Mitch grinned and nodded. “That’s what Liana said as well. What’s on your mind, mate?”
“I understand that you know.”
Mitch looked up briefly, amused. “Yeah. Congratulations.”
“Did you have anything to do with it?”
“No. This is all on you. I wasn’t involved.”
“Your opinion still counts there.”
“The only reason I know is because RugNZ wants a photo shoot of past captains together when the announcement is made.”
Blake wasn’t sure why he was there in the backyard with a man whose career he followed and tried to emulate, except that there would never be another Mitch Molloy. “Thanks. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t put in an awkward position. You know, seeing that we’re friends.”
Mitch stared at Blake suspiciously. “You know that would never happen. What’s really going on, mate? Not like you to beat around the bush.”
Blake looked past the fence to the Canterbury Mountains. How many times in the last few years had he been in this backyard, admiring the same view, envying the life that Mitch had carefully but diligently built for himself after rugby?
“I’m clear to play,” he began. “The ankle is feeling good. But each time I’ve been injured, it’s taking longer to recover and get back to top form. I think I need to start wondering what I should do if—when—I get the type of hit that could end it all.”
Mitch nodded. He began to pick up his tools from the ground, wiping them before he placed them into his toolbox. “Plenty of us retire on our own terms.”
“Plenty don’t.”
“Fair enough. Was I wrong in thinking you were someone who puts money aside while you’ve been playing at the top level?”
“It’s not the money. I’m good there.” Blake picked up a wrench that had fallen under the ramp and handed it to Mitch. “It’s what I’d do next. No one plays forever. I have no idea what I’m going to do when this is over.”
“You’re a smart bloke, Stanton. I don’t believe you didn’t have a Plan B if the rugby didn’t work out.”
“That’s the thing. Everything worked out. Better than I had hoped. I had a Plan B at eighteen. Not now.”
“You’re not even thirty, mate,” Mitch said. “Do you still want to play? Still want to win? Good. When you lose that desire, then it’s time to think about what’s next.” Mitch shut his toolbox. “You’re still under contract with the Club and RugNZ, so you have time on your side. Just use it to see what’s out there. People like you. I think you have more opportunities than you’re giving yourself credit for.”
They started walking toward the house. “Was it hard for you? To stop having rugby in your life?” Blake asked quietly.
Mitch paused at the step of the veranda that wrapped around the back of his house. “It was. It still is sometimes.” He faced Blake again, his expression thoughtful. “Yeah, I do miss the game and being part of the team. That anticipation when we come out of the tunnel? Throwing down the challenge in our country’s colors? Nothing like it. I miss those moments. I think I always will. But it helps when there are other things to look forward to. Having Liana come into my life when she did made it easier to move forward. I had my time. I’m one of the lucky ones. I chose to stop.”
After returning to the townhouse, Blake went straight to his bedroom. He reached to the back of his closet and pulled out a large black plastic box. Soon after he’d signed his first contract, Robbie and Andrew had practically held him hostage for five hours as they drilled into him the ins and outs of an effective filing system.
They might be flamboyant on the outside, but the Stanton brothers could hold their own in any accountant’s office. But it wasn’t the finance folder Blake was searching for when he opened the box. He flicked through the folders until he reached the one labeled UNIVERSITY.
It’d been years since he had last seen the contents of it. He shuffled past the various records before settling his gaze on the white paper with the gold lettering and bright red embossed stamp. He smiled. He still wasn’t sure how he’d made it through university, but there it was, proof that he did indeed have a law degree. It had taken him a year longer than most people, mainly because he’d had to juggle the demands of his sport with the rigors of academia. He was sure he had just scraped by, but a pass was a pass.
“Blake? I’m just heading out to the shops. Need anything?” Tim appeared at Blake’s bedroom door. “Hey, what are you looking at?”
Before Blake could close the folder, Tim flopped onto the bed and reached over to pull the diploma out of his hands. “What made you decide to do an LLB?”
“When my grandparents lost their farm, there was a solicitor who was very helpful. And honest.”
Tim’s eyebrows rose. “Honest?”
Blake smiled. “Yeah. That’s what Dad went on and on about, that finding an honest solicitor was as hard as getting on the National Team. I thought I’d try to do both.”
Tim laughed. “And you did. Mate, you’re an overachiever.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
“No one is impressed with scientists.”
“No one likes solicitors.”
Tim handed Blake back his diploma. “So, you looking at this means...”
Blake shrugged as he closed the UNIVERSITY folder and put it back in his filing box. “I’m not sure. I just needed to remind myself that there’s more to me than playing rugby.”
Tim rose from the bed and slapped Blake’s back. “Mate, being a rugby player—as good as you are—is definitely not the only thing people associate you with. Hey, are you watching Neela play later in the day?”
“Yeah,” Blake said. “What kind of fake boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?”
There was no point worrying about when the next injury could happen. It could be next month when the season began or in a couple of years. He had a good run injury-wise until last year, and few athletes could boast that. It was just a matter of time before his body began to succumb to the pressures that came with constant and intense physical activity.
