#polo! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

karahalloway · 1 year

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Polo!

Fandom: TRR

Series: None (this is a one-shot and can be read independently of the rest of my fics)

Pairing: Drake Walker x Valeria Beauvaisis de Lavallée

Synopsis: Drake gets roped into playing a charity polo match when one of the other team members doesn't show for the game... What can possibly go wrong?

Word Count: 6,900 (this definitely ran away with me… 😅 I was aiming for 4,000 but here we are!)

Rating/Warnings: E (swearing, rough horseplay, BDSM, possible dub con... Drake never has any luck in my fics, does he...? 😅)

Theme song:

A/N1: So, as mentioned before, the idea of this one-shot came out of a conversation with @angelasscribbles, @harleybeaumont and @nestledonthaveone whereby we were discussing Drake's extra-curricular activities that involve tight pants (kind of spinning off of Angela's Homerun fic) and I happened to mention jodpurs... Queue a massive brainwave about Drake getting roped into playing polo (against his will, obviously, because even though I can see him having played this sport, I cannot see him willingly subjecting himself to wearing tight horseriding tights - even if it's part of the uniform 😅) and that is how this fic was born. Hope you have as much fun reading it, as I did writing it (also, I really hope you check out the music video at the end because it did indirectly inspire several aspects of this fic)!

A/N2: In terms of timeline, this fic takes place approx. 1 year after Drake comes back to Cordonia from Texas (i.e. 1 year after the assassination attempt on the royal family that is mentioned in canon), which is approx. 4-5 years before the start of (Un)Common Attraction, so Leo is still the Crown Prince during this period (also, Anton is just a random noble — no covert personality, no secret engagement to Olivia as I’m not following that storyline in my rewrites). This fic will also shed some light on something that Drake mentions in passing in Crazy, because I thought this set-up was the perfect opportunity to explore why he has such an aversion towards aristo women... and riding crops 😏

A/N3: Since polo is probably not a sport that most people are familiar with (I know I wasn't when I decided to write a fic about it!), and rather than take up masses of space in this post, I have prepared a bit of a Polo 101 Guide which will provide you with the basics of the game, as well as some videos about the world of high-society polo if you are interested in exploring further.

A/N4: I admit that the theme song I chose for this fic is a bit left-field, but in the strange land of my HC, if this fic were a movie/TV show, Boom is the song that would be playing during the montage of the polo match. Also I think it’s quite an appropriate underdog song for Drake in this fic 🤟

A/N5: This is my submission for the Choices January Challenge Day 10 (Easy | Hard | Exercise) with a bit of Day 28 (Tight | Loose | Clothes) thrown in.

Polo!

"No. Abso-fuckin'-lutely not."

"But we're short one player!"

I scoff. "It's not my fault Leo's a no-show! Find someone else!"

"There isn't anyone else!" cries Max, grabbing the front of my shirt in desperation. "You're literally our last hope, Drake!"

I slap the Beaumont's hands off me with a derisive snort. "We're at a VIP equestrian event. You seriously tellin' me that none of the aristos out there can ride a horse?"

"None as well as you can..." admits Chris.

I roll my eyes. He had a point.

"...and, as you well know, there is a bit more to it than simple horsemanship."

"Yeah. Like whacking an overpriced softball with a crocket mallet into soccer goal," I mutter. "None of which is hard."

Max pulls a pained face. "I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear you say that..."

"And that's precisely why you are the obvious choice to sub for Leo," insists Chris, clapping me on the shoulder. "Not only can you put each and every noble out there to shame with your riding skills, but you've also got a killer swing. The other team's not going to know what hit them!"

"A well-aimed polo ball to the back of the head," I mutter under my breath.

Max sucks in a sharp breath. "Does that mean you'll do it?"

Lifting my eyes begrudgingly, I take in the sight in front of me.

Chris and Max are looking at me like a pair of lost kittens — wide-eyed and pleading, begging me to be the answer to their first-world problems.

I heave a resigned breath. "Okay, fine..."

"Yey!" squeals Max, literally throwing himself at me as he bounces up and down like a hyperactive pinball. "Drake's playing with us!"

"But," I say firmly, disentangling myself from the unwarranted — and definitely unwanted — PDA, "this is strictly a one time deal. And this cancels out your last IOU, buddy."

"Understood, mate," grins Chris happily. "Welcome to the team!"

"Yeah, yeah..." I grumble with a roll of my eyes. "Whatever..."

The things I do for Chris...

"There you are!" cries Bertrand, bursting into the bathroom of the clubhouse where Chris and Max have cornered me. "Please tell me you've managed to cajole a hapless substitute into filling in for Leo!"

"Sure have, brother!" enthuses Max with a beaming smile.

