Cold Nerves

[Pan Banks]

Marcus Foster

Pan leaned against the silver railings, anxiously picking dirt from under her nails as the horses were slowly loaded into their start gates. She had yet to make use of the VIP viewing room she'd been granted, preferring instead to take up her mantle as a trainer and escort her own running colt to the field. It was difficult and rare to be both owner and sole trainer of a racehorse, let alone to be successful doing it. It also made watching all the harder, and racing all the riskier, as she was quite literally betting her career and livelihood on every race.

Her lips drew tighter when her own horse, Surfer's Paradise, balked slightly before his gate. He'd always been a bit twitchy in high-stress situations, and she was hoping some race exposure would help him get over the issue. It was only a maiden race, so she wasn't so incredibly concerned by the outcome; but a win was always exciting. Her hand absently raised, raking through her auburn hair once, twice. Was she always such a wreck before a race? Surely not. She'd have grey hairs in a matter of months if that were the case.

Pan breathed a sigh of relief, mouthing a thank you as her assistant returned with two bottles of hard cider. She took them both, enjoying the cool sensation. Bubbly champagne was all well and polite, but it did absolutely shit-all for her nerves, and if she were being honest, didn't taste nearly as fancy as it sounded. She turned a bottle around and whistled. "6.9% alcohol. That's what I'm talking about." Now....To figure out why she was holding two. Pan cast about for her assistant, but the young man had been swallowed by the crowd. All of the horses had been loaded into the gates, and she didn't much feel like searching him out.

With a shrug Pan turned to the person beside her, a stranger she hadn't bothered a glance at until now. With a wicked grin she placed one of the cold cans against a patch of their bare skin. "Fancy a cold one?"

[Marcus Foster]

What the hell was Marcus, of all people, doing in the stands of a horse track in the late winter? If asked this very question the former Army Ranger probably wouldn't be able to give much of a credible answer. He was simply there. The event was some sort of winter practice/exhibition thing and not much of a big deal, or at least, that's what Marcus thought. He couldn't tell for sure but what the hell did he know about horse racing? All he knew was it happened to fall under the umbrella of 'shit he hadn't done yet.'

So it was with no intent other than the experience that brought Marcus out on a chilly, January afternoon. He leaned against the railing, watching the horses being led to the gate, his broad form covered in a hoodie proudly declaring him to be a 'pew professional' complete with the outline of an assault rifle over the lettering. He had been content to spend the afternoon quietly watching the display but that didn't seem to be in the cards as a husky voice beside him instantly grabbed his attention.

Marcus quirked a brow, turning to glance at the young woman who had spoken to him. His eyes flicked from her to the offered bottle then back to her again. This had been the start of many a wet dreams had during the long months spent on deployment. "It's like you read my mind." He said without missing a beat and accepting the offer with a bit of a smirk on his face. "Did I win something or was I just in the right place at the right time?"

[Pan Banks]

Pan beamed when the stranger accepted her offering, though, why would he not? Free alcohol; come on. She twisted off the lid and lifted the bottle in a salute. "Won the pleasure of my company," she joked. "Got you free booze, didn't it? We're basically mates now."

She spared a moment to peer anxiously back at the track, noting Paradise was appearing much calmer now. "You know anything about racing?" The woman asked, not peeling her eyes off gate 7. "Or rather what I mean to say is, you put money on any racers?" Pan took a draw of the cider and sighed. It wasn't as strong as she normally liked. Couldn't really expect more. It wouldn't do to have a gathering of drunkards on the race tracks. That was a lawsuit waiting to happen.

A voice, old and cranky sounded over the speaker, giving a final introduction to the racers and heralding the near-start of the race. Pan shoved her bottle into the back pocket of her jeans and leaned forward, pointing eagerly at gate 7, her own colt. "That one there!" She exclaimed, with great conviction. She glanced over at the stranger to make sure he was both listening, and fully understood how serious she was. "He's going to win. I guarantee it."

[Marcus Foster]

The lady had a point Marcus wasn't going to argue. He shrugged and nodded in response. Sometimes things really were as simple as they seemed and he was sort of hoping this would be one of those times. He was finished with drama and bullshit and there was no denying the idea of sitting back and watching some horses go around in circles with a few bottles of booze and unexpectedly hot company sounded like a good day to him.

"Not a damn thing." Marcus replied after taking a pull from the bottle and giving a slight shrug of his shoulders. "This is my first time at the track." He elaborated a bit before turning his attention out to the horses. There was no need to front, Marcus didn't know jack about horse racing, why pretend for the sake of a pretty face?

"The brown one with the white on his nose?" Marcus asked, glancing toward his still unidentified benefactor. Apparently she had something riding on the race, possibly literally. "How do you know that one, specifically, is going to win?" He only marginally cared about the horse itself, rather he found himself now far more interested in the redhead.

[Pan Banks]

It wasn't the fact that he knew nothing about racing that made Pan let out a peal of laughter, it was how easily he admitted it. Most people at the track had something to lose, money, horses, reputation; it was refreshing to find someone the complete opposite of everything racing usually embodied. Particularly because he was so brazen about it. Of course, she would take it upon herself to teach him the important things. It was her duty of course, and not at all because he was as attractive as sin. "First time for everything," she said, a slow grin making her cheeks dimple.

