Page 68 of Just One Look

Girl in the Stands

The congratulations were over,and so were the handshakes and hugs with the Stormers players, some of whom Luka would meet again this summer, when the All Blacks played the Springboks in the Rugby Championship, always one of the highlights of the year. They were the fiercest contests, those against the South Africans, and the sweetest wins.

He hoped. If he was in form. If he wasn’t injured. If he was selected. Always unwise to look too far ahead in rugby.

Some more noise over the PA system. The man of the match, which was him this time, probably because he’d had to step up in Marko’s absence, especially during that last stand at the tryline. A gift certificate, a shake of the hand, and finally, he was heading to the railing, to that spot you could always find in this fifty-thousand-seat stadium, because there was only one section where the WAGs sat.

He’d never had anybody there to meet him. He hadn’t dated anybody like that since he’d started at the Blues, and not often before then. Having her come to your games, sit with the other women, with the babies and kids and parents and grandparents, was the kind of commitment he didn’t make, the kind that raised too many expectations on all sides, expectations he couldn’t fulfill.

He was stopped on his way there by some kids, leaning over the railing, waving and excited but trying desperately to be polite, holding rugby balls and pens and phones. He signed his name, took a few selfies, shook a few hands, and got closer. Hugh Latimer was over there, talking to his wife, with a baby boy clad in a Blues hat in each arm, his hands as sure on them as on any rugby ball he’d ever held. Josie Pae Ata, his wife, hanging over the railing to talk to him, smiling her thousand-watt smile, and being photographed, too, because Josie would always be photographed. Other women beside her, and other kids, but he didn’t see Elizabeth.

Heaps of girls in the stands, but not his.

Stupid,he told himself.You’ve been out with her twice, and she told you she probably wouldn’t make it.And still, on some level, he’d imagined her watching as he’d run out of the tunnel, as he’d been lifting Iain McCormick in the lineout, his arms straining over his head, his muscles straining under the big lock’s weight. When he’d been battling the hardest, when he’d been winning—he’d imagined her seeing that.

It wasn’t an important job, maybe. It wasn’t brain surgery, definitely. It was his job, though, and he was good at it. And he’d wanted her to see.

Wait. There, behind Josie, a red puffer jacket in the sea of blue. He got closer, and it had to be her. Only Elizabeth would wear a red jacket to sit with the WAGs at a Blues game, and he was jogging now.

The moment when she saw him, when she gave him that rare smile, the one that lit up her entire face. When she came down those last few steps, because she hadn’t wanted to stand too close, hadn’t wanted to make it seem like she was expecting something, in case there was nothing after all.

Exactly like him.

He got there, and she was still smiling. He wanted to say something, but somehow, what he was doing was grabbing her, pulling her down, and kissing her.

He was sweaty. He was dirty. He was a bit bloody, and he had tape on his ears. And still, he had one hand around her head and the other around her shoulder, and he was taking her mouth like it was his reward. This hadn’t been any kind of finals footy, they’d barely won the game, and he had no reason to feel triumphant, but that was how he felt. Both her hands were around his head, she was kissing him back, and his tongue was in her mouth.

Too much. Too fast. He knew it, and he did it anyway. And got a surge of raw power like an adrenaline overdose, the kind that made your knees shake and your heart pound.

When he pulled back at last, she was trying to smile and not quite managing it.

“I didn’t ask,” he said. “That time.”

“No,” she said. “You didn’t. And you were great. Tonight, I mean. You were great.”

“You came,” he said. He didn’t have words for this.

“I did, though I was pretty late. What did you get? For your … prize?”

Oh. He’d forgotten. He looked at the piece of paper, crumpled now in his fist. “Gift certificate to Smiths City. Furniture, whiteware, electronics. Need a toaster? New TV? A chair, possibly?”

She laughed. “You’ve seen my place. I guess you’ll have to spend it yourself. I’d say I’d help you, but I’m about as good at shopping for furniture as I am for shopping for perfume. Also, I guess rugby isn’t much like American sports. I have a feeling they don’t get a gift certificate for a toaster back home.”

“Probably not. Probably get a new car, or maybe a private-jet pass. Never mind. We’re a small country.” He took her hand, because he loved her hands, and because he wanted to smell her wrist. “You wore it. Smells good.”

“Yes. I did. I came to your game, and I wore your perfume.”

“Want to go out with me?”

“Uh … when? How?”

“Hour and a half or so? Meet me at The Cav? Close to you, eh. Five-minute walk. I could give you a text when I’m on my way.”

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

* * *

She wasn’t there.