"Oh, thank the Almighty Lord!"

"Drake has kindly offered to help us out," confirms Chris, dropping an appreciative arm around my shoulders.

Bertrand's face drains of colour. "Oh, good God..."

I suppress a sigh. This... This is the reason I didn’t want to do this.

The aristo bubble — not to mention the high-society polo one — is small and tightly knit. So, as soon as I ride out onto that field, it’ll take precisely four seconds for everyone to figure out that I am an interloper with no credentials for being here.

And I’m not going to be made to forget it...

But, unfortunately for everyone involved, it’s too late to back out now. The match is starting in less than ten minutes and as much as Bertrand might balk at the idea of a commoner — who’s a Western-riding, half-American to boot — taking the spot of the Crown Prince of Cordonia on the royal team at a high-profile charity event, the fact is that unless they want to start one man short (and suffer the associated penalties and ridicule) there is no other option.

Because Chris is right. Despite the fact that I’ve never set foot in any of the fancy equestrian schools that the aristos like to pay an arm and a leg for the 'privilege' of attending, I can probably out ride the whole ritzy lot of them. And am therefore the team's best chance at not only making the match, but maybe even winning it.

As I have something that the rest of those blue-bloods don’t. And that’s the Walker name. Which — in north-east Texas, at least — is synonymous with Quarter Horses and rodeo.

And even though the ranch has fallen on hard times and is struggling to stay afloat, and I ended up choosing a different calling, horses are still in my blood. Because even before Savs and I could walk, Dad — and Paps, while he'd still been alive, God rest his soul — had been sticking us in the saddle to make sure that we knew not just how to ride, but to ride like a Walker... intuitively, effortlessly, at all times in tune with the horse.

And in polo — much like in rodeo — that’s ultimately the most important thing.

"But... but he's not a club member!" splutters Bert.

"It's just some paperwork," Chris reminds him. "We can square that away during half-time."

"Absolutely not!" comes the objectionable response. "That is most inappropriate and highly irregular! We simply cannot—"

"I can ask the umpire for extra time!" chimes in Max. "To make sure everything is above board. Also, Drake still needs to get kitted out and—"

"But he's never played before!" stresses Bert. "We cannot field a novice player against a professional team! We'll look like utter gits!"

"Drake knows the rules," interjects Chris calmly. "He's attended several training sessions with me and—"

"That is no substitute for in-match experience!" expounds Bert. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. But Mr Walker simply is not qualified to take on the Number 3 position, given that—"

"Five minute warning, gents," advises a steward, popping his head into the bathroom. "If you want to make the match, you need to—"

"Tell the umpire we're on our way," instructs Chris. Fixing his emerald gaze back on the elder Beaumont, he adds, "Bertrand, give Drake your shirt."

Bert's jaw drops. "M-my shirt?"

"As you so eloquently pointed out, Drake is probably not the best placed to take over the Number 3 position. But he can play as a Number 2."

"But... that is my position," objects Bert.

"Which is precisely why he requires your shirt," explains Chris with infinite patience.

Bert's shoulders sag as the penny finally drops. "Ah. Yes. I see." He reluctantly pulls his jersey off to hand it to me.

Turning his gaze on Max, Chris adds, "Show Drake where he can find Leo's kit and then tell the grooms to meet us by the field with the horses in five minutes."

"Yes, sir!" affirms Max, snapping to attention.

Bert wheezes in outrage. "Five minutes! But we—"

"We are going to get Drake registered," Chris declares, grabbing the Beaumont by the front of his undershirt to haul him from the bathroom, "Captain."

Four minutes later, I'm sat astride Leo's dark bay Thoroughbred, fidgeting in the saddle like a convict in the confessional.

"How the hell do y'all wear these things?" I grumble, trying — and failing — to find a position that doesn’t compromise the constitution of my cojones.

"You get used to it," Max assures me unconcernedly, stretching in his seat as his palomino mare flicks her ears questioningly back and forth.

"Yeah..." I mutter, shifting my weight uncomfortably while juggling two sets of reins in one hand, and a four-foot mallet in the other. "At the expense of your balls..."

I passed on the optional whip and spurs back at the changing rooms. They’re unnecessary props, and would've just gotten in the way of my riding, given that I’m already going to have my work cut out for me controlling an unfamiliar, high-strung horse, not to mention the equestrian-equivalent of the elusive Snitch.

"Beaumont?" asks the umpire, riding up to us. "Where is the rest of your team? Most importantly, your captain? Are you aware that—?"

"Apologies for running late!" pants Chris, pulling his horse to a stop next to us, Bert on his heel. "Had to make a last-minute adjustment to the team."

"And did this adjustment result in a complete disregard for the uniform...?" queries the umpire with a raised brow.

"No, sir," replies Bert, quickly pulling on Leo's Number 3 jersey that Max had tossed over to him.

"Hmph..." harrumphs the umpire. "You are lucky you are not receiving a yellow card for tardiness. This is an important match, after all..."

"Yes, understood," nods Bert. "Our sincerest apologies once again, sir."

"This your substitute player, then?" he asks, turning to inspect me critically.

"Unfortunately..." mutters Bert under his breath.

I roll my eyes.

"Is he qualified?"

"Yes, sir," the Beaumont affirms. "All fees duly paid prior to the start of the match."

"And his handicap?"

"Not rated," grits Bert with clenched teeth.

The umpire's eyes widen. "A rookie? Is that who you're substituting for the Number 2 position?"

"Believe me, if it had been up to m—" Bert hisses as Chris' mallet smacks into his ankle. "Ehm... What I meant to say, is that we had no other option. Mr Walker was the only available candidate who was able and willing to sub for the sadly indisposed Crown Prince on such short notice."

"I see..." muses the ref. "Well, you are lucky that this is a charity open match. Otherwise, your team would not qualify."

"Yes, sir," grumbles Bert. "I am exceedingly aware..."

The ref purses his lips. "Alright, then. Let's get to it. We don't want to keep everyone waiting any longer. Good luck, gentlemen."

"Thank you, sir," acknowledges Bert with a nod as the ref turns his horse away, before declaring, "We're doomed..."

"Oh, cheer up, brother!" grins Max with unshakable enthusiasm as he gathers his reins. "It's just a charity match — not the Cartier Queen's Cup. We're here to have fun!"

"That is exactly the attitude that cost us the last tournament!" snaps Bert, kicking his mount into a canter. "These horses don't pay for themselves, you know!"

Max shrugs unconcernedly as he rides after his brother. "There's always next year."

"Ready for your big debut?" asks Chris with a smirk as we follow the Beaumonts onto the field.

I throw him a sidelong glance. "You know this ain't my first rodeo."

Like Chris had pointed out earlier, I’m no stranger to polo. Both the Beaumonts and the Rys are avid players, so I've attended my fair share of matches and training sessions over the years, even hopping into the saddle on a few occasions, if circumstances — or friendly competition — called for it.

But I've never played a formal game. I’m not part of a polo club and don’t have a handicap. Much less ever subjected myself to a pair of nut-strangling jodhpurs...

Until today, that is.

Because I’m not — and never have been — able to say 'no' to Chris.

Even against my better judgement... and the sanctity of my manhood.

"Official debut, then," he concedes with a wink as we arrive in the middle of the field.

"Call it what you will," I mutter as I turn my horse to line myself up next to Chris, feeling the predatory glares of the opposing team burning into me. "Cause this is gonna be a shitshow."

Swinging my mount around, I bring us to a stop, facing the crowd, Bert and Max having already taken their positions for the national anthem.

The Thoroughbred tosses his head, chewing on the bit, his racehorse instincts battling with his polo pony training. I tighten my grip on the reins to keep the antsy gelding still as the familiar symphony of the Cordonian anthem blares out of the speakers... and crowd's eyes bore into me.

I feel my jaw tighten as I force myself to keep my gaze fixed straight ahead, the chords of the chorus swelling around us.

If these bastards think they can intimidate me, they have another thing coming...

The music crests, before cutting out as the recording comes to an end.

"Showtime," winks Chris as he canters his horse past me.

I shake my head as I follow suit, looping my mount around in a wide circle to help him — and me — blow off some steam before the first throw in.

Here we go...

"My, my... Look what the cat dragged onto the field," sneers Neville from across the line as the teams face off over the centre line. "The Palace trying to rig the match in our favour?"

"Do you even know which end of the stick to hold, Walker?" queries Anton with a smirk.

"Sod the stick," scoffs Tariq from next to him. "He's not going to last thirty seconds into the first chukkah before he ends up face-first in the dirt... where he belongs."

"Famous last words, Besnard," I grin, hefting my mallet as the ref raises the ball. "Careful they don't come back and bite you on the ass."

Tariq's eyes narrow...

...but before he has a chance to formulate whatever pathetic comeback he’s going to fling at me, the umpire's tossed the ball between us and all hell breaks loose.

Everyone surges forward, looking for the speck of white. The ball pings off the hoof of Bert's horse, careening towards the other team. Neville's mallet comes down to try and claim custody, but I barrel my horse into his, bumping him off as I lean over and smack the ball down the field to Chris.

Quick as a scalded cat, Chris spurs his pony forward, using his own mallet to drive the ball in front of him towards the goal, the other team on his heels like a pack of rabid wolves. But before they can intercept him, Chris has whacked the ball through the posts, scoring our first point of the match.

