Chapter 68. Unexpected Invitation
"What's going on?" Shuta An dropped onto the sofa, still carrying the lingering daze of everything that had unfolded too quickly for even him to process cleanly.
"How did Oguri and Berno end up here? And from what you said—it's not just the two of you?"
"Yep, yep!" Berno Light leaned forward with bright enthusiasm, her tone brimming with barely restrained excitement.
"The Ebor Festival is one of York's traditional events, so the British URA Association invited us over while Ascot is busy preparing for the Dream Trophy Series. And if only the two of us came, wouldn't Teio and the others feel left out back in Sapporo? So we figured—why not just bring everyone along!"
There was no hesitation in her logic—only the straightforward boldness that defined her.
Beside her, Oguri Cap calmly added, her voice steady as always,
"As for the hotel arrangements, Miss Grace informed us that Ann was staying here. She handled the reservations for us as well."
"Good heavens." Shuta An's lips twitched faintly, somewhere between disbelief and reluctant admiration. "So the Jozankei Hotel in Sapporo is just sitting empty now?"
Oguri nodded without the slightest concern. "For now."
"But it's only for two or three days,"
Berno quickly interjected, tilting her head as she shifted the focus back to him.
"More importantly, what's your plan for going back, Ann? We'll follow whatever you decide."
He paused—not out of uncertainty, but calculation. His mind, so accustomed to structuring races and outcomes, instinctively began restructuring logistics instead.
"Originally, I planned to drive to London, then fly to Tokyo, and finally transfer to Sapporo to finish the rest of my summer break," he answered plainly.
Then, after a brief pause, his gaze sharpened. "But that plan doesn't hold anymore."
"Eh?" Oguri set down her teacup, her attention locking onto him with quiet focus. "You have a new idea?"
"I'll have Miss Grace arrange a charter," he said, tone decisive. "We'll depart from Leeds and fly directly to Sapporo."
It sounded extravagant at first glance—but to him, it was nothing more than optimization. With the team's size now expanded, the cost curve had already shifted. What once seemed excessive had quietly become efficient.
And more importantly—it simplified everything.
All it would take was a message and a signature.
—
That evening, he was dragged out into the city by his lovers, leaving the rest of the team to scatter into their own plans. York's night carried a different rhythm—less hurried than the racetrack, yet still alive with a subdued elegance.
After some deliberation, Shuta An chose a Chinese restaurant tucked within the city center, its atmosphere understated but unmistakably authentic.
He hadn't misjudged it.
The dishes were precise, the flavors balanced—each bite carrying the unmistakable mark of proper technique.
And yet—
"I can't focus at all," he admitted inwardly, his thoughts refusing to anchor themselves to the present.
"Is Ann planning to talk to Dober after we get back?" Oguri's voice cut cleanly through his distraction, her timing as exact as ever.
He didn't deflect.
"Yeah."
There was no point in doing so.
"I figured," she continued, her gaze steady. "When we arrived earlier, Mejiro Dober was in the lobby watching the race broadcast. She looked…tense. The kind that doesn't fade easily."
Her words were measured, but the implication was unmistakable.
"If the screen hadn't shown Suzuka finishing like that," she added quietly, "I might have thought it was just concern."
Shuta An's fingers tightened slightly around his chopsticks.
"But it did," he said, voice low. "And that changes everything."
He didn't need to elaborate further.
A victory like Suzuka's didn't just elevate her—it redefined the baseline for everyone beside her.
"For Dober, that kind of expectation—" He exhaled slowly. "It's pressure she can't ignore. Not here, not back in Japan."
He leaned back slightly, expression softening into something more reflective.
"That's why I planned to talk to her tonight. Help her settle before it builds into something worse."
A brief pause followed.
"Sorry. I've been distracted."
"No need to apologize," Berno waved it off casually—before exchanging a glance with Oguri, something unspoken passing between them.
Then she turned back to him, a faint smile forming.
"But actually, you don't need to go."
Shuta An frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Because I've already spoken to her," Oguri answered, taking over seamlessly.
The simplicity of her tone only made it more disorienting.
"There's no longer a problem."
That statement landed far heavier than anything else said that night.
"What?" His composure slipped for the first time. "No problem? That's not something that just disappears. Oguri—what did you say to her?"
Oguri tilted her head slightly, the faintest hint of mischief surfacing beneath her usual calm.
"A secret." Her gaze met his directly. "If you're curious, you can ask her yourself later."
(Hmm, Oguri looks like the matchmaker in here.)
