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My life kind of went asplode this week (hopefully in a good way, cross your fingers), so I'm afraid my posting will remain sporadic until things settle down and my stupid wrist stops aching.

Continuation of:

"Acceptance is not submission; it is acknowledgement of the facts of a situation. Then deciding what you're going to do about it."
~ Kathleen Casey Theisen

March seventh was hot. Scorching hot. “Oh my god how is this possible” hot. People and horses alike sweated buckets in the unusual heat as they filtered into Santa Anita for the Big ‘Cap. Robby stood in the shade of his new colt’s favorite tree while the megalithic creature grazed. Hemali had yet to warm up to him. None of the older horses had. It was as if they knew he wasn’t supposed to be here, knew he was merely a replacement for Dawson when the man refused to show. Four months later and they were still waiting.

That’s all he ever was these days: a replacement. Used to be, he was top dog, the man everyone turned to, the man everyone wanted to be. Not anymore. Never again. That’s what retirement did to you. It crippled you, excommunicated you, set you apart from everyone else in the business and left you floundering for purchase on uneven, unfamiliar ground. That’s why he had bought a boat and took to the sea. Better to enjoy himself in his exile than to suffer the looks and the whispered “he’s that has-been”s.

Hemali yanked on his lead rope in agitation while Robby lost himself in thought. The horse could feel the energy around him. Despite the change in trainers, the stallion remained the morning line favorite. The field was strong this year, though, with not only him at the lead but Fighterjet and Reebok right behind. Fighterjet was a close second in the favorites lineup but had yet to prove himself since his return from retirement. Reebok was not considered a threat to Hemali but remained a strong entity to oppose the other horses.

Robby moved closer to the stallion and touched his hot skin. Hemali glanced up at him then turned away. Robby sighed.

***

The horses loaded easily into the gate. Sven settled deeper into the saddle and leaned over Hemali’s thick neck before risking a glance to his left. Donovan Slade sat tall and proud atop Fighterjet, ever the picture of confidence. Sven recognized the other jockeys flanking him, some more than others. Though… Huh. She was knew. Sven looked at the girl crouched over Reebok’s neck and racked his brain for her name, but nothing came to him. He had never met the woman jock and wasn’t good with names, unfortunately. He remembered being warned about her, though. What was her name…? Sarah? Sienna? Sierra. That was it. Reebok’s new female jock; the latest sensation since Fox came on the scene.

The bell sounded and Sven was forced to focus. Hemali tossed his head and leapt forward but quickly dropped back to the rear of the pack. Sven settled deeper into his saddle. Hemali was such a veteran by now, nothing rattled the old warhorse. He knew what he was doing. In front of them, horses jostled to and fro, vying for the perfect spot that they knew should be theirs. The horses directly before them kicked up dirt, spraying Hemali in the face and forcing him to inhale dust, and so the stallion eased off the gas a bit. Sven allowed it, sure they had enough to make it to the front before the finish line.

Around the bend they turned. “Let’s go, Hemmy,” he purred confidently. “Time to roll!”

As always, the dark horse responded with glee. Hemali dipped his muzzle low and kicked his hindquarters, sending them rocketing forward with a single powerful lurch. Poles whizzed past and Sven was forced to look away or else become nauseated. Their vision, just seconds before filled with dirt clods and bobbing tails, cleared within seconds as Hemali stretched out his endless legs and ate up the ground in his famous, bounding strides.

But there was a problem. Two horses still stood between them and the finish line. One, a familiar chestnut, small as a bug and quick as lightning; the other, a lower-grade bay so bright in color it almost hurt to look at him. Jockey number one was familiar. (It seemed Donovan Slade was always there to foil Sven’s best plans.) Jockey number two was not, but the blonde hair waving at him from underneath the helmet told him it was the woman, the female jock. Sven’s jaw clenched unhappily.

They could do this. They could beat the bay, at least. Fighterjet might be a little tougher to conquer but Reebok was no match for Hemali’s power. He clucked to his mount, begging for more.

The stallion gave it. Stride after stride, they began to close in. Sven watched Fighterjet with eagle eyes, waiting for a sign, any sign, that the gelding still had more left. There wasn’t one. They drew even with the chestnut’s flank, then his shoulder, before the completely blocked him from the view of the crowd. Sven grinned. They had done it. Fighterjet was beaten. They were pulling ahead.

“Home free!” he cackled. Hemali’s ears flew forward as they flashed under the finish line. It was only then that he dared glance up and away from Fighterjet, confident of their success.

Sven’s heart plummeted to his knees. “How…?”

The female jock grinned over her shoulder at him and wiggled her fingers in a little wave before turning to greet the pony rider who rode up beside her. Pony rider? Only the winners got escorts after a race, which could only mean one thing.

They had lost. They had lost to a freaking GIII winner. The same GIII winner they had lost to before, one year ago.

Unbelievable.

Shown:

Name: Reebok
Barn Name: n/a
Gender: Stallion
Age: 5
Height: 16hh
Color: Blood bay
Eyes: Brown
Markings: Broken stripe
Build: n/a
Breed: Thoroughbred
Bloodlines: Bernardini x Private Gift, by Unbridled
Genes: Ee/AA
Temperament: n/a
Trainer: Gabriel Nachita
Jockey: Sierra Laurens
Racing Style: Frontrunner, distance (7-10f)
Stable: n/a

If you want Reebok for yourself, he's available HERE!

