Scarlett’s jaw tightens as she slides her phone from the table, the screen glaring insistently in her hand. She lets out a soft, controlled sigh, straightening her spine and smoothing the front of her jacket with careful precision.
"I’ll. . . be right back," she says to Max, her voice calm but clipped, the playful edge replaced with that unmistakable wall of discipline she carries around her father’s influence. She gives him a faint nod, barely allowing her eyes to linger on him before standing.
With a few measured steps, she moves toward a quieter corner of the café, keeping her back straight and every movement deliberate, as if the simple act of walking can shield her from the tension rising in her chest. Once she is far enough away to speak privately, she presses the phone to her ear, her lips tightening into a line as she braces herself for the storm.
"Hello, Father," she says evenly, though the brief tremor in her fingers betrays just how much she is already on edge.
"What do you think you’re doing, Warrens?" Her father’s voice comes sharp, clipped, like a whip cracking across her mind. "Do you realize the kind of distraction you’re creating? Sitting in a café when you should be training, representing Walden, focusing on your performance?"
"I’m having a conversation," Scarlett replies evenly, tilting her head slightly so Azzie’s name floats in her thoughts, grounding her. "It’s not a distraction. I’m… taking a moment to-"
"A moment?!" he barks. "Do you know how this looks? Do you know how this will appear to your sponsors, to the board, to your peers? One cup of coffee, and suddenly the press is speculating-"
"I am aware," she interrupts, her tone steady but firmer now, the first flicker of defiance threading through. "And I can handle it. I am still riding, still training, still competing. One conversation -one cup- does not erase my discipline or my focus."
There is a pause on the other end, sharp but not long enough to signal concession. "You cannot afford distractions, Scarlett. Not now. You are expected to be perfect. Anything less is unacceptable."
Her jaw tightens, but she refuses to falter. "Father, I am not perfect, and I do not intend to be defined by anyone else’s version of me. I will continue my training, my rides, my work at Walden, but I am not a machine, nor am I a trophy. I have to make choices, and I am capable of balancing them."
A long, tense silence follows, his breathing audible through the line, heavy and controlled. Finally, he speaks, low and clipped: "See that this does not happen again. You know the consequences."
Scarlett’s fingers curl lightly around the phone, steady now. "Understood," she says calmly, though there is a quiet heat in her chest she refuses to show. "But understand this as well, Father: I am still my own rider. I will not apologize for living in the spaces between rails and expectations."
She ends the call with a precise, deliberate motion, sitting back at the table, exhailing slowly, reclaiming the moment she had stolen back from his shadow. Across the table, Max’s eyes meet hers, unreadable for a heartbeat before the faintest smirk tugs at his lips.
Scarlett’s eyes narrow slightly as she picks up her cappuccino again, a wry edge in her tone. "Why are you smiling?" she asks, voice sharp enough to cut through the tension, yet tinged with curiosity.
Max leans back in his chair, one elbow resting lazily on the table, grin spreading slowly across his face. "Oh, you mean that fire in your eyes?" he says, voice teasing, eyes dancing with amusement. "That little spark when you just told your father off without breaking a sweat?"
He tilts his head, studying her carefully, the smirk never leaving. "Honestly, Warrens… it’s impressive. And… a little hot. I’d say that qualifies as entertainment for me."
He sips from his cup, then adds with a playful shrug, "So yeah, I’m smiling. You’re spectacular when you’re defying authority. It’s kind of… irresistible."
Scarlett lets out a soft, controlled laugh, one corner of her mouth tilting up in a mixture of exasperation and amusement. She sets her cup down deliberately, folding her arms over her chest with practiced precision, but there is a faint spark of challenge in her gaze.
"Spectacular, huh?" she repeats, voice smooth, a touch teasing but edged with steel. "Careful, Summers. Flattery like that is dangerous. Especially coming from someone who’s already convinced he’s charming enough to get away with anything."
Her eyes flick to his grin, then back to her cup as she takes a slow, measured sip. "And if you think this. . . ‘entertainment’ of yours is going to make me blush or lose focus," she adds, tone razor-sharp, "you’re sorely mistaken."
Still, the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips betray that, for once, Max might have got a little under her guard.
Max’s grin only widens, his sage-grey eyes sparkling with mischief as he leans back just enough to look relaxed - though the way he holds her gaze suggests otherwise.
"Oh, I’m not trying to make you blush," he says smoothly, voice low and teasing. "That would be too easy."
He taps a finger lightly against the rim of his cup, watching her over the top. "No, Warrens… I’m more interested in seeing how long you can keep that perfectly controlled composure before it slips."
He tilts his head, smirk sharp and deliberate. "And something tells me," he adds with a slow, knowing smile, "you like proving me wrong almost as much as you like winning on the course."
