Just in Time (38 page)

She laughed, even though she was a little hurt, maybe, to know that talking about sex was the important part. “I can read you the shot list I’ve worked up for Calvin. How’s that?”

“Yeh, that’d work. You need a research partner? Help you think up something extra-good? Purely for the idea stage, of course,” he hastened to say, “because that’s research we’re most definitely not testing out.”

“Mmm. Because of your unbecomingly possessive tendencies.”

“Those would be it. But we’re getting a bit dodgy here, and Hugh’s eyeing me suspiciously. Talk to you in a couple days, then. Next time you srsly need me.”

She smiled, said goodbye, and hung up. And tried not to think about how much she srsly needed him right now.

It was Saturday night at last, and it was going to be a good one.

From the moment the All Blacks had walked past the English to line up for the haka, Will had known they were in for a battle. The silence, the pride with which the other team carried themselves—that told the story. To beat the All Blacks, you had to believe you could do it. And to win a three-game series against them, you
really
had to believe. Which was why almost nobody ever managed it.

He lined up with the others, stood strong, flexed his fingers, breathed deeply, and let the aggression come. Let his own belief fill his lungs, as necessary as oxygen. By the time Mako started shouting out the challenge and he dropped into his crouch and began to slap his thighs, he didn’t need any help at all, because the blood of warriors ran in his veins. The ferocious desire to prove himself in battle was right there in him waiting for the call, because the need to win was as deep as breath, as strong as life.

He let it take him over, let the power come, and released it. Eyes staring, mouth grimacing, everything in his body letting the Poms know that he was here to the death, that he wouldn’t be easing up until the final whistle sounded. That he would never quit.

After that, of course, he had to go sit on the bench with all that adrenaline coursing through his body and no way to release it. All he could do was let the shakes die down as he watched Coops kick off, then keep his body relaxed between bouts of jogging and warmups on the sideline during the ding-dong battle that resulted.

The line speed of the English was even greater than it had been the week before as they aimed to keep the All Blacks on the back foot, to keep them from playing the fluid, expansive game that was so hard to combat. And it was working. A too-hasty pass spilled here, a charged-down kick there. The English weren’t dominating, but neither were the All Blacks. At twenty minutes in, the score was 0 to 3 in favor of England, a single penalty kick by the English the only points on the board, Coops having missed his kick on the All Blacks’ one attempt.

And at halftime, the score was 3 to 10. Coops had nailed the second penalty kick, but the Poms had scored a try in the final two minutes, and the momentum and belief were with them.

Nothing but calm in the sheds, though, during the brief break. No panic, because that was why the All Blacks won. Patience, and belief. And this half, Will wasn’t on the bench.

He ran out of the tunnel behind Nate and took the ball. A few deep breaths, and the strength and certainty were there. He needed a clear mind, a calm, still place from which he could see what was happening around him, could adjust, could keep a steady hand on the tiller. He had that, and he had this.

A drop-kick deep to the Poms, and it was on. After that, it was all action and reaction, furious pace and ferocious power.

The English were testing him, assessing his fitness and resolve after a week off and the cold start off the bench. He saw that quickly enough, and he gave them the answer just that fast. Ian Brown, the winger, took a pass and launched his 120 kilos straight at Will, and Will responded. No messing about; he wrapped the other man up in the low, jarring tackle that was the only way to bring a bull like Ian down, then rolled away fast, because the last thing they needed was another stupid penalty. Hugh was in there fighting for the ball with the blazing speed that was his trademark, Mako had joined him, and Will was straight into it, too, adding his weight to the battle until the referee blew his whistle. England had turned it over, and the ball belonged to New Zealand.

The All Blacks were moving down the field, and Will was running, shouting. The ball went through three sets of All Blacks hands like lightning, then Koti sent a tricky cutout pass behind his back, missing the next man in line and catching Will.

Too many white jerseys ahead, but a hole deep to the right. He went for the grubber, the short little kick that would put the ball into that vulnerable spot behind the front line that the English weren’t defending, would allow All Black hands to touch it first, would break the line.

Always a risk, and this time, it didn’t pay off. Robbie McCallister, the Poms’ centre, got there first. Robbie, always fast and dangerous, took off like a streak down the left touchline, but Will was chasing, gaining ground, because he was even faster. The English centre was there, though, in support of his teammate, was taking the pass, and now Ian had caught up, his big frame moving with deceptive speed. Ian executed a tricky sidestep that Nic Wilkinson, the All Blacks’ fullback, read perfectly. Nico, the last staunch line of defense, went for the tackle, and made it, but Ian’s momentum was too much, and he was crashing over the tryline, there at the corner, and that made it 3 to 15.

A miss on the conversion, though, and 12 points were only 12, and there was no panic in the black jerseys. The crowd might be disheartened, but the players knew better. They had won too many times when they should have lost, because they held fast, and because there were eighty minutes in this game and you played to the end.

For the next thirty-five of them, the All Black defense tightened and held. The English got sloppy, got hasty. Two penalties, two tough kicks by Will, one from fifty meters out, the other from nearly forty and all the way from the side, and it was 9 to 15 with five minutes left on the clock.