Art, Characters and Story © me

Next on:

Description
My life kind of went asplode this week (hopefully in a good way, cross your fingers), so I'm afraid my posting will remain sporadic until things settle down and my stupid wrist stops aching.

Continuation of:

"Acceptance is not submission; it is acknowledgement of the facts of a situation. Then deciding what you're going to do about it."
~ Kathleen Casey Theisen

March seventh was hot. Scorching hot. “Oh my god how is this possible” hot. People and horses alike sweated buckets in the unusual heat as they filtered into Santa Anita for the Big ‘Cap. Robby stood in the shade of his new colt’s favorite tree while the megalithic creature grazed. Hemali had yet to warm up to him. None of the older horses had. It was as if they knew he wasn’t supposed to be here, knew he was merely a replacement for Dawson when the man refused to show. Four months later and they were still waiting.

That’s all he ever was these days: a replacement. Used to be, he was top dog, the man everyone turned to, the man everyone wanted to be. Not anymore. Never again. That’s what retirement did to you. It crippled you, excommunicated you, set you apart from everyone else in the business and left you floundering for purchase on uneven, unfamiliar ground. That’s why he had bought a boat and took to the sea. Better to enjoy himself in his exile than to suffer the looks and the whispered “he’s that has-been”s.

Hemali yanked on his lead rope in agitation while Robby lost himself in thought. The horse could feel the energy around him. Despite the change in trainers, the stallion remained the morning line favorite. The field was strong this year, though, with not only him at the lead but Fighterjet and Reebok right behind. Fighterjet was a close second in the favorites lineup but had yet to prove himself since his return from retirement. Reebok was not considered a threat to Hemali but remained a strong entity to oppose the other horses.

Robby moved closer to the stallion and touched his hot skin. Hemali glanced up at him then turned away. Robby sighed.

***

The horses loaded easily into the gate. Sven settled deeper into the saddle and leaned over Hemali’s thick neck before risking a glance to his left. Donovan Slade sat tall and proud atop Fighterjet, ever the picture of confidence. Sven recognized the other jockeys flanking him, some more than others. Though… Huh. She was knew. Sven looked at the girl crouched over Reebok’s neck and racked his brain for her name, but nothing came to him. He had never met the woman jock and wasn’t good with names, unfortunately. He remembered being warned about her, though. What was her name…? Sarah? Sienna? Sierra. That was it. Reebok’s new female jock; the latest sensation since Fox came on the scene.

The bell sounded and Sven was forced to focus. Hemali tossed his head and leapt forward but quickly dropped back to the rear of the pack. Sven settled deeper into his saddle. Hemali was such a veteran by now, nothing rattled the old warhorse. He knew what he was doing. In front of them, horses jostled to and fro, vying for the perfect spot that they knew should be theirs. The horses directly before them kicked up dirt, spraying Hemali in the face and forcing him to inhale dust, and so the stallion eased off the gas a bit. Sven allowed it, sure they had enough to make it to the front before the finish line.

Around the bend they turned. “Let’s go, Hemmy,” he purred confidently. “Time to roll!”

As always, the dark horse responded with glee. Hemali dipped his muzzle low and kicked his hindquarters, sending them rocketing forward with a single powerful lurch. Poles whizzed past and Sven was forced to look away or else become nauseated. Their vision, just seconds before filled with dirt clods and bobbing tails, cleared within seconds as Hemali stretched out his endless legs and ate up the ground in his famous, bounding strides.

But there was a problem. Two horses still stood between them and the finish line. One, a familiar chestnut, small as a bug and quick as lightning; the other, a lower-grade bay so bright in color it almost hurt to look at him. Jockey number one was familiar. (It seemed Donovan Slade was always there to foil Sven’s best plans.) Jockey number two was not, but the blonde hair waving at him from underneath the helmet told him it was the woman, the female jock. Sven’s jaw clenched unhappily.

They could do this. They could beat the bay, at least. Fighterjet might be a little tougher to conquer but Reebok was no match for Hemali’s power. He clucked to his mount, begging for more.

The stallion gave it. Stride after stride, they began to close in. Sven watched Fighterjet with eagle eyes, waiting for a sign, any sign, that the gelding still had more left. There wasn’t one. They drew even with the chestnut’s flank, then his shoulder, before the completely blocked him from the view of the crowd. Sven grinned. They had done it. Fighterjet was beaten. They were pulling ahead.

“Home free!” he cackled. Hemali’s ears flew forward as they flashed under the finish line. It was only then that he dared glance up and away from Fighterjet, confident of their success.

Sven’s heart plummeted to his knees. “How…?”

The female jock grinned over her shoulder at him and wiggled her fingers in a little wave before turning to greet the pony rider who rode up beside her. Pony rider? Only the winners got escorts after a race, which could only mean one thing.

They had lost. They had lost to a freaking GIII winner. The same GIII winner they had lost to before, one year ago.

Unbelievable.

Shown:

Name: Reebok
Barn Name: n/a
Gender: Stallion
Age: 5
Height: 16hh
Color: Blood bay
Eyes: Brown
Markings: Broken stripe
Build: n/a
Breed: Thoroughbred
Bloodlines: Bernardini x Private Gift, by Unbridled
Genes: Ee/AA
Temperament: n/a
Trainer: Gabriel Nachita
Jockey: Sierra Laurens
Racing Style: Frontrunner, distance (7-10f)
Stable: n/a

If you want Reebok for yourself, he's available HERE!

Art, Characters and Story © me

Next on: