Just My Luck (Escape to New Zealand #5)

by Rosalind James

  “Of course not,” she said hastily. “I want to come watch you either way.”

  “Right, then.” He typed in a quick note. “I’ll get the ticket emailed to you, find some company for you if I can.” He looked up. “Well, I would if I had your email. Better give me that, and your mobile number as well.”

  “Wow. This is kind of like the first day at a new job. I’m wondering when I fill out my enrollment form for the benefits.”

  He smiled. “Sorry. I tend to get a bit efficient at times.”

  “Yes, you do,” she agreed. “But OK. Here you go.” She recited her information, was startled again when he raised his phone and snapped a picture of her.

  “What?” he asked at her frown.

  “You can’t remember who ‘Ally’ is unless you have my picture to remind you?”

  “Nah. Just want to be able to look at you, that’s all.” And his smile was so sweet, she melted a little.

  “You’d better give me yours too,” she realized. “I don’t have a camera, but I think I can remember who you are without a picture. I’m pretty sure I can, anyway. If you remind me again.”

  “I’ll remind you again,” he promised. “Whose idea was this kayaking anyway?”

  “Mine, but you agreed. You said it’d be fun. And I need a rest anyway. I thought I was in shape, but I’m clearly going to have to do some more working out to keep up with you.”

  He laughed, then looked back at his phone again. “You don’t know what other days you’re working?”

  “Uh . . .” She wracked her brain. “I think I have tomorrow off, or maybe it’s Thursday. And I know I’m opening on Wednesday, which means I’ll be done at five.”

  “How about Sunday?” he prompted. “Next Monday?”

  “Sorry. Can’t remember.”

  “Text me your schedule,” he decided. “We’ll see if we can work something out during my time off, because I’ll be off to Perth on Monday afternoon. As far as this week . . . Tuesday’s my toughest training day. Got some meetings too. And Thursday,” he added, pushing a couple buttons, “we’re doing a school visit after training, then I’ll be having dinner with Mako and a couple of the other senior boys, talk about what we want to focus on during the Captain’s Run on Friday. Wednesday’d be all right, though, wouldn’t get too late if you’ll be done by five. I could collect you after work and we could make dinner at my house, maybe, and you could stay over, though I’ll have to drop you back at home fairly early Thursday morning. Good for you?”

  “Yeah. I think so,” she said, feeling like she’d just been engulfed by a sea of detail. She was about to say something else when they were interrupted by a trio of young women requesting autographs. Ally waited as patiently as he could while Nate signed with a quick smile and a “Cheers” before turning back to her.

  “Sorry,” he said. “That’s why I thought, dinner at my house. What were you saying?”

  “I didn’t realize dating you was going to be such a logistical challenge. Are you sure you can fit me in?”

  “Course.” He looked up in surprise from his typing, then shoved the phone back into his pocket. “Gets pretty busy during the season, that’s all. Makes you wish we hadn’t wasted so much time, doesn’t it?” he added with a grin.

  “Yeah, right,” she scoffed. “If we’d started this when you wanted to, you’d have been done with your preseason fling weeks ago, and you’d be doing all this pesky scheduling with somebody else.”

  He actually choked on his final sip of coffee, had to cough a bit, reach for the napkin she handed him.

  “I’ll never get used to the things you say,” he got out at last. “But come on.” He stood up and pulled her to her feet. “We’ve got some kayaking to do. I need some thinking time. Need to see if I can come up with another new experience for you. I’m planning to get everything I can out of this day. Make the most of it while I can, because I’ve got a pretty tough week ahead of me.”

  “What d’you think?”

  Nate turned to see the backs coach, Nigel Henderson, coming up to join him, his eye, like Nate’s, on the group of players running lines opposite. The sun was shining, but the winds were swirling on this Wednesday afternoon as they so often did in Wellington, making long passes more difficult and causing more than one ball to drop to the ground uncaught.

  “Russell looks OK,” Nate said, referring to the new young outside centre who’d been introduced into the squad this season to take the place of a player leaving, as so many of them were now, for the brighter lights and bigger paychecks to be had in the Northern Hemisphere. “Thought he did a good job of creating space against the Chiefs. Not easy to do against them. Good in support, too. Got good instincts, fast to react. He’ll do all right.”

  “Agreed,” Nigel said. “But?”

  “Well, you know what it is,” Nate said. “It’s how dodgy the backline is, still. Specially Manny turning up unfit. We’ll have to make sure we don’t commit too many to the breakdown so we’ve got a bit more flexibility on defense. Need to keep the pressure off at the back, because they’re not up to it.”

  They both looked gloomily at the big left wing. Nate closed his mouth on any further expression of disgust at the extra five or six kilos Manny was still carrying, so obviously slowing him down, depriving him of the explosive burst that was the essence of a quality winger.

  Nate had never understood how a player could let himself slide like that during his time off, jeopardize his—and the team’s—season. All right, he knew it was harder for the Samoan and Maori boys. Time spent with big, loving families, family gatherings centered around food, frames that packed on fat as easily as they added muscle. But they knew it too, and it was part of the discipline of playing this sport at its highest level. You turned up fit, and that was that. If you weren’t willing to do what needed to be done—everything that needed to be done, everything the game asked of you—you didn’t deserve to be out here.

  He could have added a comment about the patchy form of their starting fullback, his lack so far of the flashes of brilliance he’d shown the previous season, the fact that the stretches of mediocrity in between seemed to be increasing. The tackles he’d missed the previous week, the kick that had been charged down and returned for the Chiefs try that had won the other team the game.

  Yeh, he could have said all that. But instead, he trotted out to join the drill, to take the opportunity the wind provided to get some practice in under adverse conditions, make sure his own passes didn’t go awry on the night. He wasn’t here to whinge from the sidelines. He was here to play.

  Ally looked up when he arrived at the gym that afternoon, seeming almost surprised to see him. She was sitting on the mat next to the wall, long legs crossed in front of her, stuffing her climbing shoes and harness into her gym bag. Looking pretty, as always. Slim and sleek and a bit exotic, those dark eyes framed by slanting brows, the high cheekbones and wide mouth. Giving him a mental flash of some of the expressions he’d seen on that face last weekend, a quick tug of anticipation for the night ahead. Yeh. She was looking pretty. But not happy, he realized.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t sure you were coming.” She stood up in one quick, fluid motion, reminding him again of how much he liked the way she moved, the grace and flexibility of her. Just now, though, she was still looking a bit narky.

  “Why?” he asked in confusion. “I’m on time, aren’t I? It’s five. And we scheduled it. You watched me type it in. If I’d had to cancel, I’d have texted. Did you forget which day it was? Didn’t you put it down on your own calendar?”

  “I don’t have so many dates that I have to put them on my calendar.” She was still looking upset. “Come on, let’s go.”

  She waved a goodbye to the young Irish bloke behind the desk, then led the way out of the gym, leaving him to follow, still confused.

  “What?” he asked again when they were on the wharf.

  “Nothing. Where’s your car?”

>   “Ally.” He stopped where he stood, waited until she was, seemingly reluctantly, looking at him. “Something’s wrong. Tell me.”

  “It feels stupid, though,” she muttered. She put her bag down, reached for her ponytail with both hands and pulled it tight. Uh-oh.

  “Tell me,” he commanded. Fixed her with his best captain’s stare. “We’re not going anywhere till you do.”

  “It’s just . . .” She shrugged, looked out at the Harbour. “I thought you’d text me or something, about the plan. Call me, maybe. Something. Since it’s only our second time together. It’s like you did it, you got there, and now you’re . . . done.”

  “Done,” he repeated. “What d’you mean, done? I’m not done. Here I am, waiting to take you home with me. Not a bit done.”

