Just for You (13 page)

“But…what would I do? Where would I live?”

“Work. And with me.”

“Oh, no. With you? Now? Not happening.”

“All right. I won’t push on that one. But you could live with somebody else. You went to Uni there, surely you know people, could find a flatmate. But you’d see me at the weekend at least, when I’m there, could stay with me then. You could know I’m coming home after the match, and give me something to come home to. You could see, and you could know, and I’d know that you were there too, and bloody hell, Reka, I’d like to know that.”

It was a mad plan, and he knew it, and he didn’t care.

“Thought you were meant to have a cool head,” she tried. “This doesn’t sound like a cool head.”

“I don’t think either of us has a cool head when it comes to the other,” he said. “Know I don’t. I know I want you. That’s what I know. And I know I’m ready to jump in with both feet, see how we go. How about you?”

“We haven’t even slept together, except once.”

He exhaled sharply. “Again with that? Here I’m meant to be the one obsessed with sex, but it’s you who can’t get past it. Why d’you think I can’t mean this if I’m not sleeping with you yet? Do you think we’ll do it, and I’ll find out I don’t want you? That’s not going to happen. I want you, and you want me, and when we do it again, it’s going to be so good. And then I’ll have you in my bed every night I’m home, and I can’t wait.”

“Not every night. Like I said.”

“Every night I can get you there, and I’ll be doing my best to make you want to be there, trust me. And you’re stalling. I’m asking you to decide. Right now. Right here. Either we matter, or we don’t. Either it’s worth the risk, or it isn’t.” The exultation filled him, the same thrill of commitment he felt when he backed himself, when he
knew
that stabbing the little grubber kick through was the right thing, when he took the risk and went for broke. “I think it’s worth it. How about you?”

He saw her still hesitating, still searching his face, and took her hand. “Come on, baby.” He softened his tone, tried to send the conviction from his hand to hers. “Come on and give me your heart. I promise to take care of it like it was mine. Better, in fact, because mine, I’m throwing out there. Yours, I’ll be holding close. I’ll be holding it so carefully. I promise. Let me prove it to you. Come to Auckland so I can. Give us a chance.”

F
ive long days later, back at Eden Park in Auckland, and Hemi was bouncing on his toes, waiting to run out of the tunnel, seeing the readiness, the determination in the bodies and faces surrounding him.

Preseason was over, and this was it. Round One, and the boys were fizzing.

Drew gave a quick nod to the group. He didn’t speak, because he’d already said everything he had to say. Drew was a follow-me skipper, and it worked. An assistant handed him the ball, and he palmed it in one big hand, led his team out at a trot, and walked to the halfway mark with that assured stride that said he was here, and he was ready, and he’d brought his boys to play, and it was Game On.

It was a fast one, the Hurricanes flashes of yellow. It was obvious from the minute the first lean body leapt into the air, the fullback’s sure hands closing around Hemi’s opening kickoff, the ball off his boot again in a booming punt, that they meant to play this game at pace. They were a young team, a fast team, and there would be no lengthy back-and-forth exchange of kicks to test the opposition, not tonight.

Hemi was running, shouting to the backs, directing traffic, and it was a ding-dong battle, back and forth. Drew stealing the ball and the Blues on the attack, getting in a few good phases before Kevin McNicholl, the young Blues wing making his first start of his Super 15 career, went down hard in the punishing tackle of Liam Mahaka, and there was a desperate fight for the ball. The second-five got it back to Hemi, barely, and he sent it into touch far downfield, out of the danger zone, and jogged down with the rest of the boys for the lineout.

Fifteen minutes in, the game still scoreless, some hands on hips already on both sides, the forwards blowing hard, and the Hurricanes were past the halfway mark again and coming fast. Nate Torrance, the Hurricanes’ second-five, distributed the ball with his usual tidiness, and it was in and out of the hands of a center and off to Aleki Salesa. A hundred twenty kilos of Samoan winger came charging for Hemi, and he was ready, springing off his toes, calculating angles to take the big man down.

Instead, Aleki pivoted, the sudden change of direction catching Aaron, arriving at the angle to help make the tackle, off guard. Aleki put out a palm and shoved off Aaron’s chest, a hard fend, and Aaron went straight backward, dumped on his arse and no help at all.

Aleki was still going, clearly intending to tiptoe his way down the touchline, but Drew was too fast for him. The skipper launched himself like a missile, pulled the winger down, and was instantly over him to try to take the ball.

Aleki’s hands were too strong, too sure, and he had the ball back to Nate again. The Hurricanes switched tactics, were using their forwards, trying for brute strength to carry the day, crashing their way into a smothering Blues defense that rallied to meet them twenty meters out from the tryline.

