Chapter 74. Unlucky Number
The next morning, after breakfast, Shuta An gathered Mejiro Dober and Tokai Teio in the private cinema. The curtains were drawn, the room dim, and the large screen before them was already prepared with footage from the upcoming Breeders' Cup Juvenile Fillies Turf. One by one, past races of their potential opponents were queued. After that, he intended to show several G1 turf mile races held at Hollywood Park Racetrack, dissecting the structural traits of that course—its rhythm, its straights, its unforgiving geometry.
Once the two Uma Musume had taken their seats, Shuta An cleared his throat.
(FYI, I don't know which year this Juvenile Fillies Turf was held. I found that Juvenile Fillies Turf was inaugurated in 2007. But since Heart Shaped was found that she was racing for this race in 2008, I would use this year as the references)
"There are thirteen registered runners. Excluding Dober herself, only two warrant serious attention. Heart Shaped, winner of the Marble Hill Stakes—a 1000-meter listed turf race in Ireland. And Laragh, winner of the Jessamine Stakes, a 1700-meter G2 turf race at Keeneland."
His tone was steady, analytical.
"Although Heart Shaped's victory came at a super-short distance, summer races for debut-year Uma Musume rarely exceed a mile. We cannot conclude she lacks stamina for it. More importantly—she is registered as an active Uma Musume in the Twinkle Series in the United States."
Tokai Teio arched a brow. "Which means—?"
"It means," Shuta An replied without pause, "that competing in a turf listed race in Ireland demonstrates extreme confidence in her turf adaptability."
He let the implication settle before continuing.
"So Dober, I want you to pay close attention to Heart Shaped."
The screen flickered to replay her race. From the gates, she dropped back deliberately—almost recklessly—only to surge forward mid-race in relentless pursuit.
"Her running style is even more extreme than yours," Shuta An said, turning his gaze to Mejiro Dober. "She intentionally falls behind early, then hunts the field down. And she will start to your left. Be especially aware of her. As for the other reasons—I'll explain later."
"Understood," Mejiro Dober replied, committing it firmly to memory.
Shuta An switched footage.
"As for Laragh—she is the only other runner here besides Dober who has won a heavy prize race. Naturally, vigilance is required. She won over 1700 meters at Keeneland by two lengths. The runner-up would have been worth noting as well, but she withdrew."
Tokai Teio tilted her head. "You say that like it's unfortunate."
"It is," Shuta An answered evenly. "Even if she came, I doubt she would be Dober's true opponent. But failing to sweep all the debut-year American Triple Tiara Route runners would be slightly regrettable."
"That sounds…oddly ambitious," Tokai Teio remarked.
"America doesn't even have a turf Triple Tiara Route," Mejiro Dober murmured.
Tokai Teio blinked, then nodded. "That's true."
After the final replay ended, Shuta An stood.
"Did you notice?"
The question was incomplete—but Mejiro Dober had already understood.
"Laragh, starting from gate three, will commit fully to front-running," she answered calmly. "She sets a fast pace. With Hollywood Park's final straight only 302 meters long, I should move early."
"And Heart Shaped follows exactly the pattern Trainer described," she continued, meeting his eyes. "Are you suggesting I mirror that approach? Advance earlier than usual, secure position before the final straight, then suppress Laragh before the sprint phase?"
A grin tugged at Shuta An's lips. "That's the simplified version of my strategy. Now I'll explain the execution in detail."
—
When he had finished outlining every projected phase—gate break, mid-race positioning, pace adaptation, and final acceleration—he added one final instruction.
"The race will not unfold exactly as predicted. If the tempo shifts, improvise. You do not need to rigidly follow my orders."
He had once said those same words to Silence Suzuka before the Tenno Sho (Autumn). Back then, they had emboldened her to blaze through the first 1000 meters in 57.4 seconds. The memory carried brilliance—and regret.
This time, he repeated them for Mejiro Dober. Because he knew her temperament.
Obedient. Precise. Trusting.
The entire Team Sadalsuud shared that trait—faith in his judgment so absolute it bordered on dangerous. He could not allow her to cling to instructions if the race pace betrayed them. If he did not say it, she might execute the plan blindly—even if instinct warned her otherwise.
And if that led to failure—Would that not be a betrayal of her trust?
He refused to let such a possibility exist.
As for Saturday's conditions, forecasts predicted clear skies over Inglewood, home of Hollywood Park Racetrack. The turf would remain firm; no artificial watering theatrics like those sometimes rumored of British associations. The environment favored Dober.
"The track suits her. The distance suits her. The opposition is manageable."
Later that afternoon, wearing swimming trunks, Shuta An reclined beneath a poolside umbrella, phone in hand, muttering those calculations under his breath.
In the water, Mejiro Dober and Tokai Teio continued their swimming drills.
Tokai Teio was not particularly skilled at swimming.