  “Done courting me, I guess,” she said, and he could see how uncomfortable this was making her. “I didn’t expect, you know, flowers or anything. But maybe . . .” She trailed off. “Maybe a text. Saying, I don’t know. ‘See you tonight.’ Like that.”

  “We calendared it, though,” he repeated in confusion. “We agreed.”

  “Well, I need more than that, OK?” She was showing some exasperation now. “I’m not high-maintenance. At least, I’ve never thought of myself that way. But you started sleeping with me, what, five days ago? It’d be nice if I still felt a little bit special, you know? Like you were looking forward to seeing me.”

  “Special,” he said slowly.

  “Yeah,” she muttered. “Special. I’m a girl. Sue me.”

  “Right,” he said, the light dawning. “Right.” He took her hand, turned her to face him. Waited until she was looking at him.

  “I’ve been looking forward to tonight,” he told her. “The past couple days have been pretty stressful, and I’ve been thinking how good it’ll be to be with you again. I thought we could do a bit of food shopping together, buy a couple steaks, a nice bottle of wine. And then go to my house, and you could take a shower, because I know you like to do that, first thing after work. Though I may have to join you in there,” he added, trying out a smile and seeing her beginning to smile back. “Which may make dinner happen a bit later. But, yeh. I’ve been thinking about that, and looking forward to it. Because you’re special, and I’ve missed you, and I want to be with you tonight.”

  He waited. Tried to think what else he could say, but couldn’t come up with anything. Saw her lift her hands to that ponytail again, pull out the elastic. Then pause, seemingly unsure what to do with it. She was wearing that strappy yellow tank top again, with stretchy black tights that ended just below the knee. No pockets, he guessed.

  “Here.” He reached out a hand for it, took it from her and shoved it into his own pocket. Smiled at her as she ran her fingers through her hair, shook it out. Saw her smile back, beginning to shine for him with that warmth, that glow that was Ally, and sighed with relief.

  “All right?” he asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” she said. “All right.”

  Out on the Paddock

  Nate was the first out onto the field as always, the Cake Tin still a sea of yellow, most of the brightly colored seats not yet filled. People tended to think that he was setting some kind of example by going out there before the rest of the squad to warm up, but Nate knew the truth. He was just the most eager to get started. Once he’d laced his boots up, he just wanted to be on the paddock.

  He went through the usual warmups and stretches, the rest of the boys gradually coming out to join him. Mako was running through scrum drills with the rest of the pack, he saw. Well, their forwards were all right. And the Blues were minus their two most experienced loosies, now that Drew had retired and Finn was off to Japan. Yeh, they could win the battle up front. It was going to be down to the backs. Nate traded kicks with Aaron Cooper, the fullback, tried to send confidence his way. If Coops showed some form tonight, they were in with a good chance.

  And then, finally, they’d done all they could, and were trotting back into the tunnel to get ready to come out for the kickoff. Another game underway, and he was fizzing. He couldn’t wait.

  “Do they always come out beforehand like that?” Ally asked Marika. She’d been gratified to find that Nate had arranged for her to sit with Liam’s parents, and that they’d been so friendly. At least they’d probably know something about the game, and hopefully would share some of that with her. Ally suspected that her grand total of two games watched in the pub, barely able to hear the commentary, wasn’t going to help her much, not without a TV camera to focus on where the action was happening.

  “Like what?” Marika asked absently, her eyes, Ally saw, tracing her son’s path into the tunnel.

  “Do they always warm up first, right in front of everyone?” Ally tried to explain. “Or is that just something special tonight?”

  Marika turned to her in surprise. “Course they do. Have to get warm, don’t they. They’ll have been sitting, getting taped up and all.”

  Ally considered explaining that watching the players do their groin stretches wasn’t something North American audiences would have been treated to, but decided not to bother. She’d certainly enjoyed watching Nate do his, and everything else too. She was pretty keyed up for this, in fact.

