He continues jotting notes down in time with the sound of the loop on his recorder moving.

“By the time the morning had come around, most of the arena was underwater, the dry ground just asking for flooding. I took for granted the trust Chil had put in me in the past. I should have withdrawn, but my pride and ego are what led me here.”

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, accepting fault in losing the gold medal for your country, but that would hardly be enough of a reason to let the blame rest on Chil’s shoulders, however wide they might be.

“How did the weather result in your fall?” He’s grilling me, circling like a shark that smells blood in the water.

The one thing the press loves more than a rising star is a fallen angel.

Looking past his scrawny frame, I seek strength in the bright sun. Achilles has always been my rock, and being separated from him for any length of time is next to impossible for me to bear, let alone in a situation such as this.

“The routine started fine. I could feel his tension, but urged him on regardless. It wasn’t until we moved into the pirouette that I could feel how off he was. When he reared, I was not in any way prepared for such a sudden reaction, and I was unable to get my arms around his neck.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I replay those fractions of a second in my mind. “When he came down, he threw an exaggerated buck, unseating me before rearing to his hind legs again. This time, I was holding on only by the reins. It seemed like forever he was standing there, frozen in midair.”

“It was at this time you made the decision to forfeit?” he prompts.

Opening my eyes, I drag them off the window. Then I narrow them at him, putting all the force of my physical and mental hurt into my stare. “It was not a matter of forfeiting or ‘tossing in the towel,’ as I’ve heard it said on the news. In the moment, I decided it was best to bail on my own regard, as I didn’t want to pull Achilles over on top of me.”

“Brave,” he murmurs sarcastically. “Did you know you had hurt yourself right away?”

“When I threw myself off and landed on my lower back, I knew instantly I had done damage”—I wince inwardly—“and sure enough, moments later, the pain kicked in, confirming my suspicions.”

“You were later taken by ambulance to Athens General Hospital. What is the seriousness of your injuries? If you don’t mind my asking.”

I mind, you clown, my brain screams, but thankfully, my mouth does not comply. “I have fractures in my sacrum on both sides.” It’s not hard to miss the depression settling in my voice at the possibility of being faced with the end of my professional riding career. “The sacrum is a triangle-shaped bone that is found at the bottom of the spine,” I add for effect, hoping he feels as stupid as he looks.

“What is your prognosis?”

“Standard procedure is three months off before I can start riding again.”

“But you won’t know to what degree until that time,” he finishes for me, and I nod.

Anxiety is creeping up my throat and into my features; I have no idea what life would be like without horses or riding.

“You wish to stand by your earlier statement that this national loss is attributed only to your lack of skill, not your horse’s temperament?”

He is pushing my buttons, and he knows it.

“As a horse has its own mind and sometimes objects to being through or in front of your leg, or just finds things a bit hard, they will react in a way that can trigger those fears.” I look him directly in the eye so there is no possibility of him misinterpreting what I have to say. “I imagine you’d see no kindness or flattery in being whipped or sparred through an event that crippled you with fright, all for the sake of a shiny, gold coin around your boss’s neck.”

The reporter later describes me in his article as ‘hostile denial in its finest form,’ which is followed by a brutally accurate portrayal of my injuries and a detailed description of my shortcomings as a rider. No longer do I push the boundaries of the sport in a fresh and challenging way. It has now been deemed that I have no respect for the discipline and, for lack of a better phrase, got what I deserved. However, it is in his last statement where he truly kicks me while I’m down.

With the injuries sustained during her fall, it is unlikely London Daniels will return to ride professionally at any capacity, but I suppose the real question is: Would the equestrian industry as a whole want the fallen favorite, even if she could?

Two Weeks Later

Willow Bay, Alberta

I REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME my heart was broken. I was ten. Tommy Pruitt had just given his Valentine’s Day card to Heather Boston, and I was crushed. Completely and utterly devastated. That afternoon, after barreling into the barn when I got home from school, a mess of tears and wracked by confusion, I dramatically flopped down into the sawdust of the stall Momma was cleaning.

After leaning her pitchfork against the wall, she slowly sits her lean frame beside me and pulls me into her lap. “Hush now, my sweet girl. What’s wrong?” she coos, sweeping my blond hair off my face.

I babble out the gut-wrenching story in waterfall fashion, the rejection stinging my young heart.

Pressing her lips to my forehead, she curls them into a smile before she speaks. “When life feels as if it’s become too difficult and our momentum threatens to break stride, remember, London—hope is not lost. We are strong women, we are horse women, and when push comes to shove, sweet girl, we can always change rein, for a new direction never ceases to bring with it a new light.”

“He was my soulmate,” I wail into the crook of her neck. “What if no one ever loves me again?”

Cupping my wet cheeks with her frail hands, she lifts my face to meet her gaze. “I think there are people out there for all of us. Not necessarily one perfect person, but a multitude of individuals who shape us into who we are. Then, hopefully, when we’ve twisted and turned, gathered some scars of our own, fate sends us the person to fade our scars and shine light into the dark parts of who we are. When they come? I’m not sure. Some get them sooner than later. Others get more than one. But I do believe we all find that at least once in our lives, and at that point, fate’s job is done. It’s on us to keep them.”

“I’ll love someone again?” I urge.

Tugging playfully on the ends of my hair, she smiles. “You’ll love so many things in life, London.” Tears pool in her eyes. “So very many things. But our hearts have to break a little sometimes. How else would we make room for all of that love?”

Satisfied with her answer, although not quiet understanding the depth of it all, I push to my feet and kiss the top of her head. “I love you, Momma.”

“Love you too, sweet girl.”

She was right. I grew to love a multitude of things in the sixteen years since that day, and occasionally, my heart breaks from loving or wanting some of them a little too much. But I don’t regret the passion or the fire that caused me to be this girl, the girl who has the kind of heart that breaks. Because it was just like her, just like Momma, to love so much that she’d sacrifice herself for others, time and time again.

I run my fingers over the letters in stone.

Abigale L. Daniels

I lay the flowers against the green grass. “Love you, Momma.”

Looking over my shoulder, I see Chil eyeing me between the panels of his horse trailer.

“I know, big guy,” I whisper under my breath.

It is time to go home with, once again, another break in my heart.