Just for You (14 page)

It would have stayed all good, too, if the Hurricanes had been willing to accept their fate, but you didn’t make it to Super Rugby by being willing to give up. Instead, the lead changed, back and forth and back again, all through the second half, and more than one
set of hands were on top of a player’s head during every pause in the play, tortured lungs working, chests heaving to draw in the breath to continue. The strain of covering for a missing forward was beginning to tell on the Blues, and they were down again by two hard-fought points as the scoreboard ticked ever onward until there were bare seconds to play, and this was it. Do or die, and they were nowhere close to the tryline.

Crunch time. Go for the try, or something else? Hemi made his decision, called across to the backs standing nearby, got nods of understanding, and began to plan.

The second-five dug the ball out of the frantic mess of the breakdown, the Hurricanes going for the steal with everything they had, and passed it outside to Kevin. Kevin had it for only a moment, shifted to avoid the onrushing tackler, then sent it back inside to Hemi, a high, looping shot with his right hand over his head like a basketball pass, straight over the two Blues players between and catching the Hurricanes on the hop. They hadn’t been expecting this. They’d been thinking of the try, and that made this Hemi’s best chance.

He’d practiced it again and again, of course he had, but not with the crowd, not with the noise, not in this moment. He was nearly forty meters out, too far to the left of the posts, and the Hurricanes were coming, but it didn’t matter, because the hooter had sounded, and they
were
forty meters out.

He dropped the ball to the ground, sent it off his right boot on the bounce, and not a moment too soon, because all two meters-plus of Andy Cuthbert loomed in front of him, the mighty lock stretching with every last straining bit of his enormous wingspan, leaping to block the drop-goal that would win the game.

The ball cleared Andy’s grasping fingers by centimeters, and Hemi watched its progress as he ran, but he already knew the answer, had known it the moment the ball had left his boot with just that tiny bit too much spin. The crowd was roaring its approval. They didn’t know what he knew, but there was still a hope, if he was right.

He saw the ball hit the left post as he’d known it would, and he was there, charging his way to it as it sailed off at a crazy angle, and he was stretching desperately, reaching, leaping.

Not fast enough, not high enough, not far enough. Just that micro-second not fast enough to get it, because the Hurricanes’ fullback had been watching too, had seen the
angle, had already been in position and been able to leap at the same time and come down with it instead. A kick into touch of his own, and the whistle blew, and the game was over.

Hemi stopped running, stopped trying, put his hands on his hips and blew out the strain of effort, the exhaustion of defeat, because the Blues had lost the first match of the season.

H
emi walked the yellow gauntlet of Hurricanes players, shaking hands and exchanging a word and a back slap, the fatigue and pain setting in now that it was all over, but still coming a poor second to the sting of the loss, the disappointment at his own failure.

He willed himself not to feel until he was in the tunnel, heading into the sheds. Once he was stripping down, though, there was no escape, and he wasn’t alone, he could tell. It was always a sober group after a loss. They unwound tape and headed to the showers without the laughter and horseplay that would have accompanied a victory, then pulled on their warmups in anticipation of the visit to the Hurricanes, the ritual beer they would share before everyone headed home to lick his wounds.

The rivalry would be left on the field, except for some things. That head-stomp would be remembered, because you didn’t do that. They all knew how vulnerable they were out there. Stomping an opponent’s face with your sprigs…it was beyond the pale, and everyone knew it.

Drew came over from his locker to sit on the bench beside him, and Hemi tugged his shirt down, looked at him in surprise. “Got the interviews to do, haven’t you?” he asked his skipper.

“Yeh,” Drew said. “Just stopped to say that it was worth trying. Glad we did it. Give the Sharks something to think about for next week, tell you that.”

Hemi nodded. Not much more to say about it. They’d tried, and it hadn’t come off. He’d be practicing those drop-goals every day from here on out, and next time, he wouldn’t miss.

“Kevvie did well, didn’t he?” Drew asked.

“Yeh.” They both looked across to a corner of the room, where the young winger sat on the bench, quietly getting his kit on. Not a lick of arrogance to Kevin. Sitting at the front of the bus where he belonged, not inserting himself, listening and soaking it all up. No flash at all, except where it counted.

“Ring you tomorrow,” Drew said. “Find out what you’re seeing.”

Hemi nodded again. He had the feeling they’d both been seeing the same things. Nothing like a stomp to the head and a red card to shine the spotlight. Aaron was headed for the bench at the very least, if not all the way down to provincial rugby. Some players could handle the pressure and pace at Super level, and some couldn’t. Aaron, it was becoming clear, couldn’t.

On the other hand, despite everything that had happened, and despite the loss, there’d been something out there tonight, something new. A spirit, a tightening of the bond the team shared. It had started with the rock-steadiness from Drew, but everyone else had seen the challenge and had lifted to meet it, and they would remember it. A set-piece that solid, a fight that hard, all the way to the end against an opponent of the Hurricanes’ caliber, fourteen men on fifteen—that memory was one they’d draw on in the weeks and months to come. Sometimes a loss got you as far as a win, and this was one of those times.

And Kevin. The kid had been a revelation, as full of running at the end of the night as when he’d started. He had the engine, and he had the same cool head Drew and Hemi shared, the quality you could only coach so far.

A blue head, they called it. The ability to think under the pump, to make logical decisions, to see the entire game. So easy to be a red head instead, to let emotion take over, to let the adrenaline flood and drown out reason, to allow tunnel vision to set in, decision-making to deteriorate. Kevin, despite his ginger hair, despite his youth, was a blue head, and they needed more blue heads on this team.

Drew put a hand on Hemi’s shoulder, pushed off to meet the next obligation, the weariness and the professionalism both apparent in the gesture. “See you.”

