Nice Girls Finish Last (12 page)

Her green eyes widened. ‘I'm not going to hurt you.'

‘Well, no,' he drawled. ‘I'm not going to let you do that.'

Her stance snapped straighter as she sparked. ‘You're not going to let me?'

Oh, he'd tweaked her nerve. Good. ‘Try to hit my hands.' He waggled his palms in front of her.

Her searing gaze narrowed.

‘One to one, you see,' he teased. ‘Just you and your opponent.'

She struck out. Missed him, of course, because he was fast. It was one of his strengths.

‘That the best you got?' he taunted.

‘Oh, don't start with the wind-me-up-to-get-me-going rubbish.'

‘Why not?' he taunted. ‘It's always worked before.'

She was half laughing but half-serious, too. So was he.

‘Come on.' He moved closer. ‘Come and get me.'

She jabbed a couple more times. He let her connect to his chest once.

That made her frown thunderous. ‘Don't go easy on me.'

‘Okay, then try harder.'

She moved fast on him then, a series of wild-thrown
punches. Getting better. Breathing hard, her cheeks flushed, she kept at it, trying to get him good. As she'd asked, he didn't make it easy for her. But he praised when she hit him square, issued instructions to help her. Her small fists smacked loudly on his palms, not doing damage, but a nice workout for her. He knew it. Smugness made him slow for a second—so did the fact that her tee-shirt-and-knicker combo was turning him on. And at that exact moment, the wench kicked him.

‘Ow.' He muffled his curse as he rubbed his shin. ‘What the hell was that? Kicking isn't in the rules.'

‘There are
rules
in boxing?' She shrieked with laughter and girly-danced around him—doing a gleeful Rocky impersonation with her hands in the air. ‘I thought it was just a free-for-all. And you know I just made you drop your guard.'

‘It's about a whole lot more than winning, you know.' He snatched the gloves off her and pulled her close.

‘Rubbish,' she challenged him right back. ‘All anyone wants is to win.'

The afternoon went far too fast. They lunched lazily at a café down the street, wandered through the gallery, then returned to his apartment for an afternoon ‘nap'. Lena did almost doze for a while, dreamily thinking about their little sparring round. He'd been right; she'd enjoyed it more than she'd thought she would. Mainly because she thought she understood him more—that his determined self-reliance had been built from his turbulent teen years. His choice of an individual competitive sport over a team one showed his need to be his own boss. Just like his business dealings now. He was determinedly independent. Took all responsibility on his shoulders. Him against the world—him alone. No permanent business partner, no permanent life partner. It made her heart ache.

By the early evening they were snacking in the kitchen. Lena was in another of his tee shirts and wondering if she ought to be sensible and go home.

‘I know why you keep looking at your watch,' he said suddenly. ‘The game tonight. The Knights are playing in Wellington and you want to watch it.'

Actually she'd forgotten all about the game. ‘It's okay,' she said. ‘I know they'll win.'

‘Come on.' He stood. ‘I know a great place where we can see it in style.'

‘Really?' Well, if he was up for it she definitely was. While it was part of her job to be interested, in truth she genuinely loved it. She thought her passion for the game was what had got her the job in the first place. ‘I can't wear this, though.' She gestured to her man-tee-and-knickers combo. ‘I'll get back into my dress.'

‘No, actually that shirt'll be perfect. I'll find you some jeans.'

She stared. As if she were going to fit his jeans, as if she would wear them out in
public.
Amazed, she watched as he actually went to the trouble of punching an extra hole in one of his belts with a hammer and nail so she could wear it to hold up the jeans he'd tossed at her. With her kitten-heeled mules it was so not the look. ‘I can't go out like this.'

‘Sure you can, you'll fit right in.'

Dubiously she checked him out; he was wearing ultra-casual, too, but then he could wear anything and look amazing.

‘Come on.' He laughed. ‘Kick-off in ten—you don't want to miss the pre-game analysis, do you?'

They walked more in the direction of the urban badlands than the chic area where the restaurants were. Yeah, it was a graffiti-covered, falling-down-fences kind of alley that he led her down.

‘You bring all your girls here?' She looked at the poorly lit bar and the collection of biker-gang vehicles lined up in front of it.

‘This place hasn't been designated as urban cool yet but it's only a matter of time,' he joked lightly, but then sent her a concerned look. ‘Don't worry, you're safe with me.'

She wasn't afraid, she was amused. She mock jabbed the air in front of her with a quick one-two punch. ‘Don't need you to protect me, I got my moves.'

‘Uh-huh, you're a real karate queen.' For once he didn't hold the door and wait for her to go first; this time he squared up and walked in ahead of her as if he were the beefy security guard checking out the scene for the in-disguise star who'd broken out to have her dangerous night on the wrong side of town.

‘What's so funny?' he asked as he caught her grin.

She shook her head, not going to reveal the ridiculousness of her thoughts.

The place was miles from glam, but bolted to the wall was the biggest screen she'd ever seen. On the opposite wall there was another. ‘Oh.' She nodded. ‘Hidden treasure.'

‘Don't think they do champagne, though.' He winked.

No, clearly the focus here was beer, spirits and sport.

‘I'm happy with a shandy,' she said, referring to a lager-and-lemonade mix.

‘And my credibility is killed.' He kept her close with his hand on hers while he ordered. They carried the drinks to a high table near the back corner. The stools were wooden but she preferred hard and clean to soft and sticky spilt-brew covered anyway. The crowd was growing, kick-off was in five.

Lena took a sip and opened one of the packets of peanuts he'd grabbed, her eyes glued to the screen, listening to the commentators appraising each side's starting line-up.

Seth found himself watching her just as much as the action on the big screen. It was hilarious. He soon learned he could tell how well the Knights were playing by the narrowness of her eyes. Her slight frowns lightened and deepened accordingly. Her cheers when they scored were fantastic and the smile she turned towards him sublime.

Then there was the running commentary. It started as just the movement of her lips, as if she was uttering some incantation beneath her breath. But as the on-screen action intensified, her volume upped.

‘Oh, what are you doing?' she called, her frown growing. ‘Get in there. Get the ball!'

He wondered if she expected them to answer. He swigged from his bottle to hide his smile.

‘Come on.' She nearly leapt from her stool.
‘Ruck!'

Seth snorted and nearly choked on his beer. Coughing loudly, he put his bottle down on the table with a loud bang.

She turned to him with a quelling look, waiting for him to recover. ‘You thought I said something else, didn't you?' she said oh-so primly. ‘You think I'd use that kind of language?'

He held her gaze, barely suppressing his laughter. ‘Well, I do recall you telling me to “ruck” you the other night…or maybe I misheard and it was something else you said.' Wickedly amused, he watched her blush bloom. ‘Actually it wasn't what you said that was so funny just now.'

‘No?' She might still sound cucumber cool, but her cheeks were cherry coloured.

‘Lena,' he drawled, totally patronisingly, as if she were some child he had to speak extra slow for. ‘I know the screen's big, but it's still a telly. They. Can't. Hear. You.'

She picked up the bag of peanuts and started pelting him, laughing when he ducked to try and catch them in his
mouth. Ten seconds later she tossed the bag down, mock miffed when he actually got one.

‘You just can't handle the fact I know more about this game than you do.' She sniffed.

‘You do know more about it than most.' He'd give her that. And he was enjoying her commentary an insane amount. So, he'd noticed, were some of the other men sitting nearby.

‘I work for a rugby club, so I guess I should,' she said smugly.

‘Imagine you on the sideline when you have kids,' he teased. ‘The poor things, you'll be yelling at them left and right.'

‘I'm not going to be a pushy parent.'

‘So you say now.'

‘No, really I'm not,' she said, more vehemently than when she'd been yelling at the players on-screen. ‘They can do whatever, be whatever. They don't have to make Olympic-gold standard. They can just be and I'll love them for it.'

Silenced for a moment, Seth looked at her—watched her mouth firm as she pulled that burst of emotion back in. ‘Was it really that bad?' he asked bluntly.

Her sideways look sliced. ‘You're a winner, Seth. You don't know what it's like for us mortals.'

‘No?'

‘No.' She shook her head with a hurt little laugh. ‘You can't even imagine.'