Desperate defense now as the forwards bashed the line again and again, and were pulled down again and again, but they had numbers to the right, Hemi saw. He shouted instructions, sprinted to cover even as Aleki got his hands on the ball and was off that way, then, just before he was tackled, sending it behind his back. The ball went from one set of hands to another, and another still, so fast they barely seemed to touch it until, finally, Finn Douglas, the bruising Blues No. 8, managed to take the ball carrier down before he got the pass off. There was a mighty kerfuffle on the ground, and Hemi couldn’t see who’d come up with the ball.

He was aware of Aaron in the background struggling to get out of the hold of Liam Mahaka, who was making a nuisance of himself again. Aaron was clearly desperate to get to the breakdown and join the fight for the ball, and Mako was clearly not intending to allow it. Mako grabbed at Aaron’s leg from the ground and hung on, an illegal move if only the ref saw it, a penalty to the Blues that they sorely needed. Aaron kicked out to rid himself of the obstruction, and Mako still didn’t let go, and as Hemi watched, Aaron looked down, his face twisting and mouth moving, and sent his boot straight down with force into Mako’s jaw.

Even as it happened, Finn was rolling to his feet with the ball and the ref was blowing the whistle for the turnover, but the line judge was running onto the field at the same time, talking urgently, and everyone stopped and waited.

Mako was rolling a bit on the turf, grabbing his jaw, the trainer on the ground beside him, but the sturdy hooker was on his feet again, taking a squirt of water and rinsing his mouth, clearly determined to play on.

The ref signaled to Drew. He spoke a few words, and Drew listened, looked grim, nodded once, and the ref was calling, “Blue Seven, please,” and beckoning.

“You’ve stepped on the head,” the ref told Aaron. “That’s unacceptable.” He pulled the red card from his pocket, held it high overhead, and the crowd booed its disapproval. Their opinion didn’t matter a bit, though, because there was no appeal possible, and Aaron was trotting off the field, anger radiating from his tense body. Much good that did the rest of the squad.

The Blues would play the remaining fifty minutes of the game with fourteen men. Right now, though, the Hurricanes had a penalty kick, and a minute later, they had the first three points of the match.

It was hanging on, after that. Kevin came up from the wing to fill in the gap in the scrum. It should have been a disadvantage but wasn’t, because Kevin had played his schoolboy rugby at flanker, and he was a rock. The scrum was solid, and the game was on again, fourteen men or no. The red card, the numerical disadvantage—it should have put the nail in the Blues’ coffin, but instead, everybody was lifting a notch, Hemi could feel it.

Still 0 to 3, five minutes left in the half, and the Hurricanes were still playing fast and aggressive. Too aggressive, because they were offside. An opportunity for a penalty kick, and Hemi didn’t take it. Instead, he sent the ball sailing into touch, ten meters out from the tryline, because they didn’t need three points, they needed seven.

A throw-in to Finn Douglas, the No. 8’s powerful frame lifted high in the lineout by two Blues teammates to allow him to take the ball, and the forwards had set up a rolling maul. Finn had his back to the opposing group and was driving backwards, planting his feet and shoving off, one labored step at a time, using every bit of his considerable strength, the rest of the pack around him, pushing him towards the tryline, relentless, while the Hurricanes did their level best to stop the momentum. And Drew at the rear of
the maul, pushing too, ball in hand now, watching and waiting, and, as the structure began to break down, distributing it on its way through one, two, three sets of hands, until it was in Hemi’s, and he sent it instantly off his left boot, a perfectly weighted little kick that bounced along the ground and into the corner.

Kevin had been watching, was off the moment the ball was, diving as the opposition met him just that critical fraction of a second too late, because Kevvie was on the ball, his arms wrapped around it.

Try!

Hemi was already there, throwing an arm around Kevin and scrubbing a hand over his sweat-dampened hair while his teammates piled on and the crowd roared. He allowed himself the moment’s celebration, then disengaged and walked upfield with the ball, judging the best distance for the tricky angle. That try had been at the screaming edge, barely on the right side of the post, but then, that was why it had been possible.

He took out his mouthguard with deliberate movements, tucked it into the top of his sock, the ritual, as always, calming his mind. He set the tee precisely, positioned the ball on it, then stood well back behind the touchline, looked at the ball, at the posts, breathed in, breathed out, letting the adrenaline settle, allowing his galloping heart to calm. Tuned out the roaring crowd, the Hurricanes in their eager line poised to rush him and charge down the kick, and focused only on the spot where the ball would go.

Three running steps, a swing of his right leg, and the conversion was cleanly between the posts as the hooter sounded to end the first half, and he was tossing the tee aside and trotting off the field. He’d known the moment the kick left his boot, as he always did, hadn’t even had to look.

Fourteen men to fifteen, and they had the lead at the half, and they had the momentum. Everything seemed possible tonight. It was all good.