Just Say (Hell) No (Escape to New Zealand Book 11)

by Rosalind James

  She’d known all that for years, and yet she hadn’t been able to shake her unfortunate crush until her final year of school, after which she’d left home for Christchurch and university. Maybe because Marko always gave her a smile when he saw her, as if he felt something special for her, too. A dream she may have held too close to her heart for too long a time. And maybe because he’d stopped being gangly, eventually.

  Until she’d found out that he wasn’t any different, and he certainly wasn’t special.

  And now? She couldn’t escape seeing his photo from time to time, especially when she was in Dunedin. If he wasn’t on a rugby field, though, he had his arm around a blonde every time. A different blonde.

  As for her? She’d moved back to the North Island, to Auckland, after uni. She had her own life, and it didn’t include rugby. Not anymore. She didn’t watch unless she was in a pub and couldn’t avoid it, or was watching her stepbrothers, sometime when it really mattered. Marko could move to the Blues if he wanted. It might make a difference to her stepfather, but it made no difference to her. She was over it.

  When she got to the car, her headlights were on. She muttered something that would have shocked her mother, turned them off again, and set out once more. It was all exercise, even if she did some of it a couple times over. And running was good for her. She hated it, but she was doing it, see? For clarity, for inspiration, and hopefully for a tighter, smaller bum.

  She knew it was two kilometers to Achilles Point. She didn’t look at her watch to see how long it was taking. The point was, she made it. She puffed her way up the final incline, which felt more like a mountain, tried to tell herself, Gorgeous sea view, and failed. Maybe it was the black spots that were swimming in her vision. She bent over from the waist to haul in a few precious breaths and focused on not being sick.

  When she stood up again, she saw him. He’d just run the stairs from the beach. She didn’t even want to walk the stairs from the beach. And he wasn’t breathing hard.

  Bastard.

  He dropped to the boardwalk, began doing press-ups in a leisurely manner, and said, “I’ll take your apology now.”

  “P-p-pardon?” It came out wrong. She still couldn’t breathe.

  “I didn’t blame you at the start,” he went on, sounding as if twenty press-ups were nothing but a warmup. Which they probably were. He started them over again, then said, “I ran up behind you. Startled you. Fair enough. But afterwards? Did you thank me for my generous offer? Did you give me a dignified way out? You did not. You ran away and left me with a bona fide footy expert. I’m not even going to comment on the fact that if you’d let me turn off your headlights, you’d have been up here ten minutes faster.” He eyed her more closely. “Maybe fifteen.”

  The sun was too hot, and her face was still dripping with sweat and probably flushed to beetroot state. Still, she felt a bit better. “Your new mate had something to say about your performance last night, did he? Could be you just lost to a better side.”

  He hovered for a long moment at the top of a press-up, then leaped to his feet in one smooth movement. “Now, I call that cruel. And if you knew who I was, why did I get all that talk about Macing me? I was sweating.”

  “You were not sweating. It takes more than that to make you sweat.”

  He grinned at her, lifted the collar of his singlet, and wiped his face, exposing a flash of taut, ridged midriff in a quite possibly delicious shade of golden brown. And a thin line of dark hair leading south from his navel, straight into the top of those black shorts. “Could be you’re making me do it,” he said. “But I’m happy you’ve noticed.”

  She tore her gaze away and back up to his face fast, but not before he’d caught her looking.

  At fourteen, she’d thought he was her knight on a white horse. At seventeen, she’d learned better. Ten more years had done him some favors in the body department, but she wasn’t sure they’d improved his character.

  She smiled back at him, saw the answering smile get cockier, and said, as sweetly as she could manage, “I’m so impressed by that, I’ve come over a bit faint. Time for me to go.”

  “If you’re faint,” he said, “I reckon I’d better buy you lunch.” So confident, like he had only to offer himself up, and the world and all its women would be his. She wasn’t fourteen anymore, though, and she didn’t have any illusions about the romantic intentions of rugby players. Even All Blacks weren’t necessarily all they were cracked up to be.

