Spitfire

Two

AHHH sorry its late and kinda unedited but here you go
*quick note, I was originally writing this in first person, and now...i'm kinda not, so yeah I'm going to just go with it so bear with me

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The five a.m. track hummed with activity; horses working beneath the early morning sky, exercise riders jockeying for a position on a good horse with a good trainer.
Sage breathed in the cool air as she jogged on the outside track. It was another routine her father had instilled within her. Jogging the track every morning told you of its condition; if there was too much moisture overnight that made the inside rail too mucky, if it was churned up on the outside despite it being groomed every morning, or if there were any new sink spots that would bog a horse down and cost valuable seconds.
She cooled down, ripping her earbuds out of her ears as she walked into the jockey room, bypassing the raucous guys and heading straight to a cramped room that used to be storage closet. She stripped and changed into her riding gear efficiently and strode out, again, ignoring the jeers and taunts that followed her.
Sage found Charlie standing in one of the barn aisles that housed most of his horses. The stall he stood next to was open and she could see the dark outline of the filly inside.
"Sage you know my rider," Charlie said by way of greeting, "I believe you met yesterday, he was the one on Sophie. Meet Lorne Walsh, son of a family friend. He's just standing in as an exercise rider, but he's one hell of a jump jockey."
Lorne, the tall, slightly lanky looking kid who had given her lip the other day stepped out of the shadows beside the filly. Begrudgingly, she held out her hand, and he returned the sentiment, shaking it stiffly.
Charlie clapped his hands together, unawares of the conflict brewing right beneath his nose. "Alright then, Lorne, I want you to help her out. Sophie's a bit touchy," He said to Sage, "She needs to be ridden on her terms. Lorne can help you sort out all her quirks."
Sage nodded in reply, not trusting herself to make a civil remark regarding Lorne. Charlie held the filly, and she snorted as he walked her out of the stall. She was taller than Sage remembered, and her legs danced beneath her in constant motion. Sage looked into her amber eyes, and she could've sworn the filly looked right through her. Sophie turned her head, looking straight at her as if to say, I remember you.
She was branded then, as if the mares fiery soul had peered into her own and seared everything in sight with that gaze. They shared the same black temper, that vicious will to win. Sage felt as if the breath was knocked from her lungs at the impact of that horse staring at her. But not just looking, the filly saw her. She was her. Every scrap of hunger and brutality and grit was reflected right back at her.
The filly drew her head up then, snapping to attention, ears pricked. Sage accepted a leg up, and they walked towards the track.
"I want you to take her out, nice and easy. She's difficult to hold, but if theres anyone to do it, it's you." Charlie was saying as she came back to reality. The filly tested her hold, and Sage checked her.
"Can't Lorne hold her?"
Charlie clucked his tongue, "Afraid not. Like I said, she needs to be ridden on her terms. Doesn't like to be muscled around. I want you to work her six furlongs at eighty-four seconds." And then he was gone, and Sage got passed to a female outrider on a pinto pony. She vaguely remembered her name being Aisling, or something of the like.
Aisling dipped her head, leading them out the rest of the way to the track.
Lorne came up then, on her other side and aboard a different horse. "Word of advice," He said flatly, "When riding her, subtract a couple second from what you think you're actually running. She's like a time vortex, you'll think you're running one thing when in fact you're running something several seconds faster."
Sage opened her mouth to thank him but he was already off, trotting his charge away from them.
Before sending them off, Aisling turned to her quietly. "Watch your back girlie, Declan was just about spitting earlier. That boy's looking to get a piece of you at the next race."
The thought sent shivers down Sage's spine. "He can get in line." She growled, sending Sophie forward.
"Be careful of Lorne. You may as well have just made an enemy out of him too!" Aisling called back.
Sage gritted her teeth, shifting her focus back to the filly at hand. Sophie was alert, ears pricked with excitement as they jigged along the outside rail. Sage warmed her up in a trot and canter, marveling at the filly smooth gait, and the careful manner in which she placed her feet.
They came to the first stretch of straightaway, and Sage urged her on, but the filly didn't need to be asked. She bolted forward, flying across the track, great massive strides swallowing the ground. Sage adjusted her grip, remembering her instructions and checking her speed. The filly flick her ears in irritation but abided silently. They were still driving, coming around to race across the backstretch. Sage entwined her fingers in the filly's mane, something akin to freedom surging through her veins as her blood sang with the wind that roared in her ears.
A brown colt was ahead, and Sage barely recognized the rider as Lorne before she skirted Sophie around them, rounding the final corner and all too soon asking Sophie to pull up. The filly fought her, and Sage thought her arms would give out before she finally wrestled the filly back into a trot.
Sage took her to where Charlie stood, a stern look on his face, but something like pride glimmering there as well. "How fast do you think that was?" He asked her.
Sage took a moment to contemplate, screwing her face slightly. "eighty?"
Charlie shoved his stopwatch towards her face, although she was too high up to see it. "Try Seventy-two."
"Seventy-two?! That's impossible. Theres no way she ran that, I would've known."
Charlie gave her a wry smile and ruffled Sophie's forelock. "Deceiving in how fast she is, isn't she? The trickster lass."
Sage was blown away. Seventy-two seconds over six furlongs. And that was with her holding the filly until she felt her arms were going to fall off. She did the math quickly, the filly averaged about twelve seconds a furlong. If this his what 'nice and easy' is, then what is breezing to this horse? Sage couldn't stop thinking about it, even after she got off the filly to exercise other horses for other trainers. She even almost forgot to heed Aisling's warning.