Read Chasing Perfection :: Chapter Five - Controlled Descent

Morning arrives without warmth.

The sky over Walden is a pale, colorless stretch, thin light filtering through a layer of high cloud that makes everything look sharpened at the edges. Frost clings faintly to the arena rails. The air tastes metallic and cold when Scarlett inhales.

She prefers mornings like this.

There is no softness in them.

She is already in the stables when the first bell rings across campus.

The barn is quiet except for the low rustle of hay and the occasional shuffle of hooves against packed earth. Scarlett works in silence, brushing her Arasael in long, deliberate strokes. Each pass of the brush follows the same path. Shoulder to flank. Flank to hindquarter. Methodical. Even.

Her movements are steady.

Her thoughts are not.

Private evaluation.

The words had settled into her chest the night before and refused to loosen. Not because she doubts her ability. Doubt has never been her weakness.

It is the audience.

She checks the girth once.

Twice.

Runs her fingers beneath the saddle flap to ensure no crease of leather lies hidden. Adjusts the bridle by a single hole. The small corrections calm her. Precision always does.

Footsteps echo down the stable aisle.

Measured. Familiar.

She doesn’t turn immediately.

Her father stops outside the stall but does not enter. He never does. The stable dust seems to recoil from him, as though even the air understands his aversion to disorder.

"You’re early," he says.

His voice is smooth. Controlled. Impossible to read.

Scarlett slides the final strap into place before facing him. "Preparation prevents mistakes."

"Preparation," he replies, "only matters if it withstands pressure."

The implication rests between them.

Scarlett leads Arasael from the stall. The gelding’s breath fogs in the cold air as he steps into the aisle. Scarlett’s posture aligns automatically the moment she stands beside her father - shoulders back, chin level, eyes forward.

"You will ride Course B," he informs her as they walk toward the arena. "Full height. Timed."

Course B.

Of course.

The most technically demanding configuration Walden uses for assessment. Tight lines. Narrow margins. No forgiveness in the spacing between elements.

Scarlett nods once.

They step through the arena gate.

The footing has been freshly turned; she can see the darkened texture of the sand, still slightly damp. The jumps stand waiting - painted rails sharp against the pale morning light. The triple combination along the north rail looks closer than usual. The oxer gleams faintly where frost has not yet melted.

Two instructors stand near the judge’s table, clipboards tucked neatly against their chests.

And at the far end of the arena, leaning one shoulder against the fence as though he has no business being anywhere else -

Max.

He should not be here this early.

He meets her gaze only briefly.

No grin.

No teasing salute.

Just a single, steady look that says: I’m here.

Her father notices the exchange.

"Your focus," he says quietly, without looking at her, "belongs in the arena."

Scarlett swings into the saddle in one smooth motion. The leather creaks softly beneath her weight. The familiar shape of it beneath her legs steadies her pulse. She gathers the reins, feeling the responsive tension of Azzie through the bit.

This is something she understands.

Lines. Distance. Balance.

The gate closes behind her with a muted clang.

"Begin," her father says.

No countdown.

No encouragement.

Just instruction.

Scarlett nudges Azzie into a forward canter. The rhythm settles quickly - three beats, controlled, elastic. She directs toward the first vertical, eyes already measuring the approach.

One stride.

Two.

Three.

Lift.

They clear it cleanly, landing balanced. She absorbs the impact through her heels, hands steady, seat aligned. No wasted movement.

Second fence: a narrow plank painted white, unforgiving if approached even slightly off-center. Scarlett adjusts half a stride earlier than instinct dictates, tightening her leg pressure subtly.

Up.

Over.

Clean again.

The third line approaches quickly - the triple combination.

This is where spacing punishes hesitation.

She counts the strides internally.

In.

Out.

The first element clears easily. The second lands heavier than she prefers - her gelding’s hind hooves striking the sand with a sharper thud than ideal.

For half a breath, Scarlett feels it -

That microscopic falter.

Her father’s voice echoes in memory.

You anticipated the landing.

She refuses to anticipate now.

Trust the rhythm.

Trust the stride.

The third element rises toward them. For a flicker of a second, Arasael shortens unexpectedly.

Scarlett corrects immediately - leg firm, reins steady, body aligned forward without collapsing.

They clear it.

But the recovery costs them fluidity.

She feels the break in rhythm like a hairline fracture beneath polished glass.

No sound comes from the sidelines.

Her father does not react.

The silence is deliberate.

She pushes forward into the rollback turn, guiding tightly along the rail. The angle is sharp - aggressive. She shortens the reins slightly, compressing the stride for the approach to the oxer.

The oxer stands wide and unapologetic.

It demands commitment.

She feels her heartbeat in her throat now, each pulse distinct. The air seems thinner here.

For a single, dangerous moment, her thoughts splinter:

If you knock this rail, he’ll see it as proof.
Proof that distraction compromises precision.
Proof that you are slipping.

And then -

Another thought.

Max is still at the fence.

Not judging.

Not evaluating.

Just watching.

Scarlett straightens her spine.

Commits fully.

They launch.

For one suspended heartbeat, there is only air and distance and the sharp scent of cold morning.

The back rail trembles faintly as a hoof brushes too close -

A hollow tick -

But it does not fall.

They land clean.

She does not allow herself relief.

There is one final vertical placed deceptively after the oxer - a test of fatigue, of mental endurance.

Scarlett maintains pace.

Counts.

Lifts.

Clear.

They cross the line.

Only then does she exhale.

She brings Azzie down gradually, hand smoothing along the warm curve of his neck as they transition to a walk. The animal’s breathing is heavy but controlled. Scarlett’s own pulse pounds hard against her ribs, though her face remains composed.

She dismounts with quiet precision and hands the reins to a waiting stable hand.

The arena feels larger now.

Colder.

Her father steps forward.

"You rode defensively," he says.

No greeting.

No acknowledgment of completion.

Scarlett removes her gloves slowly, folding them once before meeting his gaze. "The spacing required adjustment."

"You hesitated at the third element."

"Half a stride."

"Half a stride," he replies evenly, "is the difference between first and second."

The words settle into her like a weight placed carefully on a scale.

Behind him, one of the instructors writes something on a clipboard.

Scarlett keeps her expression neutral. "The oxer held."

He studies her for a long moment.

"Acceptable," he says.

The word lands harder than criticism.

Acceptable is survival.

Acceptable is not excellence.

"You are capable of more," he continues, lowering his voice just enough to ensure privacy without softness. "And if I observe your focus divided again, I will remove the variable."

There is no need to clarify.

Scarlett understands who the variable is.

Her fingers tighten imperceptibly at her sides. "Yes, sir."

Across the arena, Max’s jaw sets.

He had not heard every word.

But he had heard enough.

Scarlett turns before the silence stretches further and walks toward the gate. Her posture remains flawless. Every step measured.

As she passes Max, he falls into step beside her without touching.

"You rode like you were carrying something," he says quietly.

She keeps her eyes forward.

"He’ll never be satisfied."

Max's expression does not change. "That is why you need to ride for yourself," his tone is gentle, "not for your father."