It was a clean refusal—gentle, but absolute.
And for once, Shuta An didn't press further.
Not because he lacked curiosity—
But because he trusted the result.
—
The next morning arrived far later than usual.
When Shuta An finally opened his eyes, the remnants of the previous night had already been meticulously cleared away—evidence of Berno's thoroughness more than anything else.
At the bedside, Silence Suzuka sat quietly, her presence calm yet faintly strained.
"It's a good thing the hotel's soundproofing is excellent," she muttered, her tone carrying an unusual edge. "Otherwise, everyone might have heard us."
"Wasn't Suzuka the loudest?" Berno shot back instantly, arms crossed with mock indignation. "Oguri and I were holding back."
Suzuka lowered her head slightly, entirely unflustered. "My experience is still limited. I'll need more practice."
The sheer sincerity of that statement silenced Berno more effectively than any rebuttal.
"I was the one who lasted until the end," Shuta An added with a yawn, stretching his sore muscle as he sat up. "I might need to catch some sleep at the Box later."
"I'll stay here today," Suzuka said, already rising.
The moment she stepped forward—her slight limp made everything else unnecessary to explain.
Berno sighed, watching her leave. "I thought this time we might finally make Ann collapse—"
Shuta An let out a quiet chuckle as he stood.
"With half an Uma Musume's blood in me? You're aiming too high."
"One day," Oguri replied immediately, her cheeks puffing slightly in defiance, "we'll make you admit defeat."
He didn't argue—not out loud.
—
By the time he arrived at York Racecourse, the morning air had barely settled into its rhythm before something new disrupted it.
"Mr. Shuta," a staff member approached with formal precision. "A distinguished Sir wishes to meet you. Are you available?"
Shuta An glanced at his phone, then back at the man, curiosity already taking hold.
"I have time. Who is it?"
"Please follow me."
The answer was deliberate in its omission and that alone made it more intriguing.
After a brief instruction to Oguri, he followed without hesitation, his thoughts already shifting toward possibilities.
When they arrived at a café just outside the racecourse, the answer revealed itself the moment he stepped inside.
"Mr. Gosden."
John Gosden—a name that carried weight not only across Britain, but throughout the entire international racing sphere. A recipient of the Order of the British Empire, a trainer who had cultivated over a thousand victories worldwide and amassed more than fifty G1 triumphs—such a record was not built on circumstance, but on an accumulation of precision, instinct, and an almost obsessive understanding of competition.
And more telling than any title—he had achieved all this without leaning heavily on royal patronage.
That alone spoke volumes.
Sitting across from him now, Shuta An felt a faint, unfamiliar tension settle beneath his composure. Not pressure—but curiosity sharpened to its edge.
Their connection existed, yes.
But it was distant.
Not the kind that warranted a private invitation.
"I apologize for calling you over so abruptly," Gosden began, gesturing for him to sit. His tone was measured, devoid of pretense. "You needn't be concerned. This meeting is purely to satisfy my curiosity."
Curiosity.
Such a simple word—yet coming from him, it carried a different gravity.
Shuta An lowered himself into the seat, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the man before him.
"This isn't the first time we've met, is it?"
Gosden's lips curved faintly, as though recalling something long buried beneath time.
"If we're speaking of the first time," he said, raising a hand to indicate height, "you likely weren't even taller than this table."
The image was almost absurd.
And yet—
"Back when you were born," Gosden continued, voice steady, "when word spread that Mrs. Shuta had given birth to a boy—both Sir Stoute and I felt relieved."
Relieved.
The word hung there, oddly specific.
"Though," he added with a trace of amusement, "I heard that trainers in France—like André Fabre—were quite disappointed."
Shuta An didn't need further explanation.
His mother's legacy alone was enough to shape expectations. Had he been born an Uma Musume, his potential would have drawn attention from every major training authority in Europe.
Bloodline. Talent. Prestige.
A convergence too rare to ignore.
But he dismissed it with a small wave of his hand.
"You know my family situation," he replied evenly. "Even if that had been the case, I would have remained in America. My father would have trained me."
A pause.
"And even if he hadn't been there—I still wouldn't have gone to France."
The answer was firm—uncompromising.
Yet Gosden shook his head, almost immediately.
"No," he said, his tone cutting through the air with quiet certainty. "You wouldn't have."
Shuta An's gaze sharpened.
"Why?"
"Because you understand the landscape," Gosden replied. "You know what many American trainers rely on. As you are now, you wouldn't tolerate that. And if you were an Uma Musume—you'd reject it even more strongly."
