Daybreak in Toronto, Wednesday

Original article written by The Steward posted 8 years 3 weeks ago

Wednesday

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Clinton Jacinto glared at the alarm clock, which blinked 8’s at him. “What time is it really?” He grabbed for his cell phone, which had fallen off the nightstand and in the process, unplugged itself from the charger. 6:05… wasn’t he supposed to be sending the first set at six?

Clinton threw on his jeans, grabbed the first shirt from his unpacked suitcase, and flew out the door, carrying his boots as he ran sock-footed down the hall. His car key was still in his jeans, and he patted his unruly bed head as he went.

The security guard at the backside gate was deep in conversation with trainer and breeder Jon Xett, who was carrying a brass-plated halter and lead shank in his right hand.

“Lose a horse?” Clinton joked, flashing his temporary backside ID at the guard.

“It’s Spoon’s new halter,” Jon explained. “The tack shop dropped it here for me-”

“Can’t chat,” Clinton said hastily, cutting him off. “My big horse is probably already on the track!”

He drove straight to the trainer’s stand and climbed the stairs briskly, hunting for his dark red and white saddle towel over the purple Steward’s Cup towel. Sprint contenders Isureamsombody for D.m Henderson and Wild Looking for Nicky Morgan passed by, snorting in time with their strides. Clinton recognized Double Starred for Tracy Whetstine, not because he had seen her before but because he had been up late at night, watching videos of the filly’s 13 victories and two narrow losses.

“It’s ridiculously cold out here,” said Ashley Hunt to his left. He hadn’t even heard her climb the stairs.

“Oh, hello,” Clinton said coolly.

Ashley frowned up from her cell phone. “What’s wrong with you?”

“No offense, but, well. You know.” Clinton nodded at Ashley’s Miss Indian Nation, who was striding onto the course from the gap.

Ashley raised an eyebrow. “First of all, A Scary Song has beaten my horse, so I don’t know what you’re talking about. Second of all, I’m dealing with mother in law drama, and I don’t appreciate your tone. Third of all, your horse was the first one on the track and was gone two minutes before you got here.”

“Argh!” Clinton dashed back down the steps, leaving Ashley to admire Miss Indian Nation.

--

A troop of photographers followed Heart of the Storm out of the barn and down the horse path to the track. The black colt, perfect in every way to the dazzling heart star on his forehead, stopped several times, letting them admire him in the barest sunlight.

Dan Gordon stood at the colt’s head, trying not to feel too proud. After he’d gotten the horse beat in New York, he thought maybe people wouldn’t care about his lightning fast colt. Instead, they seemed to care even more.

Three starts, three freakishly high speed figures. An unfortunate racing schedule, to be sure, but one that could be fixed with a little extra rest as a three-year-old. Standing this close to the edge of training a champion made Dan feel proud, yes, but also nervous.

‘Storm stopped again and threw his head up, striking a pose. He looked like a perfect black statue, not a hair out of place. The photographers went wild.

But then to the left passed Salute, and in an instant the photographers left, chasing Josh Lamp and his dark bay colt as if Heart of the Storm was nothing. And he isn’t anything, yet, Dan reminded himself. Salute was better bred, and had a more experienced trainer.

And then there was Ood, out there waiting for the new year…. Skipping this race and saving himself for the Triple Crown season. Maybe that was the right plan.

But there was no second guessing, only a black colt waiting for his turn on the track. Dan clicked his tongue and Heart of the Storm walked forward again.

--

There’s Ali Weasley in the lavender jacket, Jack Toward mused. That’s Alysse Peverell playing with the gray tabby kitten. There’s Billy Anderson, so that must be Tronador that he’s leading off the track. And there is Jonathan Bolt with Legend Returns. Marathon. Trying to become a millionaire.

It was another five minutes before Jack found Jack Meyer, standing in the track kitchen with a cup of coffee and discussing weanling conformation with Iggy Timeeczeceh.

“Jack, can I talk to you?” Jack Toward asked, a little hesitantly.

“Sure, Jack,” Jack Meyer answered.

“TWO JACKS!” Kim Plausible snorted, walking past and grabbing her scone. “Sooo many Jaaacckks.”

Jack Meyer rolled his eyes. “What did you need, Jack?”

