Lilac's Chance

Chapter Nineteen

I can't feel my hands. They're mine, but not my own. They're shaking. And there's a weird feeling in me, a sound, really, of blood rushing through my head. When I take my feet from my stirrups, they're so numb that I pitch onto Last Chance's neck.

"Are you okay?" Braydon asks. He's already in the track, one hand on Chance's reins and the other on my leg, pressing it into the filly. He needn't bother. Both of us are so tired that we're not going to be going anywhere anytime soon. Except maybe to sleep.

"Yes," I manage. "Just... exhausted. It was a hard race."

Braydon's eyes narrow. "Did you eat today?"

"No." The answer surprises me. I'd completely forgot about eating, in the wake of the excitement about the race. It displeases Braydon, however. He flattens his mouth a bit and shakes his head.

"Let's go get this filly taken care of. Then we'll- I don't know. Fast food, I guess."

Ew. I scrunch my nose but slide off of Last Chance, hitting the ground hard. My legs feel like jelly. And then there's somebody supporting me.

Hank.

"That was a damned good race you two just ran, and a long one. Just you rest."

I'm tired, not an invalid. I shrug him off and step away, shaking my head. "No, I'll help take care of her. I can sleep later."

Braydon shoots me an appraising look over his shoulder as he fussed over Chance's girth. The filly is streaked a charcoal gray with sweat, and her sides heave as she draws in irregular breaths. "I guess we're both a little bit out of shape."

"And no wonder. With the weather we've had..." Braydon grumbles a bit, then yanks the saddle off over her back and transfers it to his left arm, leading the filly forwards with the other. She follows quietly, not even flicking an ear when another colt trying to get off the track jostles her. But she's pleased with her efforts- I can see it in her eyes, just a glimmer of satisfaction.

"Well, I'm going to go find out about her next race. You two take care." Hank pats me on the back and disappears into the crowd. I numbly follow Last Chance and Braydon back to the shedrows.

Usually, after a race I'm shooed back to the jockey's lounge to shower and change, or get ready for my next race. I've run six times in one day before. So it's a little humiliating that I can barely handle one, and instead of the lounge, I duck into Chance's stall and slip into shorts and a tank top. I'm living the life of luxury. When I emerge, Braydon's already got Chance on the washrack and is sponging her down. The filly whuffles at me as I automatically reach out a palm to her, then steps away, flicking her tail against Braydon.

"Here, there's another sponge in the bucket," he says without looking at me. I find it and wring it out, inhaling the minty scent of liniment. "How'd she feel racing?"

"There was just no gas left in the tank," I say apologetically. "If she was in better shape, it would've been a different story. She can handle the distance. But the bay was fresh and she'd all ready run off her feet in the duel with Prisoner."

"Why did you engage, then?" Braydon asks. I shake my head.

"Not engaging would've made it worse. J- the jockey- is just so against me riding for some reason. He takes it personally. But it clouds his thoughts- if he'd ridden that filly differently, we would be looking at finishing third. Or worse."

He considers this in silence, letting his sponge suck up as much water as he can. Instead of wringing it off in the bucket like I did, he presses it into Last Chance's back and lets the water seep out and over her. The filly shivers, ears flicking back, but doesn't seem bothered. "I'm going to go make her a mash," he says finally. "And find something for you. Can you-"