Heart of the Valley

by Cathryn Hein

  Sam O’Donnell, the other lock, emerged from the change rooms, closely followed by Nate Osbourne, their studs clicking on the concrete as they crossed to the fence. Unlike Lachie, who wore headgear, Sam used black tape wrapped around his head to keep his ears in place, which lowered his brow and made his sleepy eyes appear even sleepier. In his Panthers’ kit, with his acutely bent nose, intense eyes and menacing game face, Nate appeared a different man from the friendly publican Lachie had met on Thursday night. He stopped at the fence and waved his team over. Lachie donned his helmet, leaving the chinstrap loose, and lined up with his team. On the other side of the amenities block, their yellow jerseys bright, the Sandy Hollow Hornets did the same.

  ‘Right, lads,’ said Nate, slapping his hands together. ‘Today’s a big game and as you all know there’s a lot at stake. And we’re not just talking points here. We’re talking pride.’ He thumped his chest. ‘Pride and honour. Not just our individual pride and honour or even the Panthers’, but Pitcorthie’s. Our town. That place we call home. So let’s get out there and do it proud.’ He caught them all by the eye. ‘For Pitcorthie, lads.’

  Pumped up, the team responded in unison. ‘For Pitcorthie!’

  Satisfied, Nate nodded then turned and jogged onto the ground. Invigorated and game hungry, his fourteen teammates followed, their puffed-up chests swelled further by the yells, cheers and whistles of the parochial crowd.

  Lachie ran short sprints to warm up, still feeling unprepared despite his stretches. At lunchtime, in the warmth of the pub over juice and plates of sandwiches, Nate had introduced him to his teammates, describing with good humour each of their strengths and weaknesses, even ribbing his own missed tackles and wayward passing – bad failings for a centre – before moving on to a detailed description of the opposition and their likely tactics. Lachie had left the pub for the ground with the feeling he was in for an interesting game. Unlike most weeks, this Saturday they were fielding a full fifteen, and that charged the men with purpose.

  The crowd groaned when Nate lost the toss and the Sandy Hollow Hornets elected to kick into the wind. While this put the Hornets at a disadvantage in the first half, in the second they’d have the breeze at their backs and the lowering sun behind them as well. As he moved into position, Lachie gripped Nate’s shoulder in sympathy.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Lachie,’ said Nate, as upbeat as ever. ‘Be the only victory they’ll see today.’

  The referee handed the ball to the Hornets’ five-eighth, who gripped it ready for kick-off. Lachie secured the strap of his helmet and pulled his mouthguard from the top of his sock and threaded it into his mouth, heartbeat thumping as adrenaline began to surge. A quick check with the two captains and the referee raised his whistle. For a few seconds quiet descended, then a shrill blast broke the air, bringing with it another cheer from the crowd. Lachie crouched in line, one hand on the ground for balance, ready for the charge. The game was on.

  By half-time, despite the Panthers’ brave-hearted defence, the Hornets had scored and converted a try. The Panthers were only four points behind, though, thanks to a penalty goal, well kicked by Logan Price, their yarpy-mouthed scrum half. Lachie had run himself ragged, and came off the ground with his chest heaving, covered in mud and sweat, and his shoulder aching from a fiercely implanted and scraped boot.

  Out of the wind in the change room, Nate gathered them around, rallying them with another pep talk. ‘Fantastic effort, lads. We’ve really got them worried.’ He patted Sam on the head; his sleepy eyes drooped even further with fatigue. ‘Great effort, Sammy.’ Patrick, whose agility, accurate kicks and rapid decision-making had gained them a lot of ground, got slapped on the shoulder. ‘Brilliant work, Pat.’ He singled out each of his teammates, heaping praise, until he reached Lachie. ‘And you, mate, were friggin’ awesome.’

  Lachie shook his head, embarrassed.

  ‘You bloody were.’

  Sam gave him a look. ‘What grade did you say you played for Uni?’

  ‘First.’