“I was wondering if you had thought about the pace scenario in the Distaff. I don’t know if there is enough speed for your filly. My filly comes from mid pack, but yours from off the pace.”

Jack Meyer raised an eyebrow. “Hallowed Halls beat Skyfall, so…”

“Skyfall is at the tail end of her career,” Jack Toward argued. “Neapolitan could probably beat her now.”

“Then you should run your horse in the Classic.”

They glared at each other, until Kim walked back between them, armed with napkins. “Haha,” she snorted. “Jacks.”

--

Todd Lucas adjusted his flak jacket and leaned back against the sawhorse outside Barn 8. “So, what do you think? Worth standing?”

Stephen Saratoga stood clutching a clipboard and eyeing Todd’s lightly boned gray horse Magician King. “He’s built real nice, but you know he has no pedigree,” he drawled.

“I know that,” Todd protested. “But look at him. Almost a million in earnings and has doubled his purchase price back for me. That’s got to be worth something.”

Stephen shrugged. “He’s a nice colt. You should probably run him though.”

“Well, we’ll see if he wins. I think I’ll retire if he wins.”

Stephen shrugged and walked off, headed to check the next horse on his list, which, Todd had already spied when he arrived, was Leigh Ann Anderson’s Coursing River.

“That was brutal,” said Santino of D’s Racing Stable from behind him. “Cold.”

“It was honest,” Todd shrugged. “I know that he looked at a few of Donnie Hidalgo’s horses last year, and that Donnie really appreciated it.”

“I don’t need him to tell me my horses are slow,” Santino grinned. “I already know.”

“What are you guys doing?”

Alex Puderbaugh joined them, leaning against the opposite sawhorse and dusting off her jeans. “Can you hear Timorus in there? He is screaming for lunch and he has at least another half hour.”

“Todd is crying because the bloodstock agent hates his horse.”

“I am not,” Todd retorted. “I’m just thinking he’s going to win this week.”

--

Long after The Pumpkin King, Reverend Jamison, Broadchurch, Salute, and Heart of the Storm had gone to the track, Andrew James tried to sneak out with Amsterdam.

Most of the main horses, such as the popular Classic and Turf contenders, had already trained that morning. The sun was high and the gap attendants were anxious to close the gates.

“Is there anyone out there?” Andrew asked the attendant pleasantly as he led Amsterdam onto the frothy dirt.

“One other horse,” the guy said. Andrew could feel him glaring behind his sunglasses, angry at yet another delay. With a sneer, he added, “You’ll recognize him.”

Andrew unclipped the lead shank and stepped back, allowing the exercise rider to guide Amsterdam away.

He couldn’t think of who he would recognize on the track – and frankly, they all wore saddle towels, so how could he not recognize the horse? – but when he saw Nikki Everdeen leaning against the rail, sporting a dual-colored purple jacket, he felt a sense of dread. How could he have forgotten?

As if on cue, Halloween Town came thundering around the bend, heading straight for them. He made fiery noises, reminding Andrew vaguely of a dragon breathing flame. He wasn’t overly tall – in fact, he was the same size as Amsterdam – but he seemed taller, leggier, leaner.

Andrew rolled up his long white sleeves; he suddenly felt overheated. He groaned. How could I forget Halloween Town?

“Good morning, Andrew,” said Lucas Davenport, sliding up next to him.

“Hey,” Andrew said vaguely. “When did you arrive?”

“This morning. My horse was on the last van in. Every horse is on the grounds now.”

When Amsterdam galloped by with his floating gait, Andrew felt a little better. The field for the Juvenile was intense for sure, but Amsterdam fit, and he was going to be a 30-1 price.

Feeling decidedly calmer, Andrew bid farewell to Lucas and headed back down to collect his horse.

That is when he heard cursing from the gap attendant, and saw Nini Hunter leading a horse towards the track. The colt’s distinctive, oversized star sent a chill down Andrew’s spine: it was the wickedly fast Am I A Good Man.

“Bleargh!” he groaned, and threw his hand up over the side of his face, so he couldn’t see the rival Juvenile contender marching grandly onto the course.
--

There were seven horses living in the stalls on the right side of Barn 22, but Art Vandelay only had eyes for one.

Skyfall was walking the shed after her second to last gallop – ever. The thought made his stomach churn, but there was something about the thought of her safe at the farm, producing pretty babies, that was far more comforting than having her with him all the time. If anything happened to her on his watch, he would be beyond sick.