  “Cheers,” she said, “but no. I need to go. Thanks for telling me about my headlights. Goodbye.”

  Sometimes, if you were very lucky, you got a second chance. You might still be able to fit your fist into your mouth, but at least the braces were gone, you hadn’t dropped any food, and you definitely didn’t feel like slinking away and dying.

  Not anymore.

  At three-thirty the next afternoon, Marko tugged his T-shirt over his chest, picked up his bag, and tried to make an inconspicuous exit.

  He failed. “Off to learn your fate?” Koti James asked with a grin.

  It would be easy to hate Koti. At this moment, in fact, Marko would swear the fluorescent lights of the changing room were gleaming off Koti’s too-perfect teeth and too-perfect abs like they’d been specially aimed there. As if his whole life were a movie starring Koti James.

  It was easy to discount the man’s workrate if all you saw were the flash body and the oh-so-casually-flash skills. When you were in the gym with him, though, you saw how much grunt it took to keep both body and skills at that exalted level, especially once your odometer rolled over at thirty. Marko should know. It had taken him a full year to grind his way back from injury this time.

  When he’d lain on the damp grass in New Plymouth last February, barely twenty minutes into a preseason match that wasn’t even meant to matter, he’d known too much was torn. There was no mistaking that pain. Worse than he’d ever felt, like his leg had been ripped straight off. He’d lain there, forcing himself not to scream, had thought, Months, and had fought the black despair.

  The difference between a champion and everybody else, though, was that a champion didn’t give up. So when the doctor told him he’d ripped three ligaments in his knee, torn his right quadriceps straight off the bone, and, at thirty-one, would likely never play again? He’d set out to prove him wrong.

  And he had. He’d fought his way back through every white-knuckled treatment session and every agonizing hour of training, and had impressed Fizzo enough along the way that the coach had taken him on at the Blues, a team sorely missing its own departed champion at Number 6, a team where he could make his mark. He was starting every match, and he intended to keep on doing it. Straight through the Rugby World Cup next year.

  He knew that as things stood now, he was the number three choice in the 6 jersey when the All Blacks took the field in June, and he also knew the selectors would leave Number Three at home. If he were going to be standing on the field in the black jersey when the first ball was kicked off, he was going to have to do something special to get there.

  Those other fellas wouldn’t step aside, so Marko was going to have to win that black jersey the same way Koti kept winning his, the same way every player did, up to and including the captain. One gym session, one match, and one disciplined day at a time. The knitting bag hadn’t been a misstep. It had been necessary for the team, and so was whatever he had to do next.

  Focus on here. Focus on now. The casual banter, as always, lay atop that other, unspoken thing. The competitive drive that burned in every man who made it to this level, and that pushed him on toward the next. But the casual banter was necessary, too, the mortar between the bricks that built a team.

  “Yeh,” he told Koti. “Off to see the PR. Any tips? Who is this woman? Should I be scared?”

  Koti said, not one bit helpfully, “Definitely. You may think you’re the player and Brenda’s the PR, but nobody sent her the memo. You’re nothing but grist for her mill.”

  H
ugh had one massive foot on the bench, tying his laces. “Nah,” he said, apparently prepared to be lenient now that he’d shared his opinion on Saturday’s loss with the squad. “If she’s dreamt up something awful, I’ll do it with you.” He raised his voice enough to be heard over on the other side of the room, where the younger fellas were changing. “Seeing as it could’ve been me with the knitting bag, though I’m not sure I’d have been that inventive. Probably just have clocked you, Kors, which you well and truly deserved, you silly bugger.”

  Tom Koru-Mansworth was still coming up with an answer to that—and failing—when Hugh asked Marko, “What’s your Tarot card of the day, mate?”

  “Death,” Marko said.

  “Ouch,” Hugh said.

  “My mum,” Marko explained to Koti. “Hard to ask your mum not to send you her helpful, loving message every morning, but did I need to see Death on a white horse today?”

  Koti was laughing, as well he might. “At least it wasn’t a match day. What’s Death, then? Other than, you know, Death.”

