Everything vanishes but Whisky and I. No more family issues, no more broken heart. No mother who despises me for no apparent reason.
Nothing matters anymore but what’s right in front of me.
I quickly scan the course consisting of twelve obstacles. This is a new day. Yesterday doesn’t count. With the new rules for the Olympics, my one penalty from yesterday’s qualifier is erased and not carried over to the final.
I move Whisky into a lope, remembering Bob’s words to be conscious of the ninety-second-time limit that’s easily exceeded.
I need to keep my tempo up during the first part of the course. My eyes lock on the first jump—the wall leading to the first oxer—followed by a slight left turn.
The first half of the course goes great, even the wide triple bar. Whisky and I work in tandem like we have always been able to do when it counts.
It’s not until the second combination we nearly stumble. I take the turn too tight, wanting to save some time. If not for Whisky’s talent we’d have knocked down the bar on the vertical because we were too close to the jump, but we recover in time for the oxer four strides later.
I don’t have time to relax or bask in the talent of my horse. After a wide right turn, the triple combination is waiting. The obstacle that gave me the most trouble yesterday and caused me to knock down a bar.
Shoving all thoughts of yesterday aside, I try to calm myself and feel Whisky’s controlled movement beneath me. I can feel his confidence, the way he knows exactly what to do. And it’s seeping into me.
I can do this.
Taking my time, I collect Whisky at the perfect time to be able to jump the oxer—the first jump of the triple combination—with height to spare, only to jump the vertical two strides later without an issue. My heart is beating hard against my chest during the last two strides before we sail over the oxer, conquering the jump we failed at yesterday.
Conscious of the time, I try to speed Whisky up while still making sure to be in control, and we jump the last two without issues.
I don’t hear the announcer call out my time and score, or the stadium erupt in noise. All that registers is the euphoria racing through my body at knowing I just finished competing at my first Olympic competition. I don’t even care about my time or rank; pride is filling me at the knowledge I can compete with the best athletes, at the highest level, at the most prestigious event without embarrassing myself. For once, my impostor syndrome is quiet, and I revel in the knowledge that I got here by myself with Whisky at my side. My hard work and tenaciousness. Our partnership.
I can feel myself beam as I ride out of the arena, excitement and adrenaline still coursing through me.
“Oh, my god. Montana! You did it,” I hear a voice shout at me from the side behind the panels keeping the entrance to the arena free. I look to my side and smile at a jumping up and down Dakota. “You’re in the jump-off.”
A jump-off happens when two or more athletes are tied on penalties for first place. The course is a shortened version of the course during the competition—a maximum of six obstacles will be chosen that can be increased in height or spread. The fastest athlete with the least amount of penalties will be declared the winner of the competition. It’s the one part of equestrian jumping that makes this sport so exciting. Athletes will have to be speedy during the jump-off, something that’s not a priority during the regular competition for many.
Jump-offs produce speedy rounds and risks that might not be taken any other time because it’s all or nothing. There’s no playing it safe.
All of us are used to them, though. Only a few high-stake competitions are decided without a jump-off, as that would require only one rider to have a perfect run without dropping a bar or exceeding the time limit, which is nearly impossible when looking at the attending jumpers and their talent.
Dakota falls in step beside me as I walk toward the small arena we use to warm up and cool off the horses. I take off my helmet and hand it to her as I listen to her excited chatter, smiling and nodding whenever she addresses me. Over the course of our friendship I’ve come to learn to just let her express all the excitement building up inside of her.
“Montana,” the command comes from in front of me, causing Whisky to stop abruptly and throw his head in the air in displeasure when someone steps in out path.
It takes a minute for my brain to catch up with who I see in front of me. I tell myself I’m hallucinating, that there is no way he has the gall to show up.
Not here.
Not now.
Dakota recovers before me from the shock of seeing Kade stand casually in front of us, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “You bastard!” She takes a step toward him. I’m not sure what she plans to do, but it’s not something that can happen here.
Not today.
“Kota,” I warn. Her eyes find mine, and she easily reads the warning in them. She knows too well what this competition means to me.
What I didn’t expect is Whisky’s reaction to my sudden tension at seeing Kade. Ears pinned, he lowers his head threateningly before I can stop him. “Whisky,” I cry and give him a reprimand, causing him to reluctantly back off. It helps that Kade steps back, something Whisky clearly intended.
And
