Page 67 of Just One Look

She said, “Nerve impingement from that disc. That’s so reckless. Aren’t they going to evencheckhim? Isn’t there a doctor?”

Josie didn’t say anything, because she was bouncing the baby some more and shouting, “Go! Go!” Luka, meanwhile, who had an 8 on his back and at least was recognizable that way, was plowing into the pile of bodies every time somebody got tackled, jarring his neck even more.Another Blues player got up from a collision with blood streaming from his nose, and the referee blew his whistle andthatguycame jogging off, so why?

She asked Josie, “Why does that guy get to go get treated, and nobody else does? It looks to me like half of them are hurt. Look at that one guy, how he’s hobbling. That ankle looks sprained to me.”

Josie glanced at her, looking distracted, and said, “Blood bin. You’re not allowed to play whilst actively bleeding.”

“So he’s out?”

“No. They’ll pack a bit of gauze in there and send him back.”

“His nose could be broken, though.”

“Probably is,” Josie said. “Probably not the first time, either.”

“A broken nose hurts,” Elizabeth said. “A lot. How can he play like that?”

“Adrenaline,” Josie said. “Don’t you get that in your work? I’d think so, from TV. I used to be on a medical soap. A surgeon, in fact, and I always imagined adrenaline. Life and death decisions happening fast, creating a charged atmosphere. That’s how I played it, anyway. Oh, well done, Hugh!” That was meant for the Blues, since they were still bashing their way down the field, one painful yard at a time. Including the one with the sprained ankle, and Luka.

“I guess,” Elizabeth said. “More in the form that you don’t notice time passing because you’re concentrating, though.”

“Exactly,” Josie said. “Same thing here. But with more pain.”

* * *

The game had beena brutal battle of the kind the South Africans dished out so well. The Stormers may have been pretty far down the ladder, but it seemed nobody had given them the message, because they were grinding it out like there was no such thing as “losing.” Luka had been in some collisions tonight that felt like they belonged on the motorway. There was nobody you relished playing more than a South African, and nobody who made you wake up feeling sorer the next day.

The Blues were nearly to the tryline now, though, and nothing mattered but running your lines, watching your halfback distribute the ball, listening to the shouts from your first-five as he directed traffic, and being in the right spot off your mate’s shoulder to make something happen. Until the Blues turned the ball over meters from the tryline, it left the boot of the Stormers’ first-five in a booming kick, and Luka was running in the opposite direction as two players went up for it. And it came down in the arms of the Stormers again.

Run and tackle and pile into the breakdown, over and over again. His lungs going like a bellows, his left arm on fire. A Blues player was offside, the Stormers were awarded the penalty, and they went for the corner, because there was no other choice. They had to go for the lineout and then the five-point try, because a three-point penalty kick was nearly useless, four points down and with less than five minutes left in the game.

The Stormers throwing the ball in, and gathering it again five meters from the tryline, and you were taking up your spot, ready to protect that precious patch of turf.

It was a defensive stand after that, the huge South Africans trying to bull their way through the line, edging ever closer, and the Blues holding them off. Five times, six, and then he could hear the Blues halfback shouting, behind him, that they were trying it to the side, near the touchline. He couldn’t worry about that, because he was in this spot, guarding his man. The bastard could try to break through. Luka wasn’t going to let him.

Over and over again, being pushed back one meter, then two, until the Stormers were well and truly knocking at the door. Thinking,no penalties. No penalties,keeping his hits clean, letting go of the man he’d tackled immediately and getting back on his feet again, even as the next lightning flash of nerve pain spiked through his neck and arm. So far past aerobic effort now, all the way into anaerobic territory, where the cells of your body had gone beyond being fueled by oxygen, and the burning from the lactic acid that was doing the business instead was everywhere in your muscles. And still, through the pain, through the fatigue, you planted your feet and made your tackles and kept driving the other team back.

It didn’t matter how many minutes were left. It didn’t matter how many meters there were between you and the tryline. It only mattered that you weren’t letting anybody cross it.

When the hooter sounded the end of eighty minutes, he barely heard it. The game wasn’t over until the whistle blew. That was the sound he was waiting for.

The ball passed from hand to hand, the Stormers keeping on doggedly, refusing to give up. It wasn’t about thought anymore on either team. It was about will. You held on, because that was the job, and that was who you were. You were a man who held on.

Another pass, and he was shifting, tensing, readying himself for the charge. And the ball, thrown a fraction too deep, bounced off a Stormers back’s hand. The man reached desperately for it, bobbled it. And it fell.

The whistle. The roar from the crowd. The end.

Your arm around your mate’s shoulders, your hand slapping his back and his slapping yours. Men grabbing each other, laughing, all of them sweating. Hurting. Exhausted.

Winners.