Live That Fantasy

[Kenren]

Live That Fantasy
Flawed Princess & Marcus Anton

The buzz in the week leading up to the Breeders' Cup was palpable around the farm, like electricity in the air. The horses were oblivious to it, simply enjoying the cold weather and long turnout, most having a week to rest after a long season. It was the staff that were overflowing with excitement and anticipation, some showing it while others tried to remain aloof despite everything. It was an anxious sort of excitement on Cole Mavecci's part, and he was definitely one of the ones trying to keep anything unnecessary carefully hidden. Doing anything different this week, acting differently, could throw off the mare he needed to focus on. Besides, it wasn't the time to be overconfident - the mare hadn't been running to her potential in her last four races, so some had all but counted her out. Mae had question whether or not she should be retired, rather than pushing Amira to another race. She wasn't a true horsewoman, but she knew business. If the mare was past her prime, there was no point in continuing to race her.

Cole wasn't so sure. When he looked at Flawed Princess, head over her stall door at GHF and ears pressed attentively toward him, he didn't see a mare that was washed out. She was strong, regal - not the type to take being handed loss after loss very well. He stepped up to the mare's stall, and she lifted her head, watching him sidelong - not white-eyed, but appraising, watching him for a moment before finally lowering her nose, sniffing lightly at his shoulder. Acknowledging his presence, just like the royal lady she was. He rubbed her neck once, then pushed her to the side. She ducked back into the stall with a huff, moving away from the door as he slid it open and let himself in. Normally the riders prepared the horses, but since they only had one horse to work for the Breeders' Cup, Cole felt it important to do it himself. He needed to get a feel for the mare before they got to the race, where she was to face not-insignificant competition - while she had a pretty good record in the big races, the other fillies and mares were accomplished as well. It was hard to say, when it came down to these races. These were the best of the best. Anything could happen.

Cole clipped the mare's head to the stall wall and went to work brushing her bay coat, already glossy despite the dust. She stood well, seeming for all the world like she didn't even notice the man's presence - even though, Cole noticed, she sometimes leaned into his vigorous scrubbing. He smiled at her attitude - she was a lot like him, he supposed. Pretending she didn't care, even when she did. Never outwardly rambunctious, and very rarely upset. She was classier than many animals he'd worked with, and she was special for it. He finished tacking her up, noting how she perked her ears just a little more when she felt the saddle on her back. She got a little more tense, shifted her weight a little more often - her way of getting excited, he supposed. It gave him hope - if she still wanted to run, he would give her the chance. She deserved that much, after putting in such a long career. If she wanted to race, he'd put faith in her.

Tacked, he clipped a lead to her bit, sliding open the stall door. Amira walked beside him down the aisle, shoes thudding dully on the dirt surface. She didn't pull, easily keeping her head aligned with his, though she held herself proudly as usual. They stepped out into the cold winter morning, starting down the path to the track. The closer they got, the more Amira seemed to feel fresh, steps coming just a little quicker, not-quite prancing on the lead. She bobbed her head down, tapping her chin against the hand leading her. He put on hand along her mane, soothing her.

They weren't the only ones out at this early hour. Other horses were working on the track, looking to get the best workout times before the ground got too torn up on the GHF track. Cole didn't care that much about good work times - many of his horses performed their best against competition, and he felt no need to push them further than needed to sharpen them up. He wasn't a showboater. However, it was not just other horses and riders out. The staff of Valkyrie that could be spared, including the exercise riders, had shown up trackside, wanting to see what would be Flawed Princess' last work before retirement after the Filly and Mare Turf that weekend. The track's handicappers were present as well, as they watched all of the works closely leading up to the biggest races of the year. Amira seemed to feel the energy even more, despite the deceptive quiet around the track. Marcus Anton, the filly's jockey, met them by the rail opening, and Cole quickly gave him instructions. "Take her five furlongs. Don't let her lose interest, but don't force her faster than she's willing to go with a little bit of encouragement." It was similar to any other work, and Amira was used to the routine - as long as she was on her toes, he wouldn't make her go harder. He wanted her to be prepared for the race, but not tired from too strenuous a work.