Cheers erupt from the stands as Chris turns his horse to canter triumphantly back up the field, a massive grin on his face.

"Great shot, buddy," I say as we line up for the second throw-in.

"Got you to thank for the pass, mate," he replies breathlessly, thanks to the adrenaline kicking in in earnest. "Few more of those and we'll be taking home the trophy!"

"Don't count your blessings yet, Chris," I warn. "We managed to catch them off guard, but they're on the warpath now. They're not gonna make it easy for us."

"Then we'd better return the favour, hadn't we?"

The ball whizzes through the air again. Bert makes a dive for it, but he's not quite quick enough. Tariq leans over his horse's neck to scoot it out of the Beaumont's reach. Max rides in to try and defend, but Tariq's already passed the ball up-field.

Spurring my horse into a gallop, I rush towards the goal posts to shore up our defence — seeing as Max, who’s playing the Number 4 position — won’t make it in time.

Sensing my approach, Tariq passes the ball just before I can hook my mallet around his stick to stop the shot. I whirl the bay around, but even with Bert going hell for leather in an attempt to ride off the other player, and Chris trying to intercept, the ball passes through our goal posts.

"Dammit," I hiss under my breath.

"You didn't seriously think we'd go easy on you, Walker?" smirks Tariq as he turns his horse to ride back to the starting line. "You may have a Prince on your team, but on this field, we are the kings of the sport."

"Then you'd better be prepared to fight for your crown," I growl as I canter back to the middle of the field.

The rest of the first half passes by in a blur of rough riding and several fouls — mostly in our favour. But that isn't quite enough for us to regain our initial lead, and by the time the whistle blows, we're still sitting neck-and-neck with the other team.

"I'm gonna murder that bastard..." I seethe as I jump off my wheezing horse — my third of as many chukkahs. Thoroughbreds may have grit and stamina, but seven minutes of hardcore polo’s guaranteed to wind even the sturdiest mount, so frequent subbing of horses is a must.

"Which one?" asks Chris, unclipping his helmet to wipe the sweat off his face.

"All of them," I grit, launching a well-aimed strike at the fence-post in front of me... and snapping the mallet I’m holding in half.

"Mr Walker!" cries Bert, grabbing my shoulder in horror. "That is most unbecoming behaviour! We are at a high-society charity match! Representing the royal team! You will not—"

"To be fair to him, I'd want to break something too after that shocking umpiring."

My head whips around. "No fuckin' way..."

"Leo!" cries Chris, rushing up to his brother with an ecstatic smile to wrap him in a bear-hug. "You made it!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa...!" protests the elder Rys with a pained grimace. "Easy on the enthusiasm! Some of us are still rat-arsed from last night..."

"No surprise there..." I mutter under my breath.

Wouldn't be the first time Leo rolled up to a royal event late and nursing a hangover.

"...and in need of a shower," observes Chris, wrinkling his nose. "Did you sleep in the stables, brother?"

"Pfft! No!" snorts Leo derisively. "Who do you take me for? A complete and utter pleb? I slept in a horse trailer, thank you very much!"

"And that's better...?" queries Chris sceptically.

"It is when it's a top-of-the-line rig owned by a pair of sisters who are both very accomplished riders," comes the eyebrow-waggling response.

"I should expect so!" harrumphs Bert. "If they managed to qualify for this weekend's event then at the very least they would need to be—"

"I'm pretty sure he means, sex," stage whispers Max into his brother's ear.

"Oh." Bert's eyes widen. "Oh!"

"Un-fuckin'-real..." I groan, raking a hand down my face.

"I admit that it may seem hard to believe, Walker," replies Leo, laying a somber hand on my shoulder, "but it is possible to bang two birds with one pecker."

Chris frowns. "It is...?"

"I know what a fuckin' threesome is, Rys!" I snap, knocking his hand away. "What I don't get is why you thought it'd be a good idea to lose yourself in booze and pussy when you should've been in the saddle for the royal match that you were supposed to captain!"

"Mr Walker!" gasps Bert. "That is no way t—"

"Because then we would've missed out on the sight of you in those white jodhpurs, Walker!" grins Leo without skipping a beat. "And what a shame that would have been!"

"Screw you, Rys!" I grit. "I'm not wearing these fuckin' things by choice!"

"All the more reason to appreciate it, then!" he winks, reaching 'round to try and lay on one my ass.

I jerk instinctively out of the way. "Fuck off, you perv!"

"I have to agree," muses Max prosaically. "The tightness of the fit really helps emphasise the shapeliness of your—"

"For the love of Christ!" I explode. "Will y'all just lay off my ass!"

"I was going to say thighs..." objects Max.

"One minute warning, gents," interrupts the ref.

"Thank fuck!" I heave relievedly under my breath.

Never thought I'll actually be jumping at the opportunity to get back on that field. Especially after ending up in the hedge thanks to Tariq barrelling his pony into me, and Neville gut-shotting me with the head of his mallet... both on the pretence of not having seen me coming.

Fuckin' assholes...

Luckily, the umpires had seen through their thinly-veiled BS and had awarded penalties in our team's favour. Not that that lessened how much pain I’m in. But I’m not gonna give those blue-blooded dick-weeds the satisfaction of thinking they can brute force me out of the match...

I'll just have to deal with the inevitable physical fallout later tonight... in the company of a bottle of whiskey and a half-a-dozen ice packs.

Plus, the chance of potential further injury is a small price to pay to get away from the fucked-up turn this conversation has taken...

But as I turn on my heel to head back to my horse, I feel the undeniable force of a flat-handed whiplash reverberate over my rear.

"Hate to see you go, Walker!" hoots Leo. "But love to watch you leave!"

A growl of aggravation hurtles out of me...

...but before I can round on the jerk-face of a Rys, I feel Chris' arm drop around my shoulders.

"He means it all in good fun," he reminds me, steering me away. "No need to get worked up about it."

"Easy for you to say," I grunt abrasively. "Your ass ain't the one in the line of fire."

"True," he concedes. "But then I don't cut quite the same figure as you do in jodhpurs."

A dry scoff escapes me. "Your loss, buddy. I keep telling' you to come to the gym. You could've been on the receiving end of all this attention today."

"And steal your limelight?" laughs Chris, swinging into the saddle. "That wouldn't have been very sporting of me now, would it?”

I roll my eyes as I mount my own horse. "Steal it all you want. You know I prefer it on the sidelines."

"I think the ladies might disagree..." He flicks his head meaningfully towards the stands behind me as he clips his helmet back into place.

Glancing over my shoulder as I grab a replacement mallet, I spot the no less than thirty females with binoculars trained on our position, their accompanying hand-crafted silk fans going at full-tilt.

I turn back to Chris. "They're just eyeing you up, buddy. No doubt as a potential marriage prospect."

"And you," he winks, hefting his mallet onto his shoulder as he rides back out onto the field. "You have managed to capture their attention quite decisively as well."

I shake my head with a scoff as I follow after Chris. "Yeah. Right."

Hell'd have to freeze over first...

In all the years that I've lived at the Palace, I can’t remember a single time when a girl — any girl, much less a social-climbing aristo — has ever given me a time of day when I've been stood next to Chris. And even if I did manage to strike up some semblance of a conversation, the moment they found out that I’m a nobody — with no rank, title, or prospect of a massive inheritance, I was as good as dead to them.

Because who'd want to waste time on a commoner when there was a bone fide prince on offer? Not anyone sane.

Not that I really care.

I have about as much in common with aristo women as shit does with Chanel — fuck all. So, I kept my distance, and they kept theirs, save for the occasional forced interaction mandated by basic decency at public events.

And that's why I know — for a fact — that it isn’t me those high-society females are checking out. Not when both the Rys and the Beaumont brothers are eligible and available.

So, I waste no more time thinking about it, and focus, instead, on the task at hand. Which is paying the other team back for the hell they gave us earlier.

But Neville and Co. clearly have the same idea, because the second half of the match unfolds just as brutally as the first. Neither side is willing to give any quarter as we battle each other like vandals for possession and goals.

I bear the brunt of the attacks, but I’m rewarded with some perverse retribution towards the end of the fifth chukkah when in their haste to intercept me, Tariq and Anton collide into each other, and Tariq gets thrown from the saddle.

Yet against all the odds, our perseverance pays off. In the last thirty seconds, we manage to steal the ball away from the posh pricks in a clever bit of defence curtesy of the Beaumonts, turning the play around to score in their goal instead, and ending the match 10-9 in our favour.

"Whoo!" exults Max, jabbing his mallet into the air as we ride jubilantly off the field. "What a game!"

"Couldn't have done it without Drake," adds Chris, waving to the cheering crowd as we canter past the stands.

"Yeah. Definitely wouldn't've gotten so many penalties," I mutter, wincing from the latest set of bruises... while trying to shrug off the attention I suddenly find myself the focus of again.

"Yes," agrees Bert. "I have to admit I was sceptical, but young Mr Walker here has certainly proven himself to be a capable substitute."

"Bloody capable, I'd say!" interjects Max. "Did you see that goal he scored with that tidy cut shot? Or when he managed to steal the ball from Neville and ride it all the way back up the field with three players chasing him? Or—"

"Yes, yes," accedes Bert with a sigh. "We may make a semi-decent polo player out of Mr Walker yet."