  She actually caught her breath when Nate led the team out of the tunnel again and onto the field. And couldn’t resist looking at the big screen at the end of the field just to see his face as he trotted out, holding the ball. If he’d ever looked tough to her before, that was nothing to how he looked now. His set jaw rough with stubble, his eyes hard, he looked like he could win the game all by himself, or at least give it his very best shot.

  He was her Nate, but he . . . wasn’t. He was so much more. The gulf between them suddenly yawned wide, and she saw it with a sudden clarity, a shock of recognition that sent a cold shiver down her spine. She’d thought it would feel good to watch him like this, and it did. But it also felt strange, and a little uncomfortable too.

  And then the teams took up their positions for the kickoff, and the Hurricanes had sent the ball sailing to the back of the Blues’ half, where a player caught it in sure hands and immediately sent it straight back again. Back and forth twice more, and then once again, without much running in between.

  “Are they just going to kick it?” she asked, her momentary discomfort forgotten.

  Marika laughed. “Playing for territory, bit of a chess match. Just wait a sec, and something will happen.”

  Something did. The Blues got the ball this time closer to midfield, and the player began to run with it, passed it to another man, who passed it to another, and was brought down by two Hurricanes players who plowed into him ruthlessly, the bodies piling up. And after that, it was . . . fast. Played without a single break except a brief pause at halftime, and only a few substitutions, none of whom was Nate. Played even with an injured man lying on the field, being tended to by a doctor. The whole thing even rougher and more intense than it had looked on TV.

  Ally could tell that, but that was about all she could tell. Except that the Blues seemed to be playing a little better, much of the action taking place in the Hurricanes’ half, the Hurricanes forced onto defense that did seem to hold up, because late in the game, the score was only 13 to 6 in favor of the Blues. The margin would have been a single point, except that the Hurricanes kicker had missed two penalties that had had the crowd groaning, so Ally guessed that he should have made them.

  But then the teams squared off in another scrum—at least Ally knew what that was—and Nate fed the ball into it, ran around to the back to pick it up when it squirted out, and handed it off. And the Hurricanes were advancing down the field, Nate somehow there instantly after every tackle to collect the ball from the tackled player and distribute it again. Which must have been according to some plan. He certainly seemed to know who he wanted to give it to, and what should happen after that, because as soon as he handed it off, he was running with the ball carrier. Well, he’d said you had to
have some brains to play this game, and obviously, he was right. Because the speed of the decision-making out there was impressive. And his reaction time . . . that was just crazy.

  The Hurricanes advance was short-lived, though, because suddenly, after another tackle tantalizingly near the Blues’ tryline, there was some scrambling on the ground, and the crowd was groaning again.

  “What happened?” Ally asked in confusion.

  “Another turnover,” Marika explained.

  “Too bloody many turnovers,” her husband Vernon, an older and even broader version of Liam, growled. “Not to mention the knock-ons and the spilled passes and the missed tackles. And,” he sighed a moment after the Blues player kicked the ball long, getting it out of the danger zone, “that dodginess under the high ball.”

  Because, indeed, the player standing alone back there had missed catching the long, high kick, was having to scramble for it now. And then had his returning kick charged down by a fast-arriving Blues player. Which resulted in another turnover, which resulted in another flurry of passes. And, finally, a Blues player sliding across the line for an all-too-easy try that put the game away.

  Ally stepped out of the lift the next day and saw Nate leaning against the doorjamb. He stood up straight as she approached, and she realized she was smiling like a fool. She pulled the door open, surrendered the fabric bag of groceries, the duffel that held tomorrow’s clothes to his demanding hands, then gave in to her emotions, pulled his head down for a kiss.

  “Hi,” she smiled up at him, her arms still wrapped around his neck. “Big shot.”

  He laughed. “What does that mean?”

  She let go, followed him to the car and hopped in while he stowed her bags in the boot and jumped in beside her. “It means that I was impressed,” she said.

  “Should’ve known my brilliant personality wouldn’t do the business, that I’d have to get you out to the park,” he sighed.