Page 145 of Just Watch Me
He went down. Another English player was into the breakdown in a flash, diving for the ball, trying to wrestle it free. He was even more of a bull than Zane, a bullet-headed, thick-necked, heavy-muscled specimen who looked like he chewed iron filings for breakfast, and he’d already stolen the ball twice during this match.
“Nooo,”Scarlett began to wail, and Duncan stirred, sat up, and opened his mouth to say, “What?”
As usual, it all happened so fast, it was hard to tell what, in fact,washappening. Zane had tried to explain the breakdown to the kids and her during his week at home after Sydney, and she still had only the foggiest idea. It always just looked like a bunch of men, their bodies bent double, wrestling for the ball. She could see, though, that Zane had barged in there a fraction of a second after the England player, and he’d?—
Wait.The ball was in All Blacks hands again, the pile instantly righting itself and moving on, but the England player was still down. On his stomach. Completely still.
The referee’s whistle. The trainers on the field with their bags, bent over the injured player. The England No. 7, it was. She knew, because they had it up on the screen, and now, they were showing the replay. The man going into the breakdown, and Zane going in to counter his attempt to steal the ball. What exactly had happened, though? She couldn’ttell.
Duncan was saying, “What?” again, and Finlay was saying, “I don’t know. Something happened.”
The players standing around, hands on hips or on the tops of their heads, their breath coming out in white puffs. They must be freezing out there, but they gave no sign of it. And the replay, over and over.
“Looks like when Mahuta went in,” one of the announcers was saying, “he caught the back of Smithson’s shoulder, and Smithson’s head has gone forward too far. Chin on his chest right there.”
“Looks like an injury to the neck, Benji,” the other announcer said. “We’ll hope it’s not too serious.”
The trainers were motioning now, though, and a cart was coming out. Amotorizedcart.
Five more minutes. The trainers working a backboard under the injured player now, and the enormous, wildly enthusiastic crowd, which had been singing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” at absolutely every opportunity, including during the haka, nearly silent.
Finlay said, “It looks like Zane caused it. If he gets a yellow card, that could be bad. Maybe even a red, if they say he hit the 7’s head.”
“He isn’t going to get a card!” Scarlett said. “He didn’tdoanything!”
“Oh,” Finlay said. “It looked like he did.”
The officials on the field conferring. The replay running, again and again. Skylarguessedshe could see it, when they slowed it down, Zane coming in the same way he always did, feet planted, upper body driving forward to knock the other man off the ball. And the man’s head dropping so, yes, his chin was on his chest.
The man being lifted onto the cart at last, and the thing driving slowly off the field and into the tunnel. The players on both teams applauding, and the crowd, too. The announcersaying, “We’ll hope for good news, Benji,” and the other man saying, “Always worrisome, those knocks to the head and neck.” The referee talking to the two captains, and the microphone picking up the sound. “Nothing malicious in it,” the ref was saying. “No attempt to target the head. Penalty only.” The crowd booing in shocked disapproval, England kicking the ball out for the restart, and the moment was over.
Skylar watched the rest of the match out of the corner of her eye while making lunches, because the delay was threatening to make them late. The All Blacks won by those same two points, but somehow, she couldn’t take her usual pleasure in it. She kept seeing that man lying motionless on the ground, and imagining his girlfriend or his wife up in the stands, her hands at her mouth, her heart in her throat. Imagining her fighting her way out of her row, out of the stadium, because she couldn’t sit there anymore and not know. Getting a lift to a hospital—some hospital—and sitting in a waiting room, clutching a paper cup of coffee that she wouldn’t drink. Waiting, the same way Zane had said he’d waited for her. Trying to bargain, but there was no bargaining possible. Sometimes, your world narrowed down to that plastic waiting-room chair, that cold cup of coffee, those minutes ticking by with no news.
And Zane’s face, when the game was over. Set. Expressionless. What was he feeling? What was he thinking? She couldn’t tell, and she needed to know. But she wouldn’t, not for a while.
She texted, though, as she ate her breakfast standing up after a lightning-quick shower, surrounded by cereal bowls and eggy plates and children.Well done today. I hope Smithson’s OK. I hope you are.It was all she could think to say.
Then she couldn’t think about it anymore, because Granddad and Maureen had gone to Hawke’s Bay for theweekend to let Granddad meet more of the whanau—romance still progressing on that expedited timeline, then—and Granddad wouldn’t be back until later today. He was only coming back for the kids, while Maureen was spending a few more days away to help Zane’s eldest sister, who’d just had her second baby. Which meant that Skylar was responsible for Zane’s kids for a little bit longer. Which was at least a distraction.
At three-ten that afternoon, she watched the last pupil out the door, blew out a breath, and pulled out her phone. She hadn’t heard from Zane by lunchtime, even though he usually texted after the match. Surely he’d have answered by now, though.
Nothing. And it was … She did the math in her somewhat fuzzy head. After four in the morning in London. He’d be asleep, of course, and after that effort? He had to have been exhausted. Too tired to text her back after the match, though?
No. Zane was never that tired. He had an engine that wouldn’t quit. Then why?
Could it be her? The two of them? Again, she couldn’t believe it. They’d talked yesterday, before the match. She’d said, at one point, after all the child-updates and so forth, “Pity I finally got the approval to have sex again on the week you left the country. Here I’ve been, ready and willing, and without you to put me out of my misery.” He’d had things to say on the subject, too. And when she’d said, “You were so kind, still wanting to hold me and sleep with me all that time, and not getting much out of it. I should’ve made you happy, at least. I don’t know why I didn’t,” he’d answered, “Because you weren’t in a place to feel it, that’s why. I can go six weeks without sex. I’ve done it before, and not just lately. Whatd’you imagine I did after all my kids? If I just wanted a willing body, I could get it. I thought we’d established that that isn’t what I want.” He’d sounded so sure, and her heart had filled once more.
This time, it wasn’t hormones that were making her weepy. It was love: gratitude, respect, understanding. Being seen. Beingknown.Whatever combination of feelings and thoughts and dopamine and serotonin made up love,reallove, she had them. And maybe she was believing that he did, too.
She began straightening her room, marking papers, and reminding herself that it was fine that she’d still be staying at Zane’s this week, as Maureen wasn’t going to be around. And besides, she liked being there with all of them. She wasn’t going to deny that anymore. What was the point? She also managed to spend some time reminding herself,If he didn’t ring or even text back, he had a reason.
Her phone rang on her desk as she was thinking that, and she rushed to grab it.
Oh. Jade. Wait. Zane’s sister was calling her? Why?
She got some more of those flutterings of the heart even as she swiped and said, “Jade? Hi. What’s up?”
Jade’s voice still had humor in it, and Skylar relaxed a bit. It couldn’t be Zane, then. Or the kids. Besides, four of the kids had been right here in Skylar’s school all day. Granddad would already have them at Zane’s, delving into their after-school snacks and hopefully tackling their homework.
