Chapter 79. A Piece Of Trash Who Never Won A Classic Race.
"You have a team?" Baffert repeated, not discouraged in the slightest. "Teams can be changed. On the West Coast, mine produces the best results. We haven't taken the American Triple Crown yet—but that's only a matter of time. With talent like yours, it's achievable within a few years."
Lady's Secret muttered under her breath, unimpressed. "Idiot. You don't even recognize the Breeders' Cup winner standing in front of you?"
That jab made him pause.
His eyes narrowed. He stepped past Tokai Teio as if she were incidental and focused entirely on Mejiro Dober.
"So. It's that one."
"That one?" Teio's voice sharpened instantly. She hated that tone—reducing a champion to a vague label.
But Baffert had already connected the dots. Courtesy evaporated from his expression.
"The Uma Musume trained by that runaway failure from the West Coast dares to come back here?"
"Trainer is not a failure!" Tokai Teio shot back without hesitation.
Beside her, Mejiro Dober lowered her head.
Baffert smirked when he saw that reaction. "Am I wrong? Didn't even finish his internship. Submitted a resignation and fled. I went to see him off out of goodwill, and he tried to attack me. I dodged. Didn't bother pressing charges against a mentally unstable loser."
Lady's Secret remained silent. She respected Secretariat's judgment in inviting these two, but she had no personal stake in Shuta An. The tension did not concern her—yet.
Seeing no intervention, Baffert stepped closer.
Mejiro Dober took one quiet step back.
"Oh, please," he continued, voice dripping with contempt. "Uma Musume trained in a backward racing region like Japan can win turf Twinkle Series all they like. American turf is already weak. Does he dare send you to Europe? Can you win there? Or will you just farm soft competition?"
Tokai Teio lifted her chin. She knew her team's history by heart.
"Oguri-senpai won the French Two Crowns."
Baffert snorted. "The French Two Crowns? I thought you'd say the Epsom Derby. So he goes home to collect easy trophies? Stole honors because the French generation was weak. A glorified thief."
His grin widened. "If you're capable, win an American Classic. Japanese Uma Musume bully turf divisions. Dirt racing? You won't even see the podium."
Teio's fists clenched.
She wanted to strike him. Every nerve urged it.
But she forced herself still.
If she caused trouble here, it would fall on their Trainer.
She swallowed the anger.
And then Mejiro Dober spoke.
"I know my Trainer is not a thief," she said quietly. "But I know you are trash."
A shift occurred.
Moments earlier, she had lowered her head not in submission—but in analysis. Pieces didn't align.
Yes, her Trainer had resigned early.
Yes, he might have tried to strike someone before leaving. But the version presented here reeked of distortion. The resentment in Baffert's voice was too personal, too venomous to be neutral truth.
While he continued spewing accusations at Teio, Dober opened her Chanel pink mini flap bag.
From inside, she retrieved a pair of gloves—the ones she used while drawing on her tablet to avoid accidental skin contact.
Calmly, deliberately, she put them on.
Lady's Secret noticed. She said nothing.
Two seconds later, she was glad she hadn't.
Mejiro Dober lifted her head.
Her lips curved—not gently, not politely—but sharply, like a villainess in a fairy tale finally done pretending.
"I won't allow you," she said, voice cold and precise, "to slander my Trainer."
Her body twisted slightly.
The sound cracked across the courtyard.
SLAP.
It was clean. Direct. Decisive.
Years ago, Shuta An had nearly hospitalized this man. Had that not been the case, this strike might have loosened teeth.
Baffert staggered, hand flying to his cheek, eyes blazing.
"I won't allow it," Dober repeated. "You, who have never won a Classic Race, have no standing to speak."
"Bastard!" he hissed.
He knew better than to retaliate physically. A human against a Uma Musume—he would lose instantly. But his mind raced for retaliation of another kind.
"Serves you right," Lady's Secret said at last, her tone razor-flat. "Leave. They are guests invited by the Student Council President. Try anything, and it won't end well for you."
That reminder landed.
He glared at Mejiro Dober with naked hostility, then turned and stalked off toward the infirmary.
Silence lingered a moment after his retreating footsteps faded.
Tokai Teio stuck out her tongue toward his back. "I wish I'd slapped him too. Senior Dober, that was amazing."
Then she turned—and blinked.
Mejiro Dober was staring at her gloved hands with visible disgust.
Teio gently helped her remove them.
She tried to hand them back.
"Throw them away," Dober said softly. "Just looking at them makes me sick."
"Okay~"
Teio jogged to a nearby trash bin and dropped the gloves inside without hesitation.
When she returned, Dober's posture was steady again.
The courtyard noise resumed its rhythm around them.
Lady's Secret regarded Mejiro Dober for a long moment—this turf champion from overseas who had just demonstrated something far more telling than race results.
Then she turned.
"Let us continue," she said evenly.