  Marko pulled out his phone. It was a challenge to find his spot on this squad after thirteen years with the Highlanders, and if his role was entertainment? At least it made a change after a decade as the enforcer. He said, “Hang on. I’m reading. Ahem. ‘Sometimes you need an ending in order to create your next beginning. Change is always a shock to the system, but a reality check can be just what you need most.’” He looked up. “There you have it, though I’ve already made my fair share of changes, and I wouldn’t have said I needed a reality check any more than the next man.”

  “Course you do,” Koti said. “You’re single. Hugh and I get our reality checks the old-fashioned way. At home.”

  “Speak for yourself, mate,” Hugh said.

  “Yeh, right,” Koti said. “You forget I know Josie.”

  Could be. Hugh had recently married Jocelyn Pae Ata, one of New Zealand’s most glamorous TV stars. Marko had barely met her, but since her most famous role was as the most beautiful Black Widow a man had ever lost his mind to, he found he could believe it. He said, “Much as I’d love to hang about and hear more, I’ve got this PR to see.” He zipped up his bag, found another ball of pink knitting wool inside to go with the tangled streamers that had festooned his cubicle when he’d arrived, and chucked it in the bin on his way out with a look for Hugh.

  “Don’t blame me,” Hugh said. “I didn’t even give them the idea. Some scenes write themselves.”

  When Koti stepped into the lift behind him and stood looking at the floor indicator, his hands clasped before him, Marko could only look at him and sigh.

  “Can’t wait,” he said. “What.”

  “What?” Koti asked, the picture of innocence. “Nah, bro. Just along for the ride, you could say.”

  He followed Marko into the open-plan business office of the Blues, waving and calling his hellos as they walked past the mostly female staff, and Marko said, “Do you ever turn it off, mate? And don’t they get sick of it?”

  “Yeh, nah,” Koti said. “Don’t seem to. And it’s this way.” He took the lead, stopped in front of a desk with a seating cube in front of it, and said, “Brenda, meet Marko. He’s been bad.”

  “Geez, Koti,” Brenda, a lively-looking blonde, complained. “I was going to tell him that we wanted to introduce him to the public up north. Useful for sponsorships and all. New blood, because you’re getting old. That was meant to be the idea. Positive, you could say.”

  Koti laughed, cheerful as ever. “Nice try, but Marko was born older than I’ll ever be. Serious, that’s the word. No show pony to take over my spot. Just another boring forward. Now, if you’d brought Kors up here instead, the contest would’ve been on. Right body, right tattoo, mad skills.”

  As he said it, a tiny brunette came around her desk and said, “Hey, buddy. It’s not nice to talk about yourself like that.”

  “Nah,” he said. “Talking about Kors. I’m too old and got too many kids to be the glamour boy. Time for the old master to step aside.”

  She sighed. “Fishing expedition. How many times have I told you that foreplay works best the other way? You’re supposed to tell the girl she’s pretty, not that you are. And I told you five o’clock.”

  “Nice,” Koti said. He put his arm around her, lifted her off her feet, gave her a kiss, and said, “Could be I missed my wife.”

  “In the office,” Brenda said to the air. “Lovely.”

  “Never mind,” Koti said. He set his wife down and said, “We’ll do a contest, hey. Who can point out the highest number of wonderful attributes in the other person. I’ll win. You’re a better counter, but I’m a better noticer. But right now, you’re distracting me at work.” He grabbed another seating cube from in front of his wife’s desk, shoved it over to Brenda’s, and said, “You remember Marko. And Marko, this is my wife, Kate, who’s as thrilled as ever to see me. I’m just here to help my mate, baby. Moral support.”

  Marko had met Kate. She and Koti had been married some years. But she worked for the Blues? That was unusual. “Uh-huh,” Kate said. “Your insatiable curiosity. Nice to see you, Marko. I’m going back to work.”

  “You do that,” Koti said, then put an elbow on Brenda’s desk and said, “Let’s have it. The dirty deal.”

  Brenda said, “Always the drama. No worries, Marko. Easy-peasy. Like I said. Introducing you to Auckland. Showing your softer side.”

