Author's Note: If this story sounds or looks familiar to you, it's because it most likely is. This is a rewrite of a story I began on my old account: Corky Conlon-Cook. I'm hoping that I'll be able to do this story justice, as when I started it so, so, so long ago I had high hopes for the poor thing. Here it is, hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: All characters belong to their respective owners. Those you do not recognize belong to flyspecks.
"God Fly, she's a beaut," Racetrack Higgins said in awe, admiring the chestnut mare residing in the stall before him. Her lean, toned muscles twitched as she turned in the small space she occupied, facing the boys in front of her. She whipped her tail, nickering and pressing her nose against the bars until Race reached up and gently ran his knuckles over the Thoroughbred's velvet nose.
James the Fly grinned to himself, hitching his thumbs in the belt loops of his jodhpur pants, nodding in agreement. "She's one of the best horses I've ever had the opportunity to race," he admitted, leaning against the opposite stall, flinching slightly when the horse inside kicked the wall.
"Fly and Penny, going all the way," Racetrack announced in a triumphant tone. "Who would have thought a girl horse would best so many stallions?" He puffed out his chest jokingly at the word 'stallion'.
Fly rolled his eyes and playfully shoved Race. "Oh yeah, who would have though a girl could get the better of all those guys," he laughed, although his statement carried a deeper meaning that Race didn't quite grasp. "And how many times do I have to tell you? A girl horse is called a mare, Race. You'd think you'd learn a little something about horses after watching them every day."
Race shrugged. "Speaking of girls," he wiggled his eyebrows, "Is Mollie here today?"
Fly blushed at the mention of one of the stable hands, looking away in embarrassment. "Er, no," he replied.
Racetrack chuckled, shoving his hands into his vest pockets. "You know, you two would be good together," he pointed out with a grin.
Fly pulled his helmet further down on his head, fidgeting with the loose straps that hung beside his ears. "Oh, no," he denied. "She likes you just fine."
Race couldn't help but grin smugly. "Well, it is me."
Fly rolled his eyes again, smiling up at Racetrack. Not many people were shorter than the snappy Italian, but as a jockey Fly was one of the smallest boys around. "And who could resist a gambling, smoking newsboy?" Fly joked.
Race smirked. "Smoking, eh?" He glanced towards the large clock tower in the distance, stepping out of the way of a few other jockeys who were hurrying to their respective mounts. "Well, I'd better get back to the stands," he observed. "See you after the race?"
Fly nodded, "Sure, sure," distracted by the bustle around him, and watched as Race sauntered off to place his bet. The young jockey smiled in greeting at a few coworkers before stretching his legs, taking one last look at Race before the newsie disappeared into the stands.
Once finding a relatively good seat in the nosebleed section, Race opened the World he had saved for himself to read, scanning the headlines. Every day Race kept one paper for himself, feeling it was important to be up-to-date on the happenings of Manhattan. Typically he'd sell the paper at the end of the day to some loser who had missed out when the newsies were running the morning and afternoon editions. That way, Race could have his paper and sell it too.
A trumpet blared, signaling that the race was soon to begin, drawing attention to the impatient horses getting lined up in the shoots. Race folded his paper delicately, settling it in his lap as he looked up, searching out his friend and favorite jockey. Fly was among the middle of the bunch, sporting the colors red and black. A low chant began throughout the crowd, steadily growing louder. "Fly! Fly! Fly!" Race grinned, joining in on the cheer, stomping his feet in time. From across the track Fly saluted, sending the spectators wild. Girls squealed at uncomfortably high pitches and men bellowed in response. Race laughed to himself as he took in the scene. Fly had quite the fans.
Racetrack felt privileged to be acquainted with the quiet, introverted jockey, even if it had only been a couple of months ago that they'd met. He remembered it clearly, hanging around the stables and chatting up Mollie, the cute stable hand, when Race had brought up the name James the Fly. A slight tint had risen into Mollie's cheeks, making Race laugh. He had accused her of having a crush on the semi-famous jockey before admitting that he would probably faint at the prospect of meeting Fly. Mollie waved off Race's accusation, promising she'd pull a few strings and see what she could do, shooing Race from the stable and out to where the general public was supposed to reside, insisting she had work to do.
Lo and behold, the very next day, Fly had wandered up to Race—who had been selling his papers at quite a rapid pace—and introduced himself, explaining that Mollie had tracked him down and informed him of what a fan Racetrack was. The newsboy had indeed fainted for a moment, much to Fly's amusement, who had apparently shared the moment with Mollie, who continually teased Race for his girlish reaction.
He sighed, wallowing in the memory. A frown marred his face as he thought of Mollie. Race hadn't seen her for quite some time, and he promised, then and there, that he'd hang around the stables with her soon. She was a plain girl, with dirty blonde hair, nearly brown. Her eyes were a dark gray, reminiscent of the sky just before rain poured down. She, like Fly, didn't call attention to herself and enjoyed being on the sidelines and out of the spotlight. Racetrack thought they would be a perfect match, though he had never seen the two around each other; he had heard people with similar features fell for each other, and Mollie and Fly had many alike facial expressions. Maybe they were related, Racetrack mused. That must have been it. He made a mental note to ask one of his friends when he was able to talk with them next.
Which, hopefully, would be after the race that Fly won. Fly always won.
The gunshot rang across the landscape and the horses bolted, Penny and Fly taking the lead. By the smile on Fly's face, it was easy to see that the track was where he belonged. It was on the second bend that Race realized something was wrong. Fly was biting his lip, glancing down at one of his stirrups. Penny, a usually graceful galloper, was kicking up her front legs too high, gaining speed, but not in a promising way.
After that day, no one would be able to say what exactly happened, or be able to pin-point the exact moment of the problem, but somehow, Fly was launched from Penny's back, hitting the dirt sickeningly hard.
Fly, landing directly in the path of oncoming racers, was left vulnerable and dizzy on the track. At the speeds they were going, none of the jockeys could veer away in time without endangering each other, and Fly was in the middle of a stampede. A horse glanced off Fly's leg, causing the boy to yell out in pain as he scrambled, no longer dazed from his sudden fall, for the edge of the tack. With his head spinning and his body aching, Fly was unable to make it safely to the fence before being struck in the side of the head by a passing horse's hoof.
The blow was enough to knock Fly out cold, and he slumped like a rag doll, broken in the mud. The entire stadium was silent and on their feet; no one had even considered the possibility that James the Fly would be thrown during a race, much less stampeded by his fellow jockeys, who were now dismounting and running to their fallen comrade, the stakes completely forgotten.
The crowd erupted into gasps and a few wails and cries as people charged for the stairs, trying to get down to the track level, closer to Fly. The medics were arriving, far too slow for Race's liking as he pushed his way to the fence that separated the viewers from the track. To the side, Racetrack noticed Fly's employer—Penny's owner—shaking his head, face in hand. Race couldn't tell if it was in worry or disappointment.
As the doctors removed Fly's helmet, a ripple of shock swept through the crowd and Race squinted, not believing his eyes.
The jockey known as James the Fly had dirty blonde hair, and Race knew now why he had never seen Mollie and Fly together. It was because they were always together. It was because Mollie was James the Fly.
Author's Note: Reviews are always welcome :)