Page 4

CHAPTER 4

KAI

T he message comes in just after midnight.

Mum’s appointment went okay. Docs say we wait and see.

I stare at the words, rereading them as if they’ll change. As if they’ll suddenly mean something better. Wait and see. What the hell does that even mean?

My jaw tightens, thumb hovering over the keyboard. I should say something. Ask for details. Call my brother and actually hear his voice instead of just reading cold, blue text on a screen.

Instead, I just sit there, phone burning in my hand, because I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to say.

Sorry I’m not there? Sorry I’m selfish? Sorry I left you all to deal with this while I chase a dream that was never meant for me?

I drag a hand down my face and exhale hard, staring at the ceiling. I should be home. I should be there. Instead, I’m in a high-rise apartment on the other side of the world, my body still aching from today’s match, my fridge full of food I barely touch, my career looking better than ever while my family holds it together without me.

I type out a response.

Sweet as. Let me know if she needs anything.

I delete it.

I try again.

How’s she really doing?

Delete.

I settle on a thumbs-up emoji and send it before I can think too hard. A coward’s response.

My phone screen dims, the message thread still open. I should follow up. Call Mum. Let her hear my voice, let her know I still give a shit.

Instead, I set the phone down, press my fingers to my temples, and breathe through the guilt clawing up my throat.

New Zealand. The academy.

I can still smell the damp grass, the sweat, the adrenaline. The way the floodlights turned the field into a spotlight at night, the whole world narrowing to just this game, just this chance.

Make the play. Get noticed. Prove you belong here.

Every practice, I went harder. Stayed longer. Studied tape until I could see it playing behind my eyelids when I tried to sleep. I chased every edge I could get.

And for a while, it felt like enough.

Until it wasn’t.

The All Blacks never called.

I waited. Told myself next selection cycle, next tournament, next season. But deep down, I already knew.

I wasn’t exceptional.

I was a great player, sure. Good enough to start. Good enough to dominate in club rugby. But that’s all I’d ever be— good enough .

Not the best .

Not the kind of player they build teams around .

I watched others move past me—faster, sharper, younger. They weren’t working harder than me. They weren’t hungrier . They were just better .

And I had to sit with that. Had to swallow the slow realization that I’d never wear the black jersey. Never be a name people spoke about in hushed, reverent tones.

So, I did the next best thing. I played club rugby. I won. A lot. It stopped feeling like an accomplishment after a while. The fire inside me dulled, match after match, win after win.

And then, I got an offer.

An overseas contract. More money. A higher level of competition. A new start.

It was the smart move. It was the only move.

But it still felt like failure.

I sat across from Mum at the kitchen table, the offer letter folded neatly in front of me. I didn’t know why I brought it. She didn’t need to read it to know what it said.

She smiled, soft and proud. “I always knew you’d leave, baby. Go show them what you can do.”

But when I looked at Dad, all I saw was the quiet weight of disappointment.

He didn’t say much. Didn’t argue. Just nodded once and kept eating.

I told myself it was fine. That I didn’t need his approval. That I was making the right call.

Still, as I packed my bags, as I booked my flight, as I said my goodbyes, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was running away.

The music is loud, the bar packed with bodies, my teammates in high spirits. Someone shoves a fresh beer into my hand, claps me on the back.

“Feels good, huh?”

I nod. Force a grin. Lift the drink like I’m actually part of this celebration.

But my mind is a thousand miles away.

All I can think about is Mum standing in the kitchen back home, stirring a pot of something warm, too tired to eat it. Dad working late shifts, the same way he always has. My brother—my kid brother—shouldering responsibilities I left behind.

My life is here now. I should be grateful. I am grateful. But every win, every highlight reel moment, every paycheck with too many zeros just makes the guilt sit heavier.

Am I even allowed to be happy here?

I pull out my phone. Scroll back to my brother’s message.

Mum’s appointment went okay. Docs say we wait and see.

I type:

I’m sorry.

I stare at the words for a long time. Then, before I can overthink it, I delete them.

And I don’t send anything at all.