  His team regarded him with astonishment. Until now, Lachie had avoided the question, not wanting to create too much expectation, but even though he felt he hadn’t played well, his superior talent was unmistakable. He’d won every lineout bar one, tackled ferociously, and sent passes hurtling like bullets. The only blemish was the missed lineout, when the sneaky Hornets, sick of having their throw-ins snatched, passed short instead. The Panthers player nearest the touchline was so startled he forgot to tackle, leaving the Hornets’ forward free to charge over the line, much to the crowd’s and the forward’s amazement.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Nate, before shaking himself and clapping his hands together to regain their attention. ‘But this is a team sport, lads, and we’re going to keep playing like a team until we grind those bastards down. It’ll be tough, and it’ll take every ounce of guts we have, but mark my words, we’re going to do Pitcorthie proud and win.’

  Lachie took a swig from his drink bottle, listening attentively as Nate outlined tactics for the second half. Though out of the wind, the change room, with its damp concrete floor, single brick walls and exposed roof, remained frigid. As his sweat-soaked body cooled and threatened to tighten loose muscles, Lachie kept up a routine of stretches. The others did the same, taking their cue from him.

  ‘Remember, lads,’ said Nate, coming to the end of his speech, ‘this is for Pitcorthie.’

  ‘Pitcorthie!’

  The chant kept coming as they ran out for the second half, earning yet another wild cheer from the Panthers-stacked crowd. As he jogged into position, Lachie scanned the perimeter. Though the wind remained gusty, the afternoon sun had broken through to cut the cold. The close score had enticed spectators from their cars, and they gathered tightly around the fence in green and white mobs interspersed with clumps of yellow-clad Hornets fans.

  Patrick took the kick-off for the Panthers. Lachie sprinted after it, catching the Hornets’ full-back as he attempted to duck past, turning him as they fell and forcing the man to release as he faced the wrong way. The Panthers pounced for the clean-out, securing the ball before flicking it along the line, the crowd screaming in delight at the turnover.

  The try line beckoned, but the Hornets’ defence continued to hold their ground. A collective groan issued from the sidelines as the Panthers’ wing lost the ball forward for the second time in the game. Seeing his teammate’s dropped head, Lachie quickly ran over to offer a few words of encouragement before joining Sam for the scrum. They couldn’t afford to lose heart. Too much was at stake.

  Thirty minutes passed without either side scoring. The ground was so dug up it looked like a herd of wild boar had rampaged through. Lachie’s lungs ached as he sucked in cold air. His legs burned, his ribs throbbed where he’d been jabbed with an elbow, and his rucked shoulder pulsed, yet the pain registered only vaguely. The play of the ball was all that mattered.

  Despite Nate’s shouts of encouragement and Logan’s endless yarping, the Panthers were flagging. As the Hornets had planned, the wind was working against the Panthers, and now the sun, low in the sky, shone into their eyes. The team was exhausted. Any break in play saw the men’s heads drop as they bent over to lean their hands on their thighs. Lachie looked at Nate, whose grim face said it all, then at the clock, before casting around to the others. Defeat hung on their shoulders and weighed their tired, dragging legs. They’d need a miracle to get home. It was up to him to create one.

  Awarded a penalty, the Hornets kicked into touch. The Panthers ran into position, ready for the lineout, Lachie towards the touch-line. If the pass was short, he’d use his agility to cut it off. If it was thrown high, he’d snatch it from the air. Either way, the Hornets weren’t laying a finger on it.

  ‘We can win this, Panthers,’ he told them, watching the opposition closely as the Hornets’ hooker stood on the side waiting to throw in the ball. ‘There’s still time. One try. That’s all we need.’

  Nate joined in. ‘Come on, lads
. For Pitcorthie!’

  The ball came in high. Supported by his prop, Lachie leapt, plucking it mid-arc and passing it to Logan, who passed immediately to Patrick. Patrick hesitated a moment, then catching Lachie’s rapid run and call from behind, flicked the pass his way. Ball securely tucked, Lachie barrelled ahead, weaving his way past flat-footed players, working his way to the wing.

  He made it to the halfway line before being brought down. Immediately he released, rolled away, and leapt to his feet again. The ball headed inside. Another pass and another tackle, but this time the men stayed up. Lachie joined the maul, driving into the Hornets’ defence, muscling them back. The ball came out, passing along the line and gaining more ground until another maul formed. The twenty-two-metre line approached, galvanising the Panthers.