"Semi-decent?" I snort caustically.

"High praise from Bertrand if ever I heard it," winks Chris at me.

"Bravo!" claps Leo as we reach the staging area at end of the field. "The royal team rides to victory!"

"No thanks to you," I point out, throwing my leg over my horse's neck to slide out of the saddle. After the beating I've taken today, I don’t have it in me to try and dismount the traditional way. And even my modified solution causes me to grunt in pain as I hit the ground.

"A great leader knows when to delegate," he responds unabashedly, reaching for my rear again.

I slap his hand away. "Last warning, Rys. You try that shit again and you'll be delegating everything for the next six to eight weeks..."

"You think I don't do that already, Walker?" he grins, completely unfazed by the seriousness of my threat.

"Putain de merde..." I huff under my breath as Leo ambles off to personally congratulate the rest of our team.

It isn’t exactly a secret that the heir to the throne is less than reliable when it comes to fulfilling his royal duties. But he can at least try to be less blasé about it. Especially considering the fact that everyone around him’s left constantly scrambling to cover for his increasingly frequent absences.

Sensing movement behind me, I turn to step in front of the groom that’s appeared next to my horse.

"Je m'en occupe," I declare, taking the reins back decisively.

The lanky teen opens his mouth to protest, but I've already turned away to lead the chestnut mare towards the stable block.

I know it’s common practice for polo players to dump the care of their mounts on the fleet of grooms that accompany each team — partly so they don’t get their expensive white jodhpurs soiled, and partly because they no doubt feel that grunt work’s beneath them. But I'm already covered in everything from sweat to blood to dust, so getting a few extra horse hairs on me isn’t gonna make a lick of difference to how I look... or smell.

Plus, after all the crap that I've had to put up with today, the last thing I want to do was pose for photos, gag on fancy pisswater, and pretend to socialise with flunkies, flakes and fat cats.

That’a Chris' world. Not mine.

Especially since I can have a more intelligent conversation with my horse than with half the tossers out there... and I definitely don’t want to interact any further with the assholes who tried to land me in the ER today. As otherwise things are bound to get ugly off the field as well.

Best that I just remove myself from the spotlight, and let the Beaumonts and the Rys take the credit and the congratulations.

Entering the coolness of the stables, I make my way down the row of stalls, scanning the engraved name plates as I go.

Locating the right stall — based on the name stamped on the mare's bridle — I lead the horse in after me.

Unclipping the bridle, I sling it over my shoulder and let the chestnut drink while I pull the saddle off. Dropping the tack over the stall door, I slip quickly into the familiar motions of my past life as I set about removing the bandages from her legs and unbraiding her tail, the tension in my shoulders starting to unravel as I worked.

As life-or-death as the match may have been, it had been a nice change of pace to be back in the saddle again, working with horses...

Humming Garth Brooks’ Rodeo softly under my breath, I stuff the bandages into my back pocket and pick up the saddle and bridle again to return it to the tack room.

...which makes me think of the young gelding that I left back in Texas.

I heave a breath. Need to figure out what to do with him...

In the midst of my abrupt departure from the ranch last year, and the fraught months that followed trying to steer Chris through the psychological minefield of his PTSD, the last thing I've been thinking about is Lone Star, or my future plans. But now that things aren’t so touch and go – Chris' performance at today's match a testament to how far he's come thanks to his counselling sessions – I have some overdue soul searching of my own to do.

Stowing the mare's tack away, I'm reaching for a grooming kit when I feel the tell-tale pressure of fingertips digging into my backside.

I whip around with a growl. "Touch my ass one more time, Rys, and I swear to God, I'll—"

"Hmm... Testy on and off the field..."

Whatever I’m going to say gets forgotten as I find myself staring into the grey-green eyes of a truly stunning blonde.

"But then I always preferred my males to be hot blooded," she purrs, her blood-red lips curving into a seductive smile as she steps closer.

"Umm... I... Ah..."

She's somehow managed to put a stranglehold on my vocal cords as well...

...probably because she’s wearing nothing except stilettos and a black lace bustier.

"Not very articulate, though..." she muses, flicking her gaze over me... like a cat trying to decide whether she should eat her prey, or toy with it first.

I swallow hard. "I—"

"Not that it matters, I suppose," she declares, slapping the business-end of a riding crop over my mouth, cutting me off. "Because I'm not looking for platitudes..."

A strangled noise escapes me as she grabs me through the front of my pants. Holy fuck!

"...I'm looking for a savage ride."

Before I can choke out some kind of puerile response, she's shoved me backwards...