Will didn’t think about the series. His horizon stretched only five minutes. A long kick by the English, and Kevin McNicholl leaping high in the air to take it for the All Blacks, being hit while he was up there. The referee blew his whistle. Intentional or not, it didn’t matter. You couldn’t hit a man in the air. Will kicked the ball long again, safely into touch, and that was a lineout to the All Blacks near the English tryline, and a chance.

They won the lineout, Mako’s throw-in as accurate as usual, and the ball was moving, bodies in black uniforms running hard, passing on the trot, relentlessly executing on one of those perfect sequences, and this was the moment. This was the time. They were down the field, well into England’s territory, and it was in Will’s hands.

He saw it. The spot. The opportunity. Another grubber, but this time, he got the bounce.

As soon as the ball left his foot, he was moving, sprinting for it. He, and he alone, knew where it was going to go, because he’d felt it. Which meant he was there first, that he’d caught his own kick while it was still bouncing, that he was behind the English line while they were still reacting. Over the chalk, diving for the try, the grin splitting his face. Koti ran up behind him, was already thumping him on the back as Will jumped to his feet.

The roar, then the chant. “All…Blacks. All…Blacks” from the crowd, back in it again. Believing again.

Will wasn’t celebrating, though. The score was still 14 to 15, there was less than a minute on the board, and one opportunity to win the game.

He’d gone over the line in the corner. Of course he had, because that had been where the hole had been. Which meant he had to kick from the corner, too.

It didn’t matter, though, how much he, or the team, or the country had riding on the kick. You did it exactly the same way every time. You focused on only this one moment in time, this one single kick. So he took the ball all the way to the 22, set it onto the tee, backed up, and focused.

His mouthguard tucked into his sock, the ritual as always. Three breaths in and out, looking at the ball, at the posts. Visualizing the curving trajectory the ball would take from the left side of the field to that perfect spot between the posts.

For this, too, he knew as soon as the kick had left his boot. He barely looked at the ball, or the officials beneath each post stepping forward, flags raised to signal the successful conversion. He barely heard the deafening roar of the crowd, their relief as great as their anxiety had been as the scoreboard ticked over.

Sixteen to fifteen, but the whistle hadn’t blown yet, and until that happened, it was on. So he lined up with the rest to receive England’s final kick. Kevin was jumping for it again as the men in white charged, desperate to get it back, hoping for that last-second miracle.

It didn’t come. Kevin was safely on the ground, the hooter going even as he landed, the long, low blast signaling the end of eighty minutes, and Will had himself in position. A pass that was barely a handoff, and Will was sending it off his boot and safely into touch.

Now they could celebrate, because the whistle was blowing. The All Blacks had won, and Will was back with his team.

Faith was standing, jumping, hugging an ecstatic Talia, who was hugging her right back. As a rugby education, it hadn’t been very effective, because Talia had spent most of the match with her hands tucked beneath her, focused intently on the incomprehensible action below, especially once Will had taken the field. But as a bonding exercise, it hadn’t been bad.

On the other hand, as an exercise in not falling in love with Will Tawera, the evening had been a complete failure. From the time that Talia had been stenciling a black “NZ” and fern onto Faith’s cheeks, Faith had succumbed to the magic. Walking into the stadium, with its air of barely suppressed excitement even from the laconic South Islanders, seeing the black flags waving. Hearing the anthem sung, first in Maori and then in English, and seeing the players, their faces intent, their arms around each other, singing along to both.

And, of course, the haka. The spine-chilling sight of all that male purpose. Seeing relaxed, funny, cheerful Will transformed into a man she would barely have recognized. Finally seeing him run out onto the field and fulfill all that aggressive promise.

This, then, was the real Will, the one she’d only seen in bed. So calm, so sure, so powerful. Taking the ball again and again, handing it off in an impossibly skillful pass, without even having to look, as he was running. Or heading down the field with it, lowering his head and forcing the English to dispatch two defenders to bring him down, his feet still churning for those few more precious meters. Making the kicks that brought the score so close. So close, and not close enough, because close wasn’t going to count.

Losing wasn’t an option. She knew that much. Will hadn’t been there the week before, and the team had lost on that final kick. He’d felt the responsibility for the loss on his shoulders, she was sure of it. That was how Will was. He took responsibility. He took it quietly, jokingly, without fanfare. But he took it all the same.

When he’d kicked the ball forward in those final minutes, she’d gasped aloud. They were so close, and he was giving it away?

“Oh, no,” she’d groaned. And the next second, had been on her feet with Talia, with all the other tens of thousands, the roar all but shaking the domed stadium, as Will dove and slid across the grass, the ball held out in front of him like an offering.

She’d stayed on her feet along with everyone else, had held her breath for the kick, had willed him to success with everything she had. The crowd had gone nearly silent as he’d stood there, the big screen overhead showing the concentration on his handsome features, the steady purpose and the confidence, too. he’d run forward, had kicked, a beautiful, fluid motion, his leg following through after the ball had left his foot. He’d acknowledged neither the applause nor the relief, had merely tossed the tee to the sideline, pulled his mouthguard from the top of his sock and shoved it back in, and trotted back out to finish it.