Marcus nodded, getting a leg up from Cole's son, who was close at hand. Minske stepped back, but watched Amira closely. He'd loved the mare from the second she'd stepped off of the trailer at the farm. He was one of her staunchest believers - he knew she still had fight in her. He had every faith she could end her career with the highest of titles - Breeders' Cup Champion. Anything less would be an insult. Marcus tightened his helmet, then smoothed the mare's black mane, muttered nothings to her until she settled beneath him. Once he felt her relax, he gathered the reins, tipping his hat to the onlookers before steering her onto the turf course. Marcus wasn't a talkative man, but he knew horses. He had experience, which was what had landed him a ride on the mare to begin with. As he let her open a trot to warm up, he thought of her last few races. Perhaps the first race, or the second, could be attributed to acclimation of horse to jockey and jockey to horse. In the Dubai Turf, her last go out against the boys, she had once again been denied the victory. Marcus didn't feel it was a fault of the horse - conditions hadn't been in her favor, and Marcus hadn't ridden her to her potential. However, he'd learned some things, in that race - how she needed to fight to the lead closer to the wire, when the competition would keep her interested and driven. How she seemed to like to challenge adversity. If things went as they should in this next race, Flawed Princess had a good shot - a better shot than most - to take home the title.

The mare settled into her stride after a few minutes, the high action of turf horses evident in every extended stride. Her movements overflowed with confidence, head bowed and neck arched without putting any pressure on the bit - she wasn't fighting, she was parading. She knew this was her turf. This was her territory, and she acted accordingly, tail high and ears pressed forward. After all, even with the horses running to her inside, she felt no reason to act aggressive. No need to prove what she already felt to be true.

Marcus clucked to her, and she moved into a canter willingly enough, strides eating the turf on the inside lane as they moved past the wire for the first time. She knew they were getting closer to the part she most enjoyed, so one ear cocked back, listening, waiting for the cue she knew would come. Positioning himself over her withers, Marcus gathered the reins a little tighter, and asked her to gallop as they came out of the turn. She lengthened her stride, picking up speed, yet didn't need to be told not to bolt yet. She was a veteran of the track, and knew her cues. She wasn't one of those hothead fillies, not anymore - she was too dignified to fight for her head. Marcus checked over his shoulder for traffic, then moved the mare to the rail. Go time. As they passed the three-eighths pole, Marcus kissed to her with more insistence, loosing the reins and tapping her flank once with the whip in his hand. Just a tap, that was all she needed. The daughter of Perfection dug in, lengthening her body with every ground-eating stride. To Marcus, it felt the closest he'd ever get to flying. His face was down over her neck, and her mane tickled his nose with every bob of her perfectly conformed head. Another two furlongs, and he urged her for more. There was no force, just the loosing of the reins and the grant of her head. The mare responded beautifully, charging around the turn, ears finally laying back. She found more speed, more reserve - this was the First Lady Stakes winner. This was the mare who had taken the Queen Cup, the Dream cup, and an insane twelve other faces that season. This was a mare that was willing to give everything she had, and leave it all on the track. They sailed across the wire, and Marcus eased her slowly, not caring if she galloped out strongly for the handicappers. He could feel that she still had a lot more left in the tank. They had nothing to prove to anyone.

Eventually they jogged back to the gate, met by a smiling Valkyrie crew. Marcus hopped off, holding the mare's reigns while Cole ran his hands down her legs, checking for any heat. "Looks good," he said as he stood, and Marcus allowed her to be taken by the waiting hotwalker. They all watched as she was led away, grace in her every movement even after such a work. She didn't look back once - it wasn't her style. Marcus smiled at that - perhaps that was how she'd show all the rest that she was a champion. By not dwelling on the losses, just charging into the future. He turned to Cole, who had an unreadable look on his face. "I think she's got more than a shot," Marcus admitted, which was strange for him - he normally wasn't one to build up a horse before a race. Minske walked up, smiling. "Of course she does. 'Always the bridesmaid' doesn't really fit a horse like her. She'll light up for the crowd on Saturday. She'll show them what they came to see." Such confidence, almost radiating from the boy. Marcus watched as the bay disappeared over the hill, and hoped he was right.