to work has your order down to a T?

Every day. Two shots of espresso with three pumps of caramel syrup in the largest size they offered.

It was every day the same opening baristas, Mark and Teagen, would smile openly as I trooped in with an exhausted look, forcing a smile for them and trying to remain upbeat. They were in just as bad of a boat as I was, working at obscene hours of the day. They probably felt broken on the inside, like their body was slowly dying at such an hour. Or maybe they were just as peppy and happy to be alive as they acted, but I wouldn't know how a real morning person functions.

The electric blue numbers on my Ford Focus's clock beam 5:32 as I pull into the backside of Belmont Park. I shuttered at the time. It was approaching six years that I'd worked in the horse racing industry, getting up at the crack of dawn, but I had yet to accept the early hours with friendliness.

Hauling my fatigued body from the car, I reached into the backseat and grabbed a duffel bag. Inside were my riding boots, chaps and riding crop, among other things. I'd be gone from my apartment until late into the evening, and I had a morning of exercise riding, two hours of gym time, and an afternoon of jockeying down at Aqueduct Racetrack.

I was busy, to say the least.

Waltzing through the early, foggy March morning gave me a few minutes to collect my bearings about the day. In the early hours, it was still only thirty degrees and my breath misted the air. The winter had been cruel to New York, but the warmer afternoon temperatures were still working away at the mounds of dirty snow on the sides of the Belmont walkways. Now everything was just muddy and a mess.

The stable yards were still dark and dead as I passed by. Some trainers waited until lighter hours to even begin their workout strings, but not Yuri Hanvix. The man was strict about when he started the day, and it didn't change with the seasons. Rain or shine, things began at 6am.

Arriving at Barn 33, chores had already begun. The early morning grooms were milling about, beginning the day.

I threw my bag down on the closest tack box and plopped down, taking a sip from the warm liquid that would suffice me through the upcoming morning. I rested my chin on my palm, releasing a long exhale.

My back was bruised, my shoulders sore, and somewhere there was a hoof-shaped bruise on my thigh that I carried around with disgruntlement. Twenty-four hours ago, one of the brats in this barn had dumped me on Belmont's backstretch and taken a joy ride around the track with an empty saddle. The memory of the incident rang fresh in my mind, and I felt myself dreading to facing the lovely fool.

To my right, the doorknob of the office clicked and a tall, silver-haired man emerged from the warm depths of the office. He wore a navy jacket, with the white letters "YHR" embroidered on the left chest. They were the initials for "Yuri Hanvix Racing." It was none other than Yuri Hanvix himself.

The dogged trainer was a character. He had spent fourteen years of his life in Ukraine before his family relocated to France. It was there Yuri Hanvix had joined the horse-racing scene, hot walking for hardly any money to help support a big family. He moved up in the ranks to a groom then an exercise rider and eventually assistant trainer. Eventually he wound up with a ticket to America to assistant train for the grizzled, infamous Jerry Whitcomb some twenty-five years ago.

Now Yuri was in his mid-fifties and ran his own string of Thoroughbreds. In New York and the East Coast, he was legendary. If it wasn't the horses he trained, it was his thick accent and solemn ways.

Laying his emotionless eyes on me, Yuri only offered me a nod and a lip twitch in greeting. Like me, the man needed some form of caffeine in his body before he was human. Until then, I didn't want much acknowledgement either.