"No, you dolt!" She punched the stranger lightly in the arm then pointed again to the track. "The grey one!" The bell sounded as she pointed and Pan watched the horses spring free of the gate and race away. They held her attention for a few moments before she offered the man a secret smile. "I can see the future," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. Then, unable to keep that lie going, she burst out laughing again, turning to watch the horses circle the halfway point. Paradise was in third but he was a late closer and she wasn't worried. "I trained him, and I own him."

Her green eyes flickered up, up to his tall-ass face and she cocked her head. She'd been so distracted by alcohol, horses and hotness she'd forgotten to introduce herself. Now, if only she could say that every day, she'd be in heaven. "Pan Banks," she murmured after a long pause filled with curious staring. She stuck her hand out in his direction expectantly.

[Marcus Foster]

Yes, they were popping a horse racing cherry today. Not to be confused with a racing horse's cherry, which was an image Marcus had no desire to ponder. He knew many soldiers who left the military and found civilian life to be lacking in new experiences. In a way he understood their plight. He, himself, had jumped out of more planes than he cared to admit and fast roped out of just as many helicopters into countless real firefights over the course of seven total deployments in some of the worst combat zones the US had seen in 30 years. When a bullet hits you in the head and the only thing that kept you from returning home in a flag draped coffin was a bulky metal helmet bungee jumping just doesn't seem like much of a rush.

"Oooooh." Marcus nodded a bit as the right horse was pointed out. He eyed the beast for a moment. He couldn't tell one horse from the others save for the patterns on their coats. What made one horse more likely to win? He didn't have to wait for an answer, though, as that quickly came from the redhead with no small amount of pride in her voice. Marcus smirked as he glanced back to her. "So you've got a ringer in the race. That doesn't seem fair."

When the woman started looking at him as if she was just no actually seeing him Marcus turned to fully face her, studying her for a moment with amusement. The murmured introduction was met with a bit of a chuckle and he gladly accepted the offered hand and gave it a short shake. "Marcus Foster." He replied. "So." He shifted to lean against the nearby railing though his attention remained locked upon the woman. "Is this what you do for a living or just a hobby?"

[Pan Banks]

Was it unfair? She didn't think so. But then, she liked to win, no matter the cost. "Wooo! Go baby!" She screamed, pressing herself against the railing, her fist pumping the air excitedly. Sometimes she couldn't help herself from getting caught up in the racing fever, even when in company. It was a struggle to compose herself but the young woman managed it, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and turning back to Marcus. "I'm calmer when I don't watch," she explained with a sheepish smile. "You know how it's easier to go down a roller coaster backwards? Like that."

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms across her chess. "Hey, if Paradise wins, that's all on him." Pan was notoriously bad at giving credit to her jockeys. It wasn't because she didn't respect them - she wouldn't hire them if she didn't, but she had such an understanding of the effort her horses put in that anything else seemed minute in comparison. The cheers and screams rose to a roar as the lead horse crossed under the wire. Pan whipped around to check and sure enough, there was Surfer's Paradise being slowed to a trot, a reporter already approaching on a white horse. She returned her attention to Marcus with a cheeky grin. "Told ya. We should have put money on it, I'm always looking for an easy win."

She'd need to get down to the winner's circle soon enough but there was still time to chat before she was needed. Pan arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Can't it be both? If I can make money doing what I love, that's a win for me." She bit her lip, falling into serious thought for a second. Very sudden mood swings, and moments of switching in and out of focus seemed incredibly normal for Pan. "Maybe I should have become a prostitute."

[Marcus Foster]

Marcus flinched at the redhead's sudden outburst. His eyes widened as he watched her, the he blinked a few times as a smirk spread across his features. She was enthusiastic, he would give her that and as his attention turned to the beasts thundering along the dirt track he couldn't help but find it almost infectious. He didn't realize until the crowd roared its approval of the eventual winner that he'd been holding his breath. It was certainly a far cry from his last interaction with horses.

"Huh." Marcus issued a low grunt of surprise. So she'd been right, her horse had come in first. The pageantry and celebration that had started to surround the horse and jockey carried little interest for the former Army sergeant when compared to the woman beside him. He shifted again, turning to face her as he leaned against the railing. "So what would the payout have looked like if there had been money on your horse?" He asked. He'd known a number of soldiers who had taken part in betting on all manner of events, including horse raising, though he'd never had much interest himself.

There was an understanding and reasonable reply that was going to follow Pan's remarkably poignant take on hobbies and professions though it never saw the light of day. Marcus had taken a drink from the bottle, finishing it off when the sober remark about prostitution caused him to nearly choke. He gave a low cough wiping at his bottom lip with the back of his hand. "You don't want to do that." He said, surprisingly not missing a beat in spite of his little mishap with his drink. "It'd be all sweaty, hairy guys coming at you with their sausage fingers. Bet they'd be clumsy and fumbling around." He shrugged, shaking his head a bit. "It'd probably be more of a chore than anything."