He hands me a cup of coffee and stands next to me. “He’s fast.”
“Too fast?” I question. “Thanks for this.” I raise the cup before I take a sip.
“I watched some footage on the other horses. Depending on where we are in the gate, will determine what Maximus and I do. I don’t want to get boxed in.”
“Armstrong’s horse will push to the inside. He’ll want his colt to run the line and hold tight to the rail. We can only hope he’s gated on the outside. I doubt it though,” I mumble. It’s hard to trust the old boys club when you’re the enemy. If I hadn’t worked for Armstrong, I’d be better received here. As is, reporters are digging for dirt, starting rumors, stating misleading facts, and doing their best to show the rift between us. They don’t understand that I left—although the reason is not known to them—for a stable to train on my own. It could be as simple as I don’t want to be under my father’s thumb and want my own limelight. It couldn’t be further from the truth but seems more plausible than the shit they’re trying to stir up.
Out in the center of the paddock, an employee of the stable keeps Maximus trotting. When he passes us, the ground vibrates from his heavy hoofs. I love the feeling. I love the sound. When I was a kid, race day was my favorite. I’d always sneak as close to the track as I could get, lay on the ground, and let the sound of the running horses wash over me.
“Voltaire is favored to win.”
I nod and sigh. “It would be best if neither horse wins. The media is all over this crap, father versus son, the battle of the roses. I hate it.”
I push away from the fence and step out toward Maximus. He slows and comes to a trot until he’s in front of me. I reach for his reins and tug him gently toward the opening. We pause briefly, and Kendrick mounts him. This morning they’ll run, and Kendrick will make sure the saddle settings are good. Not that we can’t adjust them later, but it’s nice for him to get a feel for things.
We get to the track and I lead my horse and jockey to where the starting gates will be. When Saturday rolls around, Maximus will fight to go into the gate. It’s his natural instinct to struggle, plus he’ll feed off the energy of others, but Kendrick will ease him in. He’ll coax him and remind him it’s only for a second before the gates open, and they’re racing toward the finish line.
My hand travels down Maximus’ forehead to his muzzle, which is velvety soft. His lips open, requesting a treat, which I have readily available for him. With a couple of crunches, the small carrots are gone.
Kendrick maneuvers to the start line. “I want the second gate.”
I laugh. “Me too. Maybe luck will be on our side when the gates are announced. I won’t hold my breath though.” I leave Kendrick and Maximus there and rush down the track. I find a good spot so I can time their run. As I stand there, I put one arm in the air and hold my timer with the other. For some reason, I’m nervous, when I shouldn’t be. We’ve done this what feels like, a million times, yet the biggest stage is getting closer and closer and I’m starting to question if I’m ready as a trainer. If Maximus is ready.
My arm drops and my thumb presses the start button. Kendrick and Maximus thunder toward the first marker. I glance at the stopwatch and save the time. I do this again at the half-mile mark, the last quarter mile and the finish, and compare them to the last couple of winners.
“How’d we do?” Kendrick asks after he and Maximus trot up to me. I walk along the side of them back to the stables.
“You did well.”
“You’re being modest,” Kendrick jokes.
“I’m being cautious.” I hold Maximus’ reins while Kendrick dismounts. “We know he’s fast. We know he can win. What we don’t know is how he’ll manage all the media of that day.”
Kendrick brushes his hand down the horse. “Maybe we should take him out again, later.”
“We can for sure.” Maximus is directed into his stall where he goes to town on a hay bale and a bucket of oats. Kendrick and I stand there for a minute, watching him.
“Thanks for this,” he says to me.
I glance at him and smile. “You’re a natural with him. You guys are going to make history on Saturday, whether you win or not.”
Kendrick sets his hand on my shoulder and laughs. “If I’m going to make history, I’m going to win. My name, along with his, needs to be cemented in the top spot. None of this, ‘Oh, this happened as well,’ shit. I want the headline.”