Tears welled up in her good eye. She’d finally tracked him down. It had taken her years, cost her countless hours and untold dollars. And now? He couldn’t even look at her.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” she whispered.
“I hoped you wouldn’t,” he told her. “I deserve to be alone.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said, adjusting her eye patch. “Polo is a dangerous sport. I knew that going in. We all did.” She paused. “We’re getting the team back together for a tournament. One time, big payoff. We want you in.”
He felt a chill go through his body. “Why me?” he asked.
“Because,” she said, “you’re the best.”
“Even if I wanted to, would the club let me back in?”
She pursed her lips into a tight smile. “I think we could pull some strings.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “What if I just don’t have it anymore?”
“John,” she said, “I don’t even need one good eye to know you’ve still got it.”
“One time?” he said, adjusting his tie.
His eyes narrowed into a steely and determined glare. Muscle memory informed him that his arm could still pull off that legendary swing. The blood in his veins was freezing over into ice water.
“First things first,” he said, “let’s go get my horse out of hock.”
(Photo of _Stigmata_ and Lady Diabla.)