...and despite about a million warning bells going off in my head, I feel my dick twitch in response.

It could've been her uncompromising voracity, or the thrill of the unexpected. But one thing’s for sure — no girl’s jumped me out of the blue like that before and her take-control attitude’s hot as hell.

Maybe I've been wrong about aristo girls...

Because there is no mistaking that that's what she is — the polished accent, the perfectly styled hair, the pearls at her neck. But apparently that’s all just a carefully constructed façade to hide the low-down-and-dirty nympho that lurks underneath.

Stumbling, I land unceremoniously on the top of the wooden storage chest behind me. "Whoa... Easy there, missy—"

A loud crack rends the air.

"My name is Valeria Beauvaisis de Lavallée, Viscountess of Roussillon, you boor," she pronounces imperiously, sticking her heeled foot into my chest to push me back against the wall.

Lifting my hand to my stinging cheek, I feel a wetness beneath my fingertips. She managed to draw blood.

"And you will call me mistress." Wedging the leather keeper beneath my chin, she forces my gaze up to meet hers, demanding compliance. "Understood?"

The sharpness of the pain colliding with a sudden flash of animosity spikes my arousal into completely uncharted territory.

Domination? Rough play? Bit of bondage? Sure. I’m down for all that. But normally I’m the one running that particular show. So, finding myself on the receiving end of my own kinks is disorienting, to say the least...

...but not enough for me to want to tap out.

So, I give her the barest of nods.

"Good boy," she purrs approvingly, taking her foot off me to trail the end of the crop down my neck like a caress. "Now disrobe yourself."

My eyes narrow. It’s gonna be like that, huh?

Grabbing the bottom of my jersey, I start to pull it up slowly, holding her gaze the entire time.

Because while she may have managed to temporarily leash me, that doesn’t mean that I was suddenly her poodle, doing tricks on command.

So, while I’m willing to play along, it’s gonna be on my terms.

And I’m determined to make her sweat.

The bottom of the shirt clears my ribs, and I don't miss the sharp intake of breath as she rakes me with her gaze.

Plus, it’a satisfying to test her prepotence. No matter how marginally. Because she isn’t the only one here who can power-play.

I fling the shirt off.

"Now your bottoms," she commands hoarsely, alabaster cheeks flushed pink with arousal — and I haven’t even touched her yet.

I comply, reaching for the clasps at the front.

Her tongue darts out to moisten her bottom lip in anticipation.

I pop the top fastening.

Her pulse visibly quickens.

Finding the zipper, I start to inch it down lazily, my brazen gaze not leaving hers as I push myself back up to my feet.

Her breath catches in her throat as I shove the jodhpurs down. "Nom de Dieu..."

A lupine smile curves at my lips as I take a step closer. "You like what y—?"

I grunt as another blow lands on me.

"I did not tell to speak, rake," she bristles indignantly. "You will—"

The sudden jolt of pain unleashes something feral inside of me.

"Fuck this," I growl.

Grabbing her roughly around the waist, I snap her to me.

Her eyes widen in shock.

But before she can protest further — or whip me again — I've crushed my mouth to hers.

She may like playing the ruthless domina, but there is only one way this is gonna end — with her bent over, getting fucked.

Because I’m nobody's bitch, and refuse to be treated like one.

Her palm connects with my face. "How dare you!"

I jerk back in confusion. "Wha—?"

"I didn't give you permission to touch me, you presumptuous oaf!" she snaps, laying into me with her crop again. "Much less kiss me in such a disgusting fashion! I have a husband for that!"

My eyes widen. "Wait! You're marr—?"

"To a degenerate old todger who can't even do his business in the john, let alone with his wife," she pronounces, shoving me backwards. "So, I want your cock. And you're going to give it to me."

I crash tailbone-first onto the storage chest again. But I don't even have a chance to try and catch my breath because Valeria's already clambering onto my lap.

Grabbing my jaw roughly between her nails, she hisses, "Now shag me like the wild beast that you are!"

I slap her hand away. "Like he—"

"No excuses!" she screams, smashing the riding crop down against my thigh.

I jerk at the harsh impact...

...and she takes advantage of my momentary distraction to impale herself onto me.

"Jesus fuck!" I cuss as the hard downward momentum nearly snaps my dick in half.

"Mmm! That's it!" she exults maniacally, grabbing onto my shoulders with her manicured nails. "Service me with your functional tool!"

"Find a fuckin' mechanic, then," I hiss, trying to wrest her off me... because while I’m many things, homewrecker is not one of them. And I’m not gonna allow myself to be complicit in adultery. Under any circumstances.

A choked wheeze flies out of me as she grabs my balls in a vice-like hold without warning.