Oblivious to his inner worries, Skyfall strolled merrily along, pausing to pose for the cameras held by a squad of media outside the barn. The hotwalker let her look, waiting until her ears went up and they got their shot before urging her on. There wasn’t a drop of sweat on her.

Art had never tried to fit her into the order of Great Fillies of All Time, but she had to be up there, somewhere. If she won the Classic, she might even be the greatest. That thought made him nervous, too, so he shoved it away.

A coal-black colt with a freckled star threw his head and nipped at Skyfall the next time she passed. Art thought about going and hooking the colt to the back wall of the stall, but frankly, The Pumpkin King scared him a little bit.

“Hey,” said a pleasing, familiar voice. Slim, lithe Cleo Patra waltzed her way past the photographers and wandered into the shedrow, seating herself on the folding chair outside the office.

“Hey buddy,” Art answered, but he didn’t take his eyes from the filly.

“Hi pretty filly!” Cleo cooed. The hotwalker stopped Skyfall so that Cleo could rub her muzzle. “She looks great. She’s going to win.”

“Please don’t say that, or I might throw up.”

“Speaking of that,” Cleo turned to him suddenly. “Did you see Em this morning?”

“Em? No. I haven’t for a couple days.”

Cleo laughed and shook her head. “I thought she didn’t drink, but she was falling over and vomiting this morning. In full view of like, five other trainers. I know Ben Stover had to basically jump away from her.”

Art had stopped looking at Skyfall and was giving Cleo a dark look. “Em was throwing up and no one helped her?”

Cleo shrugged. “I was riding Tornadoes to the track for turf gallops. I couldn’t stop. She knows she can call on me if she’s sick or something, though.”

“She’s not picking up,” Art said worriedly. “We should find her.”

He looked pointedly at Cleo in a way that said: you should find her.

“I can’t right now, I’m taking Charlie Scene down to Long Overdue Farm to look at yearlings. I just stopped by to say hi. You go.”

“I don’t want to leave Skyfall.” He sighed. “But, I do know who to call to find her.”

--

“You’re looking unwell.”

Lisa Strummer bent over to squint down at Emily Shields, who was sitting on the floor of the pony barn, her head resting against a tack trunk.

“I’m fine,” Emily said faintly. “I don’t know why people keep asking me if I’m sick.”

“Let’s try this,” Lisa said, helping Emily to her feet. “ What is your favorite poppy dance song?”

Emily blinked. “I don’t like pop stuff.”

“Liar. Who is the greatest turf horse of all time?”

“Uh…”

“Yeah, we’re going to the doctor.”

“Why? What’s wrong? I have to feed the horses, I told Oleg Van Buren that I would help with his pony today.”

“You didn’t immediately answer Sidney, and we all know that is probably what you would say if I asked you who the greatest dirt sprinter was, so, something is clearly wrong. Let’s go.”

“I don’t like doctors,” Emily proteseted.

“No one does. Get in the truck.”

As instructed, Lisa drove Emily straight to the emergency room. To keep her talking, Lisa rambled about Run the Jewels, her lone Steward’s Cup starter. It was over an hour wait to be seen, but after just a minute of being with the doctor, he addressed Lisa.

“This is a classic case of post-concussion syndrome.”

Lisa checked his coat – Dr. Garbles.

“It’s a complex disorder,” Dr. Garbles continued. “It starts with headaches, then dizziness, insomnia and loss of memory. It starts out thanks to a blow to the head. Did you hit your head?”

“Yes,” Emily affirmed. “Sunday. No. Monday. Wait, yes, Monday morning. But I need to be on my game tomorrow and Friday, so, make it go away.”

“It can last three months, but it usually doesn’t take that long. You’ll have light sensitivity and sound, too.”

“You should probably not come to the party tonight, then,” Lisa said wisely. “There’s going to be music and lights.”

Emily made a face. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Then she grinned. “You know what would make me feel allll better? If you sold me your mare Bedroom Eyes.”

Lisa blinked. “Bedside Manner?”

“That’s the one.”

They looked at each other, worry etching Lisa’s features, and panic written in Emily’s.

“Lisa, I’m a crazy person right now. What am I supposed to do?”

Lisa bit her lip. “Can you fake it?”

“Isn’t that the point?”

---

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