He tried a grin. She didn't grin back.

Instead she leaned forward, her expression intense. ‘You should have seen the celebrations. My parents really know how to throw a party for those moments of triumph. But it had to be a win. My siblings got all the winner genes. I got the recessive failure ones. Someone had to, I guess.' She spluttered a little smile. ‘But there was no lowering the bar
for the less-able athlete. It was high set and I never cleared it.' She shook her head. ‘My mum and dad are both lawyers. The corporate-shark kind. They met at uni—were both on the rep tennis team. They're achievers and they expected us to achieve. The household was never happier than when success was on the table. Winners got parties, got prestige. And they all worked for it, they
really
worked. But I worked, too. I tried. But trying wasn't enough. You couldn't just try your best. You had to
be
the best.' She paused. He saw her swallow and take a breath.

‘I love my brother and sister and I'm proud of them but I'm envious, too. How could I ever compete? I couldn't. I know it wasn't intentional, but I got sidelined. It's why I'm good on the sidelines now—it became my niche. But it was so busy—every school holiday we'd be at some national sports meet or maths challenge or something. They'd talk strategy and training over dinner. So much
time
went into them. All the time.'

‘What did you do while your parents focused on them?'

‘If the support act wasn't needed I watched the rugby.' She laughed but it was a sad laugh. ‘I liked it. And you know in this country there's always a game on.'

‘Lena,' he tried to reassure her, ‘not everyone can win every time.'

‘Oh, they can. Case in point.' She nodded to the screen, where the Knights had just scored a try. ‘And just as there are some who always win, there are others who never do.'

‘It's wrong to be that fixated on it. There's more to life.'

‘Yeah, there is. And I look at the pressure they put on themselves and I think that's so crazy. But it's how our family works. It's how we're supposed to find happiness. I wanted to be successful in the way our family measures it.'

‘You didn't rebel? You didn't go off the deep end and try to get attention some other way?' He'd pushed it that way for
a while after the divorce. Until he'd realised the only person he was hurting was himself.

She was silent for a while. ‘I did screw up over something,' she said quietly. ‘
Really
screwed up. Looking back, I guess it was attention related. In the end I told them because I needed them. I knew I'd stuffed up. Everyone knew I'd stuffed up. And I needed my parents to…support me….' She'd whitened.

He was careful not to ask what it was, even though he was dying of curiosity. Because he was finally seeing how this was for her. And it clearly wasn't good. ‘How'd they react?'

‘The first question they asked was whether anyone else knew,' she whispered. ‘They were most worried that others would know and judge. Like it was going to blow their prestige. Their first thought wasn't whether I was okay. It wasn't even to yell at me for being such a freaking fool. I'd have preferred it if they'd done that. It might have meant more.'

‘Were you okay?' His heart rammed his rib cage, over and over, as he wondered about what it was she'd done. Trouble with the law seemed most likely—drunk driving or dabbling in drugs or something. Hell, he wanted to know. But he bit back from asking—just had to be patient and hope she'd tell him.

‘Yeah.' She nodded. ‘I left town. Started over.'

Silence. Seth waited but knew with each ticking moment that she wasn't going to tell him more. He breathed out the disappointment. And then made himself put on a little teasing smile. ‘Well, what they think doesn't matter so much anyway, right?'

Her eyes widened and he saw how deep the sadness went. ‘They're my
parents.
'

Yeah, she didn't see that one as a joke.

‘What child doesn't want to please their parents?' she
asked in amazement. ‘Right at the core, don't you want to know they love you and approve of you?' She stared at him for a moment. Then sighed. ‘Actually you've probably never doubted that. You've achieved so much your parents can't be anything but super proud.'

She was wrong. And suddenly Seth wasn't seeing the lighter side, either. Because his success hadn't been enough for his father. Right from when he was a young kid Seth's academic ability had been commented on. As had his athleticism. But so what? His father hadn't stayed. His mother had still been unhappy. Both had wanted other—or more—kids. He hadn't been enough, done enough, for either of his parents. His experience was the antithesis of Lena's. He'd been the achiever. But he'd still failed on the attention front. On the ability to please or to make happy.