“Service me, you insolent cur," she hisses into my face, "or I'll geld you like one of my unruly colts."

Looking into her flashing eyes, it's clear that she ain’t bluffing neither.

Yup... I'd been definitely wrong about aristo women. They don’t just have a superiority complex. They’re batshit fuckin' insane.

And I should've trusted my gut when ittried to warn me that this beguiling siren was exactly that — a cold-blooded predator out on the prowl.

But — like the literal dickhead that I am — I'd let the promise of a hot fuck hijack my better judgement. Which is exactly what she'd been counting on when she set her sights on me.

I yank her against me with gritted teeth.

Because now that she's sunk her claws into me — quite literally — she isn’t gonna let me go until she got what she came for.

So, the faster we get this done, the better.

And I may as well try to get something out of this runaway train wreck besides the cuts and bruises of the repeated flagellations... and the black mark on my conscience...

...even if it’s just her talons off my junk.

"Yes! Yes!" she cries. "Ride me like a rabid animal!"

But despite that fact that I’m wedged balls-deep up a tight and very willing cunt, the moral weight of the sin I’m committing is apparently stronger than whatever physical gratification I’m managing to eek out of the situation...

Which — all things considered — is the square root of fuck all, as her death-grip on my stones, plus the beating I already received out on the field are conspiring to make each upwards thrust feel like a literal act of torture.

So, I start to deflate.

"I said harder!" she cries, momentarily releasing the hold she’s got on me to slap me remorselessly with that accursed crop.

"Nope," I say, taking advantage of the unintended opening to buck her off me into the cold stone floor. "We're done."

"You vile cretin!" she shrieks, spitting her blonde hair from her face as she pushes herself up from the undignified, ass-in-the-air position she landed in. "How dare you treat me in such an abominable fashion!"

I snort sardonically as I quickly stand to yank up jodhpurs that had pooled ‘round the tops of my boots. "What? Never been thrown off your high horse before?"

"Why you contemptuous little—!" she seethes. "I should have you whipped!"

"Pretty sure you've done that already," I grunt, fastening my pants with record speed. "And if this is any indication of how you treat your horses, then I hope they dump you in the fuckin' dirt as well."

"Oh, please," she laughs. "My horses are much too well-trained for such tasteless displays of disobedience. They know who their master is." She flicks her eyes over me disdainfully. "Something which cannot be said for you, you pretentious churl."

I feel my hands fist by my side. "You are not—"

"And while you may cavort with royalty, do not make the mistake of thinking that you are — or will ever be — anything more than a flea-ridden lapdog, doing tricks for scraps. So, if you know what's good for you, commoner," she decrees, spreading her legs imperiously, "you better finish what you started."

"You're right," I concede, taking a step towards her. "I stepped out of line..."

Her eyes glint in victory. "Easy to do if you weren't born into this world..."

"...by giving you the mistaken impression that I give a fuck about what you think of me." Picking up the dropped riding crop, I toss it at her. "So, you can finish yourself off, mistress."

She splutters in disbelief as the crop hits her on the chest. "But... You... How dare—?"

"Hope that riding crop's hard enough for you," I throw over my shoulder as I turn my back on her to scoop my jersey off the floor.

"You insolent, mouthy dog!" she screams. "You will not—!"

But I've already marched out of the tack room, leaving her shrieks of rage to echo emptily behind me.

I heave a relieved breath as I pull the sweaty shirt over my head...

Sweet fuckin' Jesus...! Talk about assault with a (less than) friendly weapon! That girl gave a whole new meaning t—

...and nearly crash into Chris as I round the corner.

"There you are!" he cries happily. "We were wondering where you had disappeared off to!"

"Just...umm... sorting the horses," I mutter, quickly yanking the rest of the shirt down.

"Can't stay away from the pretty fillies, huh, mate?" he grins, clapping me on the shoulder.

I wince under the impact. "You can say that..."

"Well, there should be plenty of those where we're going — the boys want to head out to celebrate our win!"

"Sure," I reply congenially. "As long as there's whiskey and lots of ice..."

Christ knows I need a drink... or ten, after today.

"I'm sure we can manage that."

"And I can burn these fuckin' jodhpurs."

As promised, this is the music video (and song) that helped inspire this fic (obviously doesn't help that one of the polo players looks like Drake 😇). Also, the video is 100% accurate in the fact that a major reason why women watch polo is so they can oogle the polo players under the pretense of being absorbed in the game 🤣

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Picture credits:

Fall- Drake - Polo - Valeria

#polo!#drake walker #the royal romance #prince liam #maxwell beaumont #bertrand beaumont #leo rys #drake's tight pants anthology #choicesjanuary2023 #drakes ass appreciation #cfwc fics of the week #Spotify

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