One of the first pieces of advice Mano had given him was to remember that no one played forever.
He reached for the thick white binder he had picked up from the Club last week and immersed himself in the world of scrums, tackles, and formations, taking notes and writing questions until he heard Tim unlock the front door. Then he glanced at his watch and left his room, binder in hand, and headed downstairs to turn on the telly.
“Has it started?” Tim asked.
Blake shook his head. “Not yet. They’re just about to take the pitch.”
Tim handed him a bottle. “I picked up some light beer. Figured you’re back on your diet already. Is that next year’s playbook?”
“No. Last year’s. Can’t hurt to go over what worked well and what didn’t.”
They moved to the sofa, Tim carrying a plate of vegetable slices and hummus in one hand, beer in the other.
Blake scrunched his nose but reached for a slice of capsicum. “Mate, after all these years of living with you, I still can’t decide whether I appreciate or really dislike your thoughtfulness when it comes to my diet and training.”
Tim snickered. “Appreciate it. You’re ten percent talent and ninety percent raw determination. You need all the help you can get to stay on the team.”
Blake grinned. “Between you and Neela, I’m surprised my ego isn’t shattered.”
“How’s it going, then? The dating?” Tim pushed his glasses back up his nose.
Blake narrowed his eyes. “You know something.”
“I do not.”
Blake raised his eyebrows.
Tim grinned. “She’s hot. You must have noticed. If I were into girls, I’d give it a go.”
Blake sighed. “Don’t make it more complicated than it is, Tim. You saw what she was like on Boxing Day. Every time I tried to get close to her, she went the other way. It was exactly how she acts around her father.”
“Oh? That bad, eh?”
“I had a feeling it might be difficult to move our relationship further because of Kyle. She hasn’t had the best of experiences with the men in her life.”
“I thought she got on with her brothers.”
“That’s true,” Blake conceded.
“You’re not her dad or Kyle. She knows that. She just doesn’t know what to do with her feelings.”
“What do you mean?”
Tim shrugged. “If you were on the pitch, tried a play and failed, would you try it again? Probably. But if it failed a second time, you’d hesitate giving it a go a third time. For Neela, you’re the third attempt at the same play.”
“A rugby metaphor about my love life? Charming.”
Time grinned and reached for a cucumber. “I think the whole of New Zealand sees something in the two of you that we all want.”
“What’s that?”
“Two people who were always meant to be together. That’s why that video went viral. It wasn’t because you were tackled. It was because you two smiled at each other after the tackle. There was something special, even then,” Tim said. He bit his cucumber. “Whatever she’s running from, she’s worth waiting for, you know.”
“I know.”
Tim smirked, obviously pleased with Blake’s answer. “And you two look as cute together now as you did as twelve. I swear Liana kept having this funny look on her face whenever she saw you with Neela. I’m best man material, by the way.”
Blake rolled his eyes. That unexpected fourth date was not what he’d planned. It was far from the one-on-one time he craved, but she’d insisted on counting the casual annual barbie at Mitch and Liana’s house as a date. She’d even tweeted a selfie—posted on his account—of them driving to Mitch’s house, just to make it official.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was trying to create distance between them. Except he’d caught her looking for him at the party, and when their eyes met, he’d felt a mutual understanding, a silent companionship. A connection.
Tim was right. She’d finally recognized that there was something between them.
He just wouldn’t walk away this time. He hadn’t been brave enough at twelve to ask why she didn’t want to spend time with him anymore. This was his second chance with her. He had one more date to convince Neela to give their relationship a go.
“Yeah, come on, girls!”
Tim’s enthusiastic cry reclaimed Blake’s attention. His roommate might be an academic, but Tim Molloy knew his rugby.
Even though he had only played XVs his whole life, Blake enjoyed the fast pace of the Sevens game. If he were honest, he didn’t think he would have been a successful player in the Sevens format. There was no room for mistakes. Everything was do or die. It had to be a flawless display of teamwork. In the shorter time, one mistake could be the difference between a win or a loss.
Neela didn’t play with flair or flamboyancy. Her game was efficient and textbook, similar to her cousin’s. She played smart. A small shuffle here, a couple of steps there, and the opposition had to change its line. She could recognize potential dangers in an attack, but it was her releases that impressed him most. Quick, precise and sometimes disguised.
“Did you see that?” Tim cried. “She wasn’t even looking!”
New Zealand went through their first match with a decisive win over Papua New Guinea.
Tim and Blake kept the telly on for the other matches. Tim surprised Blake with his insight into the other teams participating in the Series.
“When did you become such a Sevens fan?” Blake asked after the next match.
Tim shrugged. “Sometimes, when I need a break, it’s a distraction. I get on the internet, and I watch a complete match in fifteen minutes.”
New Zealand came on for the second time that day to play against France. It was an aggressive start by both teams, but New Zealand seemed in control. Then the hit on Neela happened.
Blake stood up immediately, already sensing that this wasn’t an ordinary tackle.
She wasn’t moving.
“Get up, Neela,” he murmured.
