Chapter Text
CEIBO
1971
The United States of America, New York.
Saratoga Academy
Forty thousand people crammed into stands, shouting, clapping, stamping their feet—it pressed against her skull from every direction.
This year's Jockey Club Gold Cup is over.
Shuvee's on the track, waving to the crowd. She'd won. Again. The veteran looked like she belonged here, bathing over all that adoration.
Paraje watched her for a moment, looked away, then headed to the tunnel.
From what she suspect, Mr. Frank would be in the clubhouse. He always waited in the clubhouse after everyone's races.
He'd probably pat her shoulder and say something such as "La próxima."
She didn't deserve his patience. But she was grateful for it anyway.
The tunnel was better. The noise softened to something she could almost ignore. Her footsteps echoed too loud—she hated that, hated not being able to move silently—but at least there were fewer people.
Fewer eyes. Fewer chances for someone to—
"—don't you give me that look, mister, i ran the race you called and i ran it clean—"
Paraje's shoulders went tight. She kept walking.
Loud was up ahead, arms windmilling, face flushed. She was almost shouting in the old man's face—an old man who stood with his feet planted and his arms crossed like he'd been carved from granite.
"—you're the one who said close the gap on the final turn, I closed the gap—"
"And I told you to close it with strides, not with your entire body!" The old man's voice was a whip crack, sharp enough to echo off the tunnel walls. "You nearly took out Shuvee on the homestretch!"
"She was in—!" She suddenly cut off. "Ugh!"
"She was in her line, Loud!"
Paraje caught maybe every third word but she couldn't really understand these two that well.
"I wanted—" Loud said. Quieter now. "I wanted to win, Mister Maloney..."
"I know." The old man reached up and put a hand on her shoulder. Squeezed once. "We'll get it next time."
Loud's whole body seemed to sag for half a second. Then she snapped upright like a soldier called to attention.
"Sir yes sir!"
The old man's mouth twitched but it wasn't quite a smile. Close.
"At ease, Now GO recuperate!"
"Sir yes sir!"
Loud spun on her heel and marched toward the exit—then stopped dead when she saw Paraje watching.
For a moment, they just looked at each other.
Then Loud jogged past her, still radiating with the same overwhelming energy she had in the race, and disappeared around the corner.
Paraje watched her go. Then she made her way toward the exit. She just wanted to return to her dorm.
A hand grabbed her arm.
Her body moved before she could think.
Twist. Pull. Her hand thrusted towards empty air.
Paraje pressed her back against the tunnel wall. Cold concrete. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her breath came too fast, too shallow, and she pressed her palms flat against the stone and tried to remember where she was.
"W-woah! You almost punched me..."
A familiar voice.
Paraje looked up.
Autobiography was standing three steps back, hands raised, palms out.
"I forgot to not... do that," she said. "I keep forgetting. That's on me."
"PUTA MADRE!"
Paraje pushed off the wall, grabbed Autobiography's collar, and shoved her back against the opposite wall with a sharp thud—"Gagh—!"
Then an arm wrapped around Paraje's chest from behind. A solid weight that didn't pull her back, only held her here.
"Tranquila, Paraje." Big Shot II's voice was low, calm. "Auto no lo dijo con mala intención."
The arm loosened slowly, letting her breathe, letting her feel the difference between being held and being trapped.
Paraje's jaw clenched. She kept her eyes on Autobiography—still against the wall, still rubbing her shoulder, she wasn't smiling anymore.
"Un día la voy a hacer mierda si sigue así," Paraje muttered. "que le quede claro."
Autobiography shifted to one leg and to another, she let out a grin. "I don't speak Spanish."
Paraje felt like she could just choke her out here and now. That shit-eating grin always pissed her off.
Shot's arm squeezes Paraje's shoulder in acknowledgment before letting go. Then she looked past Paraje and at Autobiography.
"Apologize."
Autobiography blinked. "What?"
"Mr. Frank told us to stop spooking her," Shot's voice was flat. "Just apologize."
Autobiography straightened up, brushed off her shoulder, and raised both arms in that theatrical way she usually had.
"Well then, I humbly apologize, Miss Paraje." Her grin widened. "Genuinely."
Paraje stared at her for a moment before she opened her mouth.
"Fuck you."
"dejála tranquila," Shot said. "Vamos. Al gimnasio."
Paraje's eyes stayed on Autobiography. On that grin. On the way she was already turning, already dismissing this, already making it clear the apology meant nothing.
Autobiography glanced back once. That same grin, smaller now, almost curious. She raised a hand in a little wave—bye-bye—then stopped. Her hand dropped.
"Oh. Right." She turned back around fully, hands on her hips like she'd just remembered something inconvenient. "Frank said—" A pause. She looked at Shot. "You tell her."
Shot's eyebrow went up. "You are right there."
"I'm right here and I'm telling you to tell her." Autobiography waved a hand toward Paraje. "She likes you better. She'll actually listen."
Paraje's jaw tightened. "I can hear you, pendeja."
"Good! Then you already know Frank said. You can do whatever to cool off." Autobiography spread her arms like she'd just delivered a proclamation. "Whatever. However. Wherever. His words were something like: 'tell her to take the rest of the day and don't come back until she feels like herself again.'" She paused. "I'm sort of paraphrasing?"
Shot sighed. "Stop making it worse, Auto."
"I'm excellent at this. I'm delegating." Autobiography said as she started to walk away. "Anyway, I'll see you two back at the hotel, 'Kay?."
Paraje watched her go.
Shot stepped in front of her.
"No vale la pena."
Paraje's jaw tightened. She tried to step around. Shot moved with her.
"Andate." Paraje's voice came out rough as she shoulder checks Shot.