Scarlett’s lips press into a thin line, though the corner of her mouth twitches in the slightest betrayal of amusement. She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms, letting her icy blue eyes lock on his with a sharp, calculating glare.
"Keep watching, Summers," she says coolly, voice smooth but edged with challenge. "Just don’t get too comfortable thinking you’ll ever see me slip. I don’t lose control. Not in the arena, and certainly not. . . here."
Her gaze flicks down briefly to her cappuccino, then back to him, sharp and unwavering. "If you think this is a game, don’t forget who’s usually in first place."
Despite her words, there is a faint heat in her chest, the tiniest crack in her armor that she refuses to acknowledge.
Max chuckles low, a slow, amused sound that seems to vibrate just beneath the calm hum of the café. He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, eyes locking on hers with that teasing, unrelenting intensity that always seems to get under her skin.
"First place, huh?" he repeats, voice smooth, teasing. "I like your confidence, Warrens. But you know," he adds, tilting his head with a sly grin, "first place doesn’t mean I can’t chase you."
He lets the words hang, letting the challenge - and the flirtation - settle between them. "And trust me," he continues, leaning back just enough to appear casual, "I play to win."
His smirk widens, just enough to suggest he isn’t talking about the arena anymore.
Scarlett’s jaw tightens, though the faintest curve at the corner of her lips betrays her irritation - and maybe a hint of intrigue. She tilts her chin up slightly, icy blue eyes fixed firmly on him, daring him to push further.
"Chase me all you want, Summers," she says, voice smooth, deliberate, and edged with steel. "Just don’t be surprised when you realize I don’t run… I control the pace."
She leans back in her chair, arms crossed, the perfect picture of composure, though the rapid beat of her heart reminds her otherwise. "And if you think winning me over is like clearing a course," she adds, tone sharp but teasing, "you’re going to find out the jumps are higher than you expected."
Her gaze stays locked on his, unyielding, a silent dare hanging in the air between them.
Max lets out a low, amused whistle, leaning back in his chair with exaggerated nonchalance, though the glint in his sage-grey eyes is anything but casual.
"High jumps, tight turns, tricky footing?" he says, voice teasing, slow, deliberate. "Sounds like my kind of challenge, Warrens."
He leans forward again just enough to close the space, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. "Don’t worry - I’m used to courses that push me to my limits. And somehow. . ." His gaze flicks over her just long enough to make her pulse quicken, ". . .I have a feeling clearing this one might be the most fun ride yet."
The words hang between them, equal parts flirtation and dare, and Max leans back, letting Scarlett stew in both the challenge and the undeniable tension building in the air.
Scarlett lets out a short, sharp laugh, the sound carrying both exasperation and a spark of amusement. She straightens in her chair, crossing her arms deliberately, the picture of cool composure even as her pulse betrays her.
"Fun?" she echos, voice smooth but edged with steel. "Summers, you really have a talent for turning even the simplest thing into a challenge."
Her icy blue eyes flick over him, calculating, daring. "Just remember," she adds, leaning forward slightly, voice dropping just enough to tease, "I don’t play fair. And I certainly don’t let anyone dictate the course."
She leans back again, letting the words settle between them, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips - half warning, half invitation.
Max lets out a low, appreciative laugh, leaning back in his chair with effortless ease, though the spark in his eyes betrays his amusement.
"Oh, I know you don’t play fair, Warrens," he says, voice smooth and teasing, the corner of his mouth curling into that infuriating grin she hates - and secretly loves. "That’s exactly why I like racing you. Every move, every strategy. . . it keeps me on my toes."
He leans forward slightly, resting one elbow on the table, eyes glinting with mischief. "And don’t worry," he adds, voice dropping just a touch, warm and deliberate, "I’m more than ready to take on whatever course you throw my way."
A pause, his smirk widens. "Even if it means losing. . . I have a feeling the ride will be worth it."
Scarlett lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, though the corner of her lips tug into the faintest smirk. She crosses her arms once more, leaning back in her chair, icy blue eyes meeting his with that familiar mix of challenge and amusement.
"Keep talking like that, Summers, and you might start believing your own hype," she speaks smoothly, voice edged with playful steel. "But don’t get ahead of yourself - I don’t hand victories over lightly."
She glances toward the door, a subtle shift in posture signaling the end of their stolen moment. "As much as I’d love to continue this little. . . strategy session," she adds, a faint chuckle escaping, "we actually have places to be and horses who aren’t going to wait for us."
With a decisive lift of her chin, she grabs her bag, letting her smirk linger just long enough to frustrate - and tease - him further. "Next time, Summers. I’ll see if you can keep up."
She stands, moving toward the door with measured, deliberate steps, leaving the words - and the challenge - hanging in the air as Max watches, grinning, already anticipating their next encounter.
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