The cameras panned out, a move toward privacy that, as a player, Blake could appreciate. But as someone worried about the player, he wished he could at least see if she were awake. Players were told that if something didn’t feel right, not to move. They were instructed to always let the medics have a check before they did anything. She could be all right. She was just being safe.
He watched Leila at Neela’s side. She seemed to be talking to the injured player. That meant Neela was conscious. Blake breathed again. Leila stood up and indicated to the bench that they’d need to get a sub on.
He didn’t miss the look on the captain’s face as she glanced back at her teammate. Leila still had a job to do to get the team through to the next round, but the concern for her friend showed.
“They’re bringing on a stretcher,” Blake said.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Tim said.
Blake nodded but left the living room, taking the stairs two at a time. He reached for the phone on his desk and called RugNZ’s office.
“This is Blake Stanton. How would I get an update on the injury status of a player on the team in Sydney? I am family. She’s my girlfriend.”
* * *
Neela inhaled deeply, her lungs enjoying the intake of air devoid of scent and dust. Hospital air was always clean.
Eyes still closed, she turned her head slowly, and the low hum of a machine reminded her that she wasn’t in a hotel room with the rest of the team.
She opened her mouth slightly, licking lips she knew would be dry.
Pale green curtains surrounded her. She grimaced as she tried to elevate her body farther. A sharp pain sliced up the side of her body at her next move.
Blinking, she looked for a clock and didn’t find one, but her instincts told her it was still early in the morning.
Memories of yesterday came back quickly. She’d known she was being stretchered away; she’d heard the doors of an ambulance closing. Lars Goodwin, one of the assistant coaches, had jumped in with her. His presence was reassuring.
A series of specialists had come in to examine her. Then came the bloodwork, x-rays, the MRI. Fortunately, no one saw anything that concerned them, but an overnight stay was deemed a prudent decision.
“Possible concussion, since you did lose consciousness,” said the final doctor of the night. “We’ll keep you here for observation just to be safe. I suspect you have guidelines on when you’re allowed back to practice?”
“Three weeks is standard,” Lars said.
Three weeks off the pitch?
She bit back the protest that was ready to erupt from her lips. Then Lars had left, saying he’d update the team and check in on her later.
“Is there anyone at home you’d like me to call?” he asked.
Neela shook her head, ignoring the surprise on Lars’ face. “No news is good news, eh?” she said.
Now that she knew there were no real repercussions from yesterday’s tackle, she was dreading being in the hospital while the rest of the team was at the stadium. If she couldn’t play, she wished she could at least be on the sidelines. But all that was out of her control. She’d just have to be content with the idea of cheering from her hospital bed. The girls would know she was there in spirit.
Neela reached for the remote to elevate herself to a sitting position. Taking another deep breath, then releasing it, she angled herself slightly away from the support of the bed. Concentrating, she went through a mental checklist as to the physical state of her body. She wiggled her toes, bent her knees, flexed and unflexed muscles, rotated her ankles. These were controlled movements she had practiced for years to test the degree of aches and pain after a match.
While she was far from pain-free, nothing was surprising in how she felt. Under normal conditions, pain was welcomed. Numbness would have been a far scarier thing to deal with. The tackl
e had knocked her out for a few seconds. Silently chastising her carelessness, she reminded herself to study the video of the play as soon as possible.
She would not be caught out like that again.
Sitting up straighter, she could just see out the large window that overlooked a courtyard. The filtering blinds would later prevent direct sunlight from hitting her face, but even at this early hour, she could enjoy the deep blue of the sky, cloudless and vast. Once the blinds were pulled open, she was sure the view would make for a pretty backdrop for the huge display of flowers on the window ledge.
Neela stared. She didn’t remember them from last night.
It was a large bouquet of blush-colored roses and princess lilies.
She was just about to get out of bed to pick up the card when a head popped through a small opening in the curtains.
“Good morning,” the nurse said in a soft, moderated tone. “We didn’t meet last night, but I’m Jo. I’m the overnight nurse. Your coach mentioned that you’re an early riser. You also missed dinner, so I wanted to see if you’re ready for an early breakfast.”
The thought of breakfast was unappealing, but Neela knew she should eat something, just to prove to the doctors that she was fine.
“What would you recommend?” she asked.
Jo smiled as she stepped through the curtains. Blonde with bright blue eyes, Neela detected an English accent. She watched Jo pick up the chart hanging off the base of the bed, flipping through the papers, before she answered Neela’s question. “Unfortunately, all hospital food is pretty much the same. Are you on a special diet while you’re in training?”
“Sort of. It’s more of a recommended list of foods. The truth is, I don’t feel particularly hungry.”
“That’s normal after the night you had. You must have been exhausted, as you didn’t move when I came in to check your vitals. A good night’s sleep was probably what you needed most, but you’re right to think you should eat something anyway. The body needs sustenance to recover. How about we keep this fairly light and simple? Fresh fruit, a cup of yogurt, and toast? If you’d like more, we can check with the kitchen.”
Neela’s eyebrows rose. “This feels like room service.”
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