  Lachie glanced at the clock. They had a minute, two at most, but momentum was in their favour. The tryline was theirs to attack, the Hornets as tired as the Panthers. They could win.

  As soon as the ball came out he broke from the maul and sprinted across the ground. He’d seen a hole. All he needed was an accurate, lightning pass and he could run through to the line. He yelled to the five-eighth. Quick as ever, Patrick changed direction and fired the ball his way. Lachie intercepted and with the ball jammed against his chest, charged.

  Legs pumping, he crossed the twenty-two-metre line, hunting around for support. None appeared. He gripped the ball harder as a flanker sprinted across to halt his run. He swerved, arching his back, leaving the attacker clawing air. The tryline loomed. Twelve metres. Ten metres. The full-back thundered toward him but Lachie knew he possessed enough pace to blast through.

  ‘Lachie!’

  Nate’s call came from the wing. He glanced across. His captain was unmarked, and though Lachie knew it was a risk with Nate’s self-confessed slippery hands, he didn’t hesitate. He passed. As the spectators gasped, the ball speared straight onto Nate’s chest. Arms locked around it and a grin splitting his face, he took two huge strides before swan diving for the tryline.

  The crowd erupted as the referee pointed and blew the try. Panting and grinning, Lachie ran to Nate, slapping his back and rubbing his hair in celebration before leaving him to a pile-on by his ecstatic teammates.

  ‘It’s not over yet, lads,’ said Nate, finally extracting himself. ‘We still need the conversion to win.’ He regarded Lachie. ‘You want to take it? You deserve the glory.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not my forte.’

  Nate picked up the ball and glanced at Logan. Lachie understood what he was thinking. Kicking for goal with the match in the balance was a huge responsibility, and perhaps one a captain should bear. Nate caught his eye. Lachie gave him a subtle nod of encouragement.

  ‘I’ll kick,’ Nate announced to his team. ‘That way if I fuck it up you can all blame me.’

  ‘You won’t,’ said Lachie.

  And he didn’t, although it wasn’t the prettiest of conversions. The ball wobbled off his boot, hit the cross bar and ricocheted skyward. Silence hung over the ground. Hearts stuttered in chests. Breaths suspended in lungs, then the ball tumbled to the other side and the Panthers were bellowing in triumph. Lachie found himself at the bottom of another pile-on, nose full of sweat and dirt, his head full of victory and his heart swollen with his love for the game and all it stood for.

  When the on-field celebrations died down, he trudged toward the change room, taking a moment to scan the sidelines. Chloe stood at the fence, bouncing up and down in excitement. Andrew stood next to her, applauding but without great enthusiasm. Lachie surveyed the rest of the ecstatic crowd, his heart leaping as he spotted a blue Land Cruiser in the far corner. A slight figure sat perched on the bullbar, and though a scarf was wrapped high around her neck and a green beanie covered her head, there was no mistaking Brooke. Their eyes locked and he caught a smile. Then she slid off her perch, held out her hands, and began a slow clap.

  And though she faced the entire team, somehow that simple gesture felt just for him.

  After the raw conditions outside, the thick, beery air and laugh-filled din of the pub felt warm and welcoming, and replete with community spirit. Discarded Panthers’ scarves hung like green snakes from the backs of chairs. Someone had threaded Nate’s dirt-encrusted jersey onto a pool cue and suspended it pointing outward from above the bar like a military banner. The jukebox pumped a tinny version of Queen’s ‘We Are the Champions’. Several Panthers, Nate at the centre, arms slung around shoulders and beers precariously held, sang along in discordant delight, a warning to all that Saturday night would last long and loud.

  Lachie pushed the door closed and paused for a moment to scan the room for Brooke. He spotted her with Chloe and Andrew near the jukebox. Her hands were sunk deep into her jeans pockets and her chest sunk inward as though hunched against cold. Despite the warm fug and her flushed cheeks, the Panthers beanie remained on her head. Andrew stood with his arm resting on the ledge behind, not touching her, but relaying a clear message.

  She caught Lachie’s scrutiny and smiled slightly.

