Racing Savannah

I’ve never been to the second floor of the manor house before, but I know from Cindy that Mr. Goodwin’s office is up here. She vacuums and dusts it every day.



I swallow as I pass large, closed, double wooden doors. I peek inside the stall manager’s and the estate manager’s offices, finding them hard at work on their computers. A glass chandelier that looks like it’s from France or something blinds me with its bling. Mr. Goodwin’s personal assistant is typing on the computer and talking on the phone. She points me down the hall. While looking for Gael, I discover that Jack has his own office too.



What seventeen-year-old has his own office?



I peek inside to find him talking on the phone about a stud fee deal and flipping through a large book at the same time. His office is very…clean. And tasteful. Jack has a flat-screen TV that’s muted and tuned to the horse-racing network. Pictures of his family and friends cover the walls, along with famous horses and horsemen, including an autographed photo of Ron Turcotte, the jockey who rode Secretariat and had over three thousand wins…until he got hurt in a race. He’s in a wheelchair now.



I leave Jack to his work and knock on the door to Gael’s office. His office is very…much the opposite of Jack’s. It’s like a giant snow globe exploded in here. Paper is everywhere. Red Bull and Diet Coke cans litter every available surface.



Gael leaps to his feet like he’s on a pogo stick. “Barrow! Sit right here.” He clears a spot for me on his sofa and plops down next to me with a remote control in his hand.



Gael rubs his cheek, looking over at me. “You ready for tomorrow?”



I clutch my knees. “I think so.”



“You’re great on a horse and great during practice, but racing in a race is a whole new ballgame. You gotta respect it. If you’re not careful and you don’t know what you’re doing on the track, you could die.”



My stomach jumps into my throat when I think of what could’ve happened the other day. What if the horse’s hoof had struck my head and not my shin? Riding a 1,200-pound animal at forty-five miles per hour is a rush. A dangerous rush.



“This footage will help you learn what to expect and know how to deal with any contingencies that might come your way,” Gael says.



He pushes play and I spend the next two hours watching races. Elite races, smaller races, really fun races, really horrific races. I want to cover my eyes when riders fall and get hurt, but that would show weakness, so I stare straight ahead, trying to keep my eye on the goal.



That’s hard after watching the Preakness Stakes where Barbaro pulled up, broke his hind right leg, and had to be euthanized.



Saturday morning, as usual, I’m up before dawn.



But today is different. Today is the annual Kentucky Downs Handicap. Normally people train for years before their first race, but Jack fast-tracked me. I hope I do okay today…I kind of feel like a poser.



Gael told me to sleep in and get my rest because I’m racing later in the day—at noon sharp. But I couldn’t stay asleep thanks to prerace jitters. I’m so jumpy, it’s like I’ve already had my coffee even though I haven’t drunk a drop. Kentucky Downs is about thirty miles north of Cedar Hill. In the past week, Kentucky Downs has held eight races. Over $1 million in purse winnings have already been given out, but today’s three races are the biggies.



Star is competing in the Juvenile Downs, a race for two-year-olds. The purse is $75,000, and the winner will make 70 percent of that, with the rest going to the runners-up. That means if Star wins, I’ll get 5 percent of $52,500. $2,625. That’s more money than I’ve seen in my entire life.



Jack is also entering Lucky Strikes in the Kentucky Turf Cup, which has a purse of $200,000. In the Goodwin world, these races are small potatoes, but Star needs a win. And I’m hoping I can help him with that. I don’t have any illusions I will win my very first race, but I pray we won’t come in dead last. I need to prove that I’ve got what it takes, that I’ve got something special.



While the Ladies Marathon race is going on, I sit on a stool in the barn, breathing in and out, talking softly to Star, who’s busy eating grain.



Then all of a sudden the Marathon must be over, because Jack appears at the stall, rubbing his hands together as he keeps his distance from Star. He’s wearing a sleek gray suit, white shirt, no tie, and cowboy boots. The no-tie look makes me tingle all over. I want to kiss the triangle of tanned skin exposed at his neck. Jesus Lord, all this anxiety over the race is making me a perv.



“Hey.” Jack takes off his hat to muss his hair, looking everywhere but at me. “You feeling good?”



“Pretty good. A little tired. I’ve never been in the sweatbox before.” The morning of a race, most jockeys go in this super hot room called a sweatbox and sweat all the extra fluid out so they’ll weigh less for the race. “It was so relaxing I felt like I was on a beach somewhere.”



Jack laughs softly. When he finally meets my gaze, his blue eyes pierce into mine, and I wish we could have a repeat of last weekend’s kissing session. That would help me relax. A glance at his lips makes it hard to tell where my stress from the race ends and the sexual tension begins.



“You’ve read all the notes Gael gave you? You know all about the other horses, their jockeys, and their trainers?”



“Yes.” I straighten my posture, trying to look impressive, which is hard when Jack stands a full foot taller than me. “I’m all set.”



Jack blows air out and rubs his hands together again. “Thanks for doing this.”