“Yeh,” Hemi said, glad it was Drew and not himself facing the cameras, making sense of the night for the journalists—and the public. He pulled out his phone, sent a quick text to Reka.

Not quite what I had in mind. Thanks for coming anyway. See you at breakfast
.

He waited a moment, staring at the screen, but didn’t get an answer, and shoved the phone back into his pocket. If a man were trying to impress a woman, Hemi’s night probably wouldn’t have been exactly the way he’d have chosen to do it.

At least she was here. He hadn’t got a commitment out of her that night, not what he’d wanted, but he’d got her to come to the game tonight, to stay over the weekend. She was sleeping at a friend’s, which was a pity, but he wasn’t pushing it, because he wasn’t stupid. He was picking her up tomorrow, taking her to breakfast at the Takapuna Beach Café and then showing her his house, and he very much hoped that she’d want the full tour.

He’d spent a couple hours cleaning yesterday, laughing at himself as he hoovered and scrubbed the toilet, thinking how his mum would laugh to see him. But he wanted Reka to think it was…nice. Someplace she could stay. Someplace she could live.

It was Takapuna, at least there was that, and she’d sounded enthusiastic about that bit. She was like him. She needed the sea.

He wasn’t going home for a while yet, though, because Aaron didn’t limit himself to the single beer after the match that Hemi allowed himself, and Hemi ended up giving him a lift home to Mission Bay, well out of his way. But a postgame summons for drink-driving would be all the team needed to put a final stamp on the night, so despite his disgust, he did it all the same.

It was after eleven-thirty by the time he was across the Harbour Bridge, waiting at the light, indicating for the turn onto the quiet street off Lake Road that ended at the beach. He had to wait for a couple cars to turn ahead of him, unusual for this time of night, but there’d been more traffic than usual. Saturday night at the bars, and a rugby match at Eden Park, a fair few people out on the razzle even in Takapuna.

Finally, he was following the receding taillights down the street, almost home and able to relax, anticipating his bed. Until his eyes, still alert even after the long night, saw the difference in the shadows on his unlit front porch. Surely that was a bulky shape there, nearly hidden under the eaves, where no shape had any right to be.

What the hell?

It was the last straw, and he let the cold rage, denied all night, flood his body. He drove on nearly a block past the house, noting that the car ahead had pulled over too, and the street was empty again.

His heart leapt at a sudden thought, and he pulled his phone out, checked it. No text from Reka. Of course not. It was nearly midnight, and she didn’t have a car. It was a nice idea, but it wasn’t Reka, and he knew it.

His fingers hesitated a moment, then they were moving, and he’d texted,

R U there?

He waited in the dark, hopeful despite himself, for a long couple of minutes, then shoved the phone back in his pocket. She was in bed, and he had some wanker on his porch. Or somebody dangerous. Even better.

He turned off the dome light so it wouldn’t shine and betray his position, then grabbed his bag and got out of the car, shutting the door carefully to avoid the
thunk
that would give him away in the quiet night.

Barely aware of the stiffness that had set in over his forty-minute journey, he crossed the street as far from the glow of the streetlight as he could manage and crept up the footpath, keeping to the shadows of the huge trees that grew in the verge between sidewalk and street, pressing himself close to the walls of concrete and stone that fronted the high-set villas.

He heard something behind him and froze. Footsteps, and he pressed himself against the wall, because who would be walking up the street at midnight? He waited, breath held.

Somebody on his porch, and somebody else behind him. What
was
this? He heard the thudding of his heart, the cicadas, musically shrill in the night, the distant hum of traffic back on Lake. And the footsteps.

He looked back and saw him. One of his neighbors. An older fella, walking a labradoodle. He nearly laughed. He was losing it.

The fella froze himself for a moment at the sight of him, and Hemi realized what he must look like, a big joker like him lurking in the shadows in the middle of the night. He stepped out, keeping his posture casual, turned away from the man, towards his house, and nodded a greeting over his shoulder.

“Evening,” he said, and walked on. The footsteps hesitated a moment, then started up again.

Another thirty meters, and Hemi had reached the boundary between his house and his neighbors’. He didn’t pause, just walked straight up the footpath to the side gate, tossed his bag across, then got his hands on the top of the wooden obstruction, shoved himself up and swung over, landing on the bricks in a crouch that jarred his sore body.

He left his bag where it had fallen and walked quietly along the brick path that led around the house to the ranch sliders opening onto the back patio. He unlocked the door, slid it open as quietly as he could, stepped inside and slid it shut behind him, flicking the lock with his thumb.

He stood in the silent darkness of the kitchen for a moment, thinking. He could go to bed, leave the visitor out there to rot. He could ring the police, let them deal with it. Neither option was appealing. What he wanted to do was whack into somebody. Failing that, to scare the shit out of him. Never mind that it could be dangerous, that he didn’t know what kind of a nutter was lurking out there. He didn’t care.

He skirted the kitchen island by feel, walked through the doorway and along the passage to the front door, setting each foot down with stealthy care, pressed his ear to the wood and listened. Nothing.

Slowly, deliberately, enjoying the thought of what was to come, he eased the deadbolt to the left, listened again. Still nothing.

The next moment, he had flung the door wide, jumped out onto the porch, and rushed the figure standing looking out over the street. He got him by the arms and gave him a hard shove, shouting, “Get the fuck out of here!”

Reka
. He realized it even as he grabbed her, even as he shoved her, and he was lunging, reaching, falling along with her, because he’d pushed her straight off the porch. They were falling down the broad wooden staircase together, and he was wrapping his arms around her, desperately twisting himself in midair to take the impact.