Islam Makhachev

His stallion, his prized colt, was stomping its hooves restlessly against the stable floor. The great beast hung its head low, ears pinned back, its usual fiery energy replaced by a troubling lethargy. Islam watched from outside the stall, a knot of worry tightening in his stomach. They had arrived in Dubai three days ago for the races. He’d made this trip before, a seasoned journey for him and his horse. He had entered him in the organized race for the second time this year, hoping today would finally be their day to win.

He sighed, unlatched the stall door, and stepped inside to examine the animal, though it was of little use, he was a UFC fighter, not a veterinarian. He pulled out his phone and dialed the number of the vet on his payroll with insistent urgency, but there was no answer. He ended the call, annoyed, and scanned his surroundings.

His gaze landed on a figure leading a majestic, snow-white Arabian stallion into a nearby stable. The horse moved with a characteristic, high-strung grace, its eyes wide and nervous. Islam recognized it immediately, the most expensive horse at the grounds, the champion belonging to one of the attending Sheikhs, a regular and dominant participant.

He raised a skeptical eyebrow at the person handling the revered animal. His voice was low and stern as he called out, "This is no place for a woman. And you have no business being near the champion."