But something in her tone had shifted.
Subtly.
Respect had entered it.
After Baffert slunk away, he did not reappear. At West Coast Tracen Academy, one might ignore Lady's Secret—but no one ignored the authority of the Student Council.
With that disturbance behind them, Mejiro Dober and Tokai Teio completed their tour under Lady's Secret's guidance. The campus proved expansive, efficient, and distinctly American in scale. The dining hall, in particular, left a strong impression—excellent quality, and far more affordable than restaurants in Beverly Hills. Even Dober, who rarely commented on such things, admitted satisfaction.
At last, Lady's Secret led them to the Student Council office.
The Student Council President was still reviewing documents when they entered. She gestured for them to sit, her posture composed, expression unreadable.
Without looking up, she asked, "What do you think of West Coast Tracen Academy?"
Teio and Dober exchanged a glance. Neither mentioned Baffert. Instead, they gave sincere praise—facilities, training grounds, organization, atmosphere. They spoke honestly.
When Dober finished, the President finally raised her head.
Her gaze shifted—not to them, but to Lady's Secret.
"Lady's Secret," she said gently, though a faint chill lay beneath the softness. "Is there anything you wish to add?"
Lady's Secret stiffened immediately.
She knew that tone.
Lowering her head, she reported the incident at the training ground in full detail—Baffert's provocation, his insults toward Shuta An, and Mejiro Dober's response.
The air in the office seemed to grow colder.
The President's presence sharpened. It was not loud, not explosive—but concentrated. Authority condensed into silence.
Then she looked at Mejiro Dober.
"Did you wash your hands?"
"Yes," Dober replied calmly. "I wore gloves beforehand. I washed afterward at the training ground."
Only after hearing that answer did the President's expression ease—slightly.
Her gaze returned to Lady's Secret.
"Next time," she said evenly, "I expect it to be you who slaps him. Not guests from Japan."
The reprimand was precise.
Lady's Secret understood instantly.
She had observed. She had measured the situation. She had chosen not to intervene.
But that calculation had been incorrect.
"I—"
She began to explain, but the President cut her off.
"Do you know who he was attacking?" Her voice remained controlled, but the emphasis sharpened. "He was attacking my Trainer's child."
She repeated it.
"My Trainer. Mine."
That final word carried weight.
Lady's Secret lowered her head immediately. "I'm sorry."
"It is not you who should apologize," the President replied. She set her documents aside. "Contact Miesque. A Trainer from West Coast Tracen Academy publicly insulting a Breeders' Cup Series–winning Uma Musume—Baffert will provide an explanation."
"Yes!"
Lady's Secret rose at once and left.
Outside the office, she exhaled slowly. The pressure had lessened, but regret settled in. If she had acted decisively at the training ground, the situation would have ended cleanly. Now it would escalate formally.
Inside the office, silence lingered briefly.
The President looked back at Teio and Dober.
"I apologize," she said. "There are individuals here who have never reconciled with Shuta. I did not expect you to encounter them."
"It's fine," Teio replied, though her eyes were bright with curiosity. "But…may we know what Trainer experienced here?"
The President's gaze flickered. "He didn't tell you?"
Dober shook her head. "We only learned today that someone here dislikes him. Though that is hardly surprising. Talent often invites resentment."
A faint, restrained smile crossed the President's face.
"If Baffert were merely resentful mediocrity, matters would be simpler."
The two Uma Musume did not press further. Instinct told them the story was neither simple nor comfortable.
The President shifted the topic smoothly.
"You've eaten. Is there anywhere else you wish to visit? Or will you return to Laurel Way 1460?"
Teio and Dober glanced at one another and nodded together. "We'll go back."
"Very well." She picked up her phone. "I'll have my assistant drive you. Shuta is likely napping at this hour."
"Thank you, Senior Student Council President," Dober said politely.
Teio murmured under her breath, "I want to get back quickly…and ask Trainer what really happened."
The President's eyes narrowed faintly—she had heard.
"Oh, one more thing," she added. "When you return, tell Shuta to make time to come here tomorrow. There is something important we must discuss."
"I understand," Dober answered immediately. "We'll convey it."
"It's good we booked our flight for tomorrow night," Teio added. "There should still be time."
The President paused. "You are leaving tomorrow?"
"Yes," Teio explained. "Dober still has the Hanshin Juvenile Fillies in mid-December. If we return early, she can rest briefly before beginning preparation."
"I see." The President leaned back slightly. "Then I cannot detain you. Fortunately, tomorrow morning remains sufficient."
What she intended to discuss with Shuta An, she did not elaborate.
Teio and Dober sensed it instinctively—whatever that conversation would entail, it was not something meant for them.
And so they accepted the instruction, rose from the sofa, and prepared to leave.
Outside the office, the vast machinery of West Coast Tracen Academy continued operating with quiet precision.
But within it, old histories had begun to stir.
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