"Paraje."
Shot didn't raise her voice. Never did. Just stood there, solid, patient, the way she always stood when Paraje was about to do something stupid.
For a moment, Paraje considered shoving her too.
Instead she sneered.
Shot took a step back and stayed exactly where she was. Right in front of the tunnel exit. Right in front of the path to the clubhouse.
"What about the race," she muttered in English.
"We're free," Shot replied in English. "Frank said... ehh—take the day off. He said—" She paused. "Relax. On your own terms. You seem to do it better alone."
Paraje rubbed her face with both hands. Hard.
"Better alone," she repeated. Flat.
"You know what he means."
"Yeah."
Shot watched her for a moment. Then, quieter: "You can let it out at the gym. With me."
"Let's go," Paraje said.
Shot nodded. Reached out. Patted her shoulder once.
They walked.
The gym was empty this late.
The weights were still racked neatly, the mats swept clean, someone had been here recently—but empty of people.
Paraje liked it that way.
She'd already stripped off her jacket, left it in a heap by the door. The punching bag hung in the corner, old leather scuffed from years of use, chains creaking slightly when she nudged it with her palm.
She circled it once. Twice.
Thump.
Left jab. Light. Testing.
Thump.
Right cross. Harder. The bag swung.
Paraje stepped into it, letting the momentum carry her, and when the bag swung back toward her she caught it with her shoulder and drove.
Thump-thump-CRACK.
Left hook. Right hook. Left uppercut that lifted the bag off its chain for half a second before it dropped and she was already moving, sidestepping, circling back to the other side.
Thump. Thump.
The bag swung. Paraje stepped inside and CRACK—uppercut, sending it flying again.
"Heh." Shot's voice, warm. "You could knock out Monzón if you wanted to."
She hit the bag harder.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
The bag flew. Paraje followed it. When it swung back she caught it with both hands and shoved, hard, sending it rocking wildly, then reset her stance and started again.
"Viste?" Paraje's voice came out rough between breaths.
"I know so." Shot had moved to the barbell now, adding plates with that same careful precision. "You've got the hands. The feet. You can... switch sports if you want to, eh?"
Paraje snorted. Upper cut. Sidestep. Jab-jab-cross. "No dejan que chicas como nosotras entren al ring."
"Inglés, Paraje. Inglés."
Paraje's fists stopped mid-air. For a second, just the sound of the bag creaking on its chain.
Then, slower: "They don't... let us horse girls... fight in the ring."
"Eh, well. Horse girls are runners. You'd beat them to their graves if you wanted to."
"I don't want to. I love Monzón."
Shot reached for her metal canteen beside her and unscrewed the cap.
The water sloshed as she tilted it back.
"Do you want water?" She held it out towards Paraje.
Paraje shook her head. Jab. Cross. Hook. The bag swung harder.
Shot shrugged and set the canteen down. Returned to the barbell.
For a while the only sounds were the THUD-THUD-THUD of Paraje's fists and the soft clink of Shot reracking plates exactly where she found it.
Paraje circled the bag. Left hook. Right hook. Uppercut that lifted it off the chain. She followed it, stepping into its return swing, and started again.
Shot wiped her hands on her thighs, crossed to her duffel, pulled out a rag—grey, faded, stained at the edges. She ran it over her face first, then her neck, then down each arm in long, methodical strokes.
The bench creaked when she sat. She wiped that too, sweeping the rag across the wood where her sweat had pooled, then draped it over her knee.
Paraje kept going.
Eventually, Shot layed down on the bench and closed her eyes.
The thuds continued beside her. Sharp, Consistent. Working through whatever it needed to work through.
Shot let her eyes close.
. . .
"Shot."
"Eh?"
Shot opened her eyes. The gym ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The faint smell of sweat, rusty plates, and old leather.
Paraje was standing over her, chest still heaving, sweat dripping down her face. Her knuckles were red despite it being padded the whole time with her gloves.
Shot swung her legs off the bench and sat up too fast. The room tilted for a second.
"Cuánto tiempo—" She stopped. Switched. "How— long was I sleeping?"
"One hour."
Shot's eyes widened. "Sos joda!?"
Paraje's mouth twitched. Just slightly.
"Inglés, Shot," she said. "Inglés."
Shot stared at her for a moment. The words landed. Processed.
Then her eyebrow went up.
"Was that... a joke?"
Paraje nodded.
Shot looked at her and eventually smiled back.
Paraje sat down beside Shot on the bench, letting herself drop, the wood creaking under the sudden weight. Her elbows found her knees. Her head hung forward.
She looked at her right hand.
The knuckles were red. Swollen. A thin line of blood where the skin had split across the middle finger—nothing serious, but it would bruise by morning. She turned her hand over, palm up, and just stared.
"Shot."
"Mm."
"Do you think... Frank gonna be disappointed?"
Shot was quiet for a moment. Paraje could feel her looking, but didn't look back.
"Frank?" Shot's voice came slow, like she was pulling words from somewhere deep. "Nah. He... he don't get disappointed. Not like that."
Paraje said nothing.
"Look, I know he's... Qué palabra era— Gruff. Always with the face." Shot shifted on the bench. "But he cares. A lot. You just don't see it." She gestured vaguely. "You don't let people close."
Paraje sighed.
"Why you ask me this?" Shot continued. "You been here one year now. You don't think I notice? You always talk to me. You don't talk to everyone."
"Tenemos historia," Paraje stared at her hand. "Vos y yo... te odiaba en ese entonces."
Shot chuckled. "Inglés."
"Sorry."
"It's okay."
...
"It's hard... to think how I got here."
"Maybe think harder then?"
"Okay."