There was no accusation in his words.
Only clarity.
"That's true," Shuta An admitted after a moment.
No justification necessary.
"Let's return to the present," Gosden continued, shifting the conversation with deliberate ease. "It's been over a decade since I last saw you. And yet—I did nothing when your parents passed."
The statement was not defensive.
It was factual.
Shuta An's gaze dropped briefly to the table.
"That's not something you need to apologize for," he said quietly. "You had no obligation to help me."
And that was the truth in its purest form.
Anything else would have been sentimentality.
Gosden studied him for a moment before exhaling softly.
"Perhaps," he said, "but there are times I wonder—whether I should have extended an invitation. To Britain. To Tracen Academy."
His fingers tapped lightly against the table.
"Of all the younger trainers in the world right now—you're the only one I truly admire."
The weight of that statement was immense.
And yet, Gosden did not pause.
"That man O'Brien has effectively turned Ireland into his personal domain," he continued, voice sharpening slightly. "And in America—well~ without chemical assistance, many struggle to achieve anything at all."
Shuta An did not react emotionally.
Instead, he responded with precision.
"Aidan O'Brien is formidable," he said calmly. "I've studied his races. The tactical execution alone is exceptional. Reaching that level is not something that can be dismissed."
Gosden gave a small shake of his head.
"Even so," he said, "it doesn't compare to what you've done."
His gaze locked onto Shuta An's.
"Training a French Two Crowns winner from a system still considered 'developing' like Japan's."
There it was.
Recognition—not of reputation, but of methodology.
Shuta An leaned back slightly, unshaken.
"Japan's Twinkle Series still has gaps," he acknowledged. "But its policies—they're structured for long-term growth. That's something Britain could learn from."
He didn't soften the statement.
Nor did he exaggerate it.
Gosden nodded slowly.
"You're right," he admitted. "But that's not something I can influence anymore. Nor can Stoute."
A quiet pause followed.
"It will fall to the next generation."
"And I'm not part of that generation here," Shuta An replied with a faint shrug. "If anything, I'm even less qualified to involve myself in Britain's reforms."
His position was clear.
Defined.
Then, unexpectedly—
Gosden smiled.
A trace of something wry, almost self-deprecating.
"Before you arrived in York," he said, spreading his hands slightly, "I considered inviting you to transfer here."
The air shifted.
Subtly—but unmistakably.
"I was even prepared," he continued, "to relinquish my eligibility to train Royal Uma Musume—if that would make room for you."
That was no small offer.
It was, in fact—extraordinary.
"But after seeing you here," he added, the smile deepening with quiet resignation, "I realized it would be pointless."
His gaze softened.
"You wouldn't abandon the ones you're training now."
There was no need for a response. The conclusion had already been reached.
"I won't leave Japan," Shuta An said nonetheless, his tone carrying no hesitation. "There, I'm given full trust. My opinions matter—even at the policy level. My colleagues are exceptional. And the Uma Musume I train—"
He paused briefly.
"They have futures worth investing in."
It wasn't pride. It was conviction.
"If I ever leave," he added lightly, "it'll be after I retire."
A faint smile touched Gosden's lips.
"In that case, you might find Britain just as unsuitable," he said. "Personally, I plan to retire somewhere along the Mediterranean."
"The sea, the sun…" Shuta An glanced out the window, where Yorkshire's rare stretch of clear weather stretched quietly across the sky. "That does sound preferable."
Then, his tone shifted—subtle, but deliberate.
"If this weather hadn't held," he added, "I might have withdrawn my runners entirely."
Gosden's eyes narrowed slightly, catching the implication instantly.
"You believe Japanese Uma Musume struggle to adapt to British turf?"
"No," Shuta An replied without pause. "That's not the issue."
He leaned forward slightly, voice sharpening with analytical clarity.
"The problem is timing. If they want to compete here, they need to adapt before their development stabilizes. Japan's tracks emphasize speed—dry, firm, and fast. Europe's turf demands power, endurance, and resilience under heavier conditions."
A brief pause.
"Trying to adjust after specialization has already set in is inefficient. For both the Uma Musume and the trainer."
Gosden considered this carefully.
Then nodded.
"That aligns with our own challenges," he said. "Europe has always struggled to conquer American dirt—just as America struggles here."
His gaze lifted.
"But failure in one environment doesn't equate to inferiority."
"Exactly," Shuta An replied.
"For the first time," he added with a faint, almost teasing curve of his lips, "I'm hearing that perspective stated so clearly here in Britain."
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