  “Doesn’t sound good, cuz,” Koti said, which Marko didn’t need to hear. He could have decided that for himself.

  “I thought about ballet,” Brenda said, and Marko’s world may have gone a little dark. “Gave me such a giggle. But Koti, we need you for that as well. You, and a couple forwards. Marko’s too pretty to be one of them, unfortunately, so that idea’s out for now.”

  “I am not,” Marko said, “pretty. And I’m not doing ballet on camera. There are limits. That’s mine.”

  “Too pretty for this,” she said, unfazed. She studied him dispassionately. “Though you shouldn’t be. You’re not actually handsome, at least not in any way that would bring Hollywood to the door. Your nose is too big, your jaw’s weirdly squared off, and you have too much brow ridge. And up close, your arms are too long and your hands are too big. You don’t look normal. You’re too intense as well. Frightening, even.” She considered him some more, then shook her head. “And you won’t work for my ballet idea. Pity. I need a couple big boys. The good-natured ones, though. The kind who’ll lumber about amiably, not somebody who looks like he’s about to start smashing the place up. A lock, maybe, and a prop. Some really good mashed noses and ears. And Koti—or Nic, maybe—anyway, a pretty back who’ll be able to dance and will make the others look bad. Never mind. Project for another day. For you, Marko, it’s simple. Animals. You aren’t allergic, are you?”

  “Uh… no,” Marko said. He didn’t look normal? He was thankful beyond words all the same that the conversation had shifted from ballet. He couldn’t dance. He could get to a rugby ball, and he could get there fast. He could tackle hard enough for a man to feel it all the way through to his spine. But he couldn’t dance. “Not allergic.”

  “Good.” Brenda tapped a couple sheets of paper in front of her, banged the corner briskly with her stapler, and handed them over. “Any day this week, and then—oh, call it once more over the next couple weeks, and you’re all done. They said they’d like a couple sessions to get everything they need. Easy-peasy, like I said. A hop, skip, and a jump away, and you’re off home again. Just give them a ring and set it up.”

  Then she waggled her fingers at him. In dismissal.

  Koti was right. He was clearly replaceable. A cog in the machine.

  “Set what up?” Marko didn’t look at the paper. He didn’t have a good feeling.

  “Animals,” she said. “SPCA. Adopt-a-shelter-pet campaign. Your softer side. Like I said.”

  “I am not posing shirtless, holding puppies for some calendar,” Marko said. “I’m not a bloody firef
ighter. Just no. Just hell, no.”

  “Course you’re not,” Brenda said. Soothingly. “Who said anything about shirtless? And if I wanted somebody for that, no worries, I’d have been asking Koti. He may be old, but he has the tattoo, and he has the magic. That’s what the ladies want to see. Anyway, you’ll want to get your skates on and get started. Soonest started, soonest done.” She gave him a cheery smile. “Easy-peasy.”

  When Marko left the room, Koti was still with him. “You’re going to be holding puppies,” the other man informed him as they walked down the passage. “And no matter what Brenda says, you’ll be lucky to get out of it without taking off your jersey. They always want you shirtless. And women complain that men are shallow. It’s not the fellas who’ll be pinning that photo to the wall.”

  “Nobody’s going to be pinning it anywhere,” Marko said, “because it’s not happening. And why are you still here?”

  “To see what happens, of course.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “I could go with you,” Koti said. “If you wanted to start today. Could help break the ice.”

  “Thought you were meant to be collecting your wife.”

  “You heard her. Five o’clock. She’s just started back to work. Two days a week. She wants her days. Says we’re all too demanding. New baby, eh.” Which made no sense to Marko, but he guessed it didn’t have to. “I still have an hour to go.”

  “If I’m doing this,” Marko informed him, “I’m not doing it with an audience. No.”

  Koti sighed. “Cuz. You’ll be doing it with an audience one way or another. I know the Highlanders’ idea of a PR opportunity is the boys touring the freezing works and taking a few whacks at a steer carcass with a cleaver, but you’re in the Big Smoke now. You’ll be lucky if they don’t oil you down for it.”