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September 23, 2018

Samantha Chronicles: Time for some action

My phone rings. It’s Mr. N.

“How is it going?” he asks.

“Fine.” I respond. “He has scored thrice.”

“Good. That will put him in a good mood. Ensure he gets drunk,” he says. “He won’t sleep with you if he’s sober.”

I’m not quite sure how to take that. He won’t sleep with me unless he is plastered! Not exactly good for a girl’s ego.

“It has to be tonight?” I ask. “He seems the type you need to go slow with.”

“We don’t have the luxury of time. You will start to show in a few weeks,” he retorts.

“Ok,” I say glancing at the field. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The match has ended and the prude acknowledges the cheers as he trots his pony round the track, hat held up, absorbing the adulation.

“Just get it done, Samantha. We have one more after this one.”

“Ok, ok. I hear you!” I say, anxious to get off the phone.

I ignore the player’s earlier suggestion to go check on the prude’s horses after the match. I’m not here on some animal welfare project, I need to focus. He dismounts and heads towards me. Straight to me? That’s a good sign!

“You were great! Congratulations!” I say.

He has a huge grin plastered on his face so I continue with the praises.

“I noticed you were occupied for most of the match,” he interrupts.

“Oh. Your friend was giving me a live commentary. I would have been lost without him,” I say with just the smallest degree of breathlessness. Creating triangles is paramount in seduction. Let him think he is in competition.

“Did he ask about me? About us?” he asks.

“He did as a matter of fact. He says you hate the press,” I say with a smile.

He sits beside me. “That much is true.”

“He also had some gruesome tales about how some horses are treated,” I continue.

“He sits up straight. “What did he say?”

I shrug. “I don’t remember most of it, I was cheering you on.”

“Don’t take him too seriously. He is well known for his conspiracy theories,” the prude says shooting daggers in the general direction of the player.

“Enough about him. Come on, let’s go celebrate.”

We head to the clubhouse where I attack a few cocktails as he orders scotch. Drinking is not as easy as it once was and I begin to feel nauseous. Damn this pregnancy! The prude doesn’t notice and a bottle of Glenfiddich later, he is in happy land.

“You were soooo strong out there. Sooooo attractive,” I purr.

He laps it up. “Did you see my third goal?” he asks and goes into a commentary for the 20th time about his own amazing prowess. Mohammed Ali style. I smile and nod.

“Shall we get out of here?” I ask.

“You want to go home?” he asks surprised.

“I want to give you a champion’s reward,” I respond.

“What does that mean?” he asks laughing.

“Why don’t you take me to your car and find out?” I say coyly.

“My car?”

The player makes his way towards us. “Congratulations,” he says to the prude and they shake hands.

“Thanks for keeping my girl company for me,” the prude says.

“Your girl?” the player asks. “Is that so?”

They both turn to me. The scotch has certainly loosened the prude’s tongue. Or is it pissing on his territory?

“I don’t know if I’m his girl if I can’t get him to take a simple walk with me,” I say. “Perhaps you should take me?”

“If you wish…” he starts to say but the prude waves away the player’s outstretched hand.

“Let’s go,” he says and downs his remaining scotch.

 



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