Chapter 6

Breath in, one-two.

Exhale, one-two.

Repeat, the rhythm never falters.

Cellie's sneakers echo a steady beat against the track's surface, her pace unyielding. A quick glance at her Garmin confirms her progress—four kilometers have been conquered. Just a kilometer shy of today's target, she intensifies the rhythm, her breath in sync with swift strides.

A well-timed break between her Behavioral Psychology and Hippotherapy classes affords her this running escapade. Long enough for a vigorous workout and a subsequent shower—essential for not assaulting the next class with the scent of exertion. Moreover, it's a prime time to clandestinely admire the football team in action; an admiration she swears is purely non-creepy despite occasionally finding herself captivated by their toned limbs and flawless form.

This subtle presence of grace motivates Cellie further—her runs stretch longer, her speed picks up; pretty girls unwittingly fueling her athletic drive.

Earbuds snugged in place, every drop of sweat a testament to her effort as it soaks into her attire, Cellie perseveres on. Truth be told, she didn't always find joy in the pounding and panting of running. Yet, it grows on her with each stride and she acknowledges its significance. After all, if she expects peak performance from Chariot, her stalwart pony, then mirroring such physical excellence is nothing short of fair play.

A telltale beep from her wristwatch signals victory—five kilometers achieved.

She transitions into a walk, air cycling deeply through flared nostrils as she eases off the track with a series of ankle rotations to soothe tense muscles.

Today she's capped at five kilometers instead of eight—a lighter run by design—but this means time is luxuriously hers. Rather than rush back to the dormitories, she opts for an unhurried walk across campus. She drinks in the vistas: Victorian edifices standing tall with historical grace; expansive fields of green; stables dotting the horizon; autumnal trees shedding their vibrant canopy; diverse monuments paying homage to illustrious alumni—a panorama that captivates and charms.

A particular tribute captures Cellie's attention each time—the statue of Chariot du Nord beside the Equestrian Studies building. A modest six-foot creation exquisitely crafted to portray Chariot's iconic Olympic triumph atop Shiny Rod mid-leap; both rider and steed immortalized in artistry and surrounded by a clear fountain sporadically wishing well-ed with pence.

Cellie would normally have paused here to reflect in admiration as was her ritual, but today familiar figures clustered around it catch her eye—three individuals she's less inclined to encounter—and so she continues past without stopping.

Diana's demeanor suggested everything was fine. She hadn't explicitly expressed discomfort nor had her actions indicated such, but the discontent of Hannah and Barbara was palpable as forecasted by the rest of the squad. Their penchant for sardonic remarks and abrasive jabs were relentless, making each day an ordeal for everyone on the Games team. It was as though they harbored a personal vendetta without cause—except towards Amanda, who seemed to revel in provoking the Hunt Team at every turn.

As Cellie strode past, attempting to merge with the background, an all-too-recognizable voice pierced the air. Twisting around, she locked eyes with Barbara lounging next to Diana, who sat with a book sprawled open on her lap. When Barbara addressed her with biting humor, Diana issued a cautionary note.

Cellie let out a sigh of exasperation, liberating herself from her earbuds which dangled over her glistening neckline. "Greetings," she retorted under her breath, brushing back drenched bangs and directing a brief gaze toward her dormitory's entrance across from where they sat.

As she made to leave, their call stopped her in her tracks. Arching an eyebrow, Cellie pivoted back toward them. "Yes?" she inquired.

"We're just dying to know more about Mounted Games," Barbara stated, exchanging a knowing look with Hannah. Despite the thick sarcasm lacing Hannah's words as she feigned interest, Cellie indulged them earnestly.

"Tryouts concluded in August," she informed them. "Should genuine intrigue strike you, next year beckons."

Hannah scoffed at that, hoisting up her bag in one swift motion. "Such pity. If only I had been aware of how accessible Stargate Equestrian's team selection was."

Barbara echoed the sentiment lamentingly, "Quite so; could've saved a fortune on private lessons."

"Girls."

With those words issuing from Diana's lips like thunderclaps, she snapped shut her book and stood with an intensity that sliced through the tension. She addressed her two agitating peers sternly. "Your next class beckons—far better use of time than stirring up drama here."

"But this is retribution," protested Hannah sourly. "Her team hassled us all weekend long! They're nothing but upstarts flush with Stargate Equestrian funds and undeserved egos."

Cellie's brow creased in confusion. "Your words are a mystery to me."

"The illustrious Captain," Barbara said with sarcasm thick as honey, eyeing her with disbelief. "Oblivious to her own crew's actions."

"This isn't the place to loiter, move along to class," Diana's voice was a low warning, pressing her textbook to her side and striding towards the imposing Equestrian Studies doors.

"Sure thing," Hannah mumbled sarcastically, a mischievous smirk playing on her lips as she glanced at Barbara. "Maybe our dear Cellie should indulge in a quick dip? She's shining with effort."

"I was actually on my way to—" Cellie attempted to clarify.

Her explanation was cut short as she felt an abrupt tug on each arm. Her strength was no match for the two ambushers. In a swift motion that left no room for resistance, Cellie found herself tumbling backward into the fountain's embrace, her arms flailing wildly before plunging into its chilly depths. The water's icy shock forced a gasp from her as she scrambled upright in its midst. Peals of laughter erupted from the duo who had orchestrated her downfall. She could only manage a spluttered "What the—" before cutting herself off.

Diana's admonishing voice floated nearby, fragmented and distant.

"Petty—unbelievable—get away—so cross with—"

But those words were lost to Cellie; heat flushed across her cheeks, signaling an embarrassment that overshadowed any other sound or sensation. With dogged tenacity, she pulled herself free of the aquatic trap. Visions of retributive fantasies flickered through her mind, thoughts of recompense against the laughing pair — but violence was not her way. Resigned yet defiant, she wrung out her drenched top, letting waterfalls cascade onto the sun-warmed stones. A sharp pang reminded her of scraped calves against the unforgiving fountain's rim—now marked with traces of blood.

"Cellie, are you alright?" came the concerned query.

A hand reached out for her but she dismissed it with an indignant flick of her arm, eyes blazing as she locked gazes with Diana. "Spare me your pretense and leave me be." Her tone left no room for argument even as unshed tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. They would not witness her cry; this she vowed silently. With determined strides and squelching steps in her damp New Balances — ruined before their time — Cellie made way for sanctuary within her dormitory walls, never once throwing a glance towards the mocking duo or their accomplice still reveling in their cruel joke.