Mejiro Dober was worse.
Truthfully, outside of running, she was unfamiliar with nearly every other sport.
"Two days before the race," Shuta An called out, glancing at Dober's strained expression as she struggled through another lap, "we can't intensify track work any further. The pool will have to suffice."
And though her face showed discomfort, Mejiro Dober did not protest.
Because she understood.
Every measure, every restraint, every calculation—Was for victory.
—
Saturday in Inglewood dawned beneath a flawless sky. From certain corners of the neighborhood, the hills rose in the distance, and beyond them—Beverly Hills, like a mirage suspended in sunlight. The air was clear, bright, almost theatrically so.
Departing from Beverly Hills early, Shuta An and his two companions arrived at Hollywood Park Racetrack well before the crowds thickened.
After personally seeing Mejiro Dober off to the waiting room, Shuta An led Tokai Teio toward the VIP box prepared by the Breeders Cup Series organizing committee.
"The Breeders Cup Juvenile Fillies Turf is the fourth race today," he said as they walked the corridor. "We won't have to wait long before Dober runs. What about the later races, Teio? Interested?"
"To be honest? Not really." Tokai Teio puffed her cheeks slightly. "Most of today's fields are debutantes, right? Their overall level isn't that impressive. I'd rather go back to the villa and watch anime or play games."
"And tomorrow?"
"Not especially interested either. It depends on what you and Dober-senpai want to do." She shrugged. "The only races these two days that can get me excited are the ones Dober-senpai is in."
"I plan to watch tomorrow's races," Shuta An replied evenly. "After today concludes, I'll give both you and Dober two days off. You can go wherever you'd like. Three days from now, we return to Japan. You'll need to prepare for final exams and winter break."
"And Dober-senpai?" Tokai Teio asked, conscience prompting her to add the question.
"Regardless of today's result, her next race will be the Hanshin Juvenile Fillies. That will be her final start this year. Next season, I intend for her to begin with the Oka Sho."
Tokai Teio blinked. "Jumping straight into the first leg of the Triple Tiara? Won't that be risky?"
"For Dober?" His voice held unshakable certainty. "There won't be a problem. And if there is, I'll eliminate it before it manifests."
"I believe you can," Tokai Teio said without hesitation.
As he opened the VIP box door, Shuta An added casually, "Once we return to Central Tracen Academy, I may begin adjusting your training regimen for next year. I expect improved results."
"Eh?" Tokai Teio followed him inside, puzzled. "When did you design a new method for me? Haven't you been busy with Suzuka-senpai and Dober-senpai?"
"I never stop studying," he answered with a faint smile. "I can't rely on what I learned in school forever."
Tokai Teio turned her gaze aside, a small smile forming. "Then I'll look forward to it."
—
Inside the waiting room at Hollywood Park Racetrack, Mejiro Dober frowned slightly.
Compared to Woodbine Racetrack, the facilities felt noticeably less refined.
"The competitive level here is stronger than Canada," she murmured under her breath, "but the logistical support is—lacking."
Still, she had not come here for decoration.
She sat down on the sofa, closed her eyes, and steadied her breathing. The Breeders Cup Juvenile Fillies Turf was the fourth race of the day. The wait would not be long.
"I'll review the first three races' replays," she thought. "Observe how the turf behaves today. I haven't stepped on it yet."
A pause.
Then realization.
The first three races were all dirt events.
She would be the first to step onto the turf today.
"I'll adapt," she muttered quietly as she rose to report. "The staff haven't watered the course. The surface should remain dry."
She could handle high-moisture turf—but as a late-surge specialist, heavy ground dulled her weapon. If a front-runner adapted to such conditions set a pace beyond her threshold, the race could become treacherous.
"But Laragh prefers fast fractions," Dober thought, a faint smile appearing.
If forced to choose among front-runners, she would always prefer one who committed aggressively.
The reasoning was simple.
In training, the front-runner she faced most often was Silence Suzuka. While Laragh might sustain 58 seconds per kilometer, her overall strength did not approach Suzuka's level. Dober did not consider Laragh a true threat.
As for Heart Shaped—the rival Trainer specifically warned her about—today's condition seemed—average.
Instead, another runner caught her attention.
Maram.
Only her debut footage had been shown during analysis, yet the aura she carried now was unmistakable.
"It's as though she's trying to prove something," Dober narrowed her eyes briefly before withdrawing her gaze as if by coincidence.
"No matter," she told herself firmly. "Trainer's assessment will be proven correct. None of them will trouble me. I will win—decisively."
As her resolve crystallized, staff members began summoning the runners for the parade.
Mejiro Dober opened her eyes and quietly took her place at the very back of the line.
Gate 13.
She glanced at the number.
"Do Americans really dislike thirteen?" she wondered. "At least it isn't Friday."
A faint, composed smile appeared.
Superstition held no authority over her.
Only performance did.
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