  Noticing his arrival, Chloe waved him over, but she was too late. A whoop went up from the bar and in seconds Lachie was dragged towards it.

  Attention on his performance escalated to embarrassing proportions. ‘I just played the game,’ he kept telling anyone who’d listen but the praise kept coming with the beers. He drank two, refusing further shouts despite assurances of lifts home and beds for the night. Lachie didn’t need a hangover, and he wanted to make sense when he talked to Brooke.

  Finally, he managed to escape by telling his teammates he needed a have a word with Brooke about the farm. The moment he wandered over, Chloe pulled on his arm and stood on tiptoe in an attempt to kiss him. Catcalls erupted from the bar. Avoiding direct attack, he turned his head and permitted her a brief peck on the cheek before straightening. Laughter and jibes broke behind him. He smiled wryly. No matter where you went, rugby teams were all the same. Thwarted but unfazed, Chloe maintained her hold, hugging him possessively to her side.

  ‘You were amazing,’ she said, fixing him with sparkly, invitation-filled eyes.

  ‘Not really. I just played the game.’

  She nudged him playfully. ‘You’re too modest.’

  He shook his head and eyed Brooke. Her cheeks were flushed, the skin beneath her eyes shadowed, and her lips seemed dull and dry. Fatigue, or perhaps worry, sagged her posture.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Just tired. Nothing a decent night’s sleep won’t fix.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Andrew. ‘You played well.’

  ‘Thanks. It was a good game.’ He cleared his throat and regarded Brooke again. ‘How was Sydney?’

  ‘I didn’t go.’

  ‘Too scared what her mother would say about her new haircut,’ said Chloe.

  ‘Actually,’ said Brooke, flicking looks at Chloe and Andrew, ‘I did what you’ve been nagging me to do and went to look at a horse.’

  Immediately they began firing questions. What horse? Whereabouts? What’s it done?

  ‘You should have called me,’ said Andrew. ‘I could have come with you.’

  ‘I wanted to look on my own.’

  ‘So, are you going to tell us about it, or what?’ demanded Chloe.

  Brooke threw an exasperated smile at Lachie as if to say, ‘See what I have to put up with?’, then set about answering. ‘I found him last night while trawling that new online sale site and liked the look of his photos so I rang the owner. He said he’d bred him for tourists to use as a trail-riding horse but he turned out too big – no surprise given his dam’s a Clydesdale – so he gave him to his daughter to ride and she mucked around doing a bit of dressage and jumping – just low-grade Pony Club stuff – until she lost interest. Anyway, he looked like he had potential so I thought I might as well check him out.’ She smiled at Chloe. ‘And yes, it gave me a good excuse not to go to Sydney. Turns out he’s a beauty. Perfect shoulder, strong hind-quart
ers, a bit dopey-looking but sweet-tempered. And best of all, cheap. So I bought him.’ She refocused on Lachie. ‘I was hoping if you’re free sometime during the week we could drive down to pick him up.’

  ‘I can do it,’ Andrew butted in.

  Lachie remained silent. He wasn’t about to get involved.

  She shook her head and continued to look at him. ‘Maybe Tuesday?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Brooke, I’ll do it. I’ve told you before I don’t mind.’

  Sensing now might be a good time to retreat, Lachie shrugged. ‘Work it out and let me know. I’ll fit in with whatever you decide. I’d better get back to the boys,’ he added, indicating the bar and the still joyous Panthers. Though what he really wanted was to go home and laze in front of the fire after double-checking with Brooke in private that she really was okay. Something about her body language niggled.

  Chloe gave his arm a squeeze. ‘Stay a bit. Anyway, you haven’t seen what I’ve done with Brooke’s hair yet.’

  With a sigh, Brooke slid the beanie from her hair, scrunching up her nose as Chloe leapt in to run her fingers expertly through the short crop. Satisfied, Chloe stepped back, arm held open in presentation.

  Instead of the messy bob he was used to, Brooke’s hair clung to her head in boyishly short tendrils. The hair alongside her ears had been cut into a point, giving it a pixie-ish quality. With her hesitant smile she looked fragile and vulnerable but also very beautiful. The cut emphasised her soft eyes and gentle mouth, and did nothing to curb his burgeoning attraction.