“Thanks for letting me do it,” I say softly.



“You look good in the Goodwin colors,” he says, scanning my black and green riding silks.



“I look like a damned Slytherin.”



He laughs, looks around, and takes a step closer, wetting his lips. He gently pecks my cheek, sending a jolt up my legs and down my arms and between my thighs.



“I got you something for good luck,” he whispers in my ear. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a purple swirl lollipop.



“Yaaaaaay.” I take the sucker, and before I know what I’m doing, I slip my arms around his waist. He sucks in a breath. Clenches up.



Crap. He doesn’t want this. I take a step back, pissed at myself. I can’t believe I gave in to instinct.



“I’m sorry.” My cheeks are burning.



He looks away. “I need to tell you something. There’s gonna be press here today. Press specifically for you.”



“Me?” I blurt.



“Yes, you.” His mouth slides into a small smile. “You’re a big deal. This race is nothing compared to some of the big Kentucky races, but still. You don’t see girl jockeys all that often at races in general. Especially ones so young.”



I was already nervous enough. I drag a hand down my red braid and bring it to my mouth to chew on it. I pull a deep breath.



“Thanks for telling me,” I say. “I’d hoped you were gonna tell me something else.”



“Oh yeah? What?”



“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head quickly.



He gently pulls the braid from my mouth, grasping my hand for a sec. The heat from his skin soothes my nerves and makes me want to dive right back into his arms. Jesus. When did I become such a horn dog?



That’s when Rory brings Echoes of Summer back from her race and Jack disappears. Rory looks from me to where Jack vanished and starts beat-boxing, making music like you’d hear on his video game, Ho Down in Hoochieville. “Bowchicawowow.”



I flip him off.



I pause and breathe deeply as I unwrap the sucker and stick it in my mouth.



“How’d she do?” I ask as Rory pushes Echoes of Summer into a stall.



“Third place,” he says, grinning. “Not bad for an old lady.”



I pat her muzzle. “She’s only seven. I’d hate to hear what you call me when I’m not around.”



Rory yanks a wrinkled booklet from his back pocket. “Hey, I got the race program. Your name’s in it!”



I dash over to him, stick the sucker Jack gave me in my mouth, and thumb through the program. There I am.



HORSE



Tennessee Star



JOCKEY



S. Barrow*



TRAINER



G. Solana



OWNER



J. Goodwin/Cedar Hill Farms



* Denotes Apprentice Jockey



I close the program and cradle it against my chest.



And before I know it, before I can get my heartbeat under control, Rory has Star’s tack thrown over his shoulder and we’re heading up to the paddock, passing by other barns and the drug-testing pavilion. I finish the lollipop during our walk and throw the stick away.



Dad, Gael, Jack, and Mr. Goodwin meet us there as we’re securing the colt’s saddle.



Dad squeezes my shoulder. “You know you don’t have to do this, right? We can always send Townsend out instead.”



I tighten my gloves, glancing around at the other jockeys. They all look relaxed, chatting and joking with their trainers and owners. I blow air out through my mouth and bounce on my toes.



“I got this,” I tell Dad. Jack and Rory exchange a smile at my words.



I mount Star and we make our way out onto the track. Kentucky Downs is old and the grandstands are small like the bleachers at the Hundred Oaks softball field; most spectators are hanging around the fence and on the infield. Or they’re inside at the casino.



The cheering starts the minute Star begins to trot across the grass. A bunch of reporters are taking pictures of me. The flashes make me see spots. I hope Star isn’t scared of cameras. I groan, praying my picture won’t accompany a front-page article on how I blew it at Kentucky Downs.



Dad appears to my right, riding an Appaloosa pony. Star sniffs the pony and rams his head into Dad’s side, acting bratty.



“Don’t hesitate to pull up if anything goes wrong,” Dad says, and I nod, chewing on my braid. “I love you.”



“I love you too,” I reply.



When it’s post time, I meet two hands at the starting gate and they push Star inside the fourth position, locking the gate behind us. Dad disappears off the track.



Seven furlongs. Just under a mile. I can do this. I breathe in and out. In and out. In and out. The crowd cheers. It sounds like pressing a seashell to my ear and listening to the dull roar of an ocean.



The bell rings and the gates crash open.



Star blasts off. It’s a clean break out of the gate. We shoot to the front along with two other horses.



“Go!” I shout, holding on tighter than ever before. The nine sets of hooves slamming the grass sound like a train speeding away with my heart.



I glance to my right and left. Sergeant Major, a speed horse, is right next to me. He’ll lose his energy soon—I can already hear the colt huffing and puffing. On my left is Lazy Monday, who has good endurance. I’ve gotta make sure Star doesn’t get too tired, too fast, so I ease up a little on the first turn.



On the backstretch, I move up on the outside. For a moment, we take the lead. Then in a blink of an eye we’re back in the third position. But as I’m entering the final turn, a colt named Winning Waves sneaks up on the inside. He bolts past me. Dirt from a mud hole splatters on my face and chest.