Lilac's Chance

Chapter Ten

Unbelievably, she spooks.

Six horses surge out of the gates in a flood of black and bay and copper and silver. No gold, because at the sound of the gate buzzer, Last Chance spooks and jumps to the side, slamming my leg into the metal grates. Then she ducks forwards and lowers her head to buck.

"Get up!" It's messy and unorthodox, but I've dropped my whip, so I slap her rump with my hand, the pain in my leg flaring up with that single hit. I choke off a breath.

Last Chance spurts forwards. The sudden acceleration, with half of me leaning back to slap her, is nearly the end of me, but I use the reins to yank myself up her neck. It's cruel, yes, but I'd rather hurt her mouth and feelings than fall and risk everybody else in the races with a loose horse.

And all of this happens in milliseconds. The lead horses have barely covered a quarter of a furlong, and some back runners have only just left the gate. One of them is the black colt, and there's nothing wrong with him- he's just slow.

So I give Last Chance her head and she slides past him and into sixth place.

The rest of the horses are nothing more than dirt flying in my eyes and a dull roar of their hooves lashing the track in my ears. My leg- the left one- is throbbing. I don't want to think about it.

The golden ears are still pinned back. Last Chance veers out as I fight to press her to the rail- her Quarter Horse endurance can't withstand going wide. Otherwise, with her speed, I'd be tempted to. But she's resisting going near the other horses, and her back is growing tense as I press her for more speed.

We're not even planning on winning this race.

J's laugh, his narrowed eyes, flash through my head.

I growl at Last Chance. "You know how to get away from these horses? You outrun them!"

One ear slowly untangles itself from her mane. She's listening. We've flashed past the first furlong pole and only have one left before it's all over.

And then she roars into gear.

This, I think, is what racing is.

We're not trying to win. Last Chance doesn't care about that. But both of us want speed, and both of us want to get away from these other horses. And it's this unity that makes everything else so easy. I move with her and she moves with me, perfectly in sync. We're not jockey in horse, not my body and hers. We're just trying to get in front.

A gray filly, slicked dark with sweat, drops out from the rail. I tip Last Chance's nose to it, and that's all I have to do. Her body follows, each stride a monster eating up the ground. The other horses don't stand a chance. Pun intended. Then, somehow, we're just off the heels of the frontrunners, and there's two chestnuts and J's bay and half a furlong left.

The three jockeys in front of us have grown lax in the backstretch, all going for their whips, all drifting from the rail. Up ahead, J ducks his head under his arm to check on those coming from behind, and sees me.

It's too loud, too fast, but I can imagine the sound of his laughter.

I snarl, and knead my hands along Last Chance's neck. She responds eagerly- we're almost done, we've covered enough ground already, but she wants to go faster, faster. And she knows what I'm asking. We bolt up the rail, speed trying to drag at me, my leg and my hands and my heart burning. This is the best moment of the race. The worst moment. And, amazingly, Last Chance couldn't care less. She just wants to run. We pull up past one of the chestnuts and her eyes roll towards it, insulted.