His brothers, both backs, were good-looking. But not as big.
Barely ten minutes at the half to take George and Georgia to the toilet, and she was edging into the row again. Some kicking back and forth to start the second half, then the Chiefs getting the ball into the hands of their No. 10, a little dynamo of a player who shifted direction faster than mostpeople turned their heads, and he was all the way past the 50-meter line and much too close to the tryline, slippery as an eel. Until he lost the ball in the tackle, and the Blues’ own No. 10 made a long kick that went into touch, and everybody started running toward the other end of the field.
See, she understoodthat.The man had run, been tackled by … well, by Zane, and the Blues had kicked the ball away. Easy-peasy.
At least the danger was averted for the moment, even though the Chiefs would just get the ball again. For some reason, though, Scarlett, with George beside her now, had jumped up and was cheering, as was Finlay, who was still on Skylar’s other side. Hostilities in abeyance, thanks to physical separation.
Oh. The match. The Blues’ No. 10, the one who’d made that long kick, was Will Tawera, and he was, she’d happened to notice, extremely fit in the same I-can-see-every-one-of-those-muscles-and-they-look-choice way as Zane, though he was less solid than Zane. That was because he was a back, of course, and didn’t need that extra bulk to, say, push in the scrum. Or bring down his man in a tackle that had practically shaken the ground, the way Zane had about thirty seconds ago, which was how the Blues had snaffled the ball in the first place and given Will the chance to make that kick. That much, she understood.
Right. The kick. Odd, because the Chiefsweren’ttaking the ball for the lineout. Zane was, standing there with his toes on the chalk and looking big and tough as he wiped the ball with a white towel. It was raining out there now, and the dark, thick hair was plastered to his skull in the same way as his uniform was plastered to his glistening body, but he was ignoring it.
Wait. The ball had gone out on the Blues’ kick. Why would it be the Blues’ ball? Fortunately, George asked, “What’shappening?” so she didn’t have to. Olive probably didn’t know either, but Olive was reading a book, all the way at the end of the line of kids.
Scarlett said, “It’s a 50-22.”
“A what?” George asked. He was snuggled up close to Scarlett, who had Georgia on her other side, both the younger kids gravitating to somebody with so much self-assurance, Skylar supposed. That must be what it felt like to be Zane, too. Maybe you had to be born with that kind of commanding presence. Something in the posture, possibly, because Zane was so extremely … upright. When he walked, when he ran, when he talked, it was all done with such purpose.
Oh. Rugby. Scarlett said, in the patient tones of one who was sure to be appointed Head Girl at any moment, “A 50-22 is a new rule. If you make the kick from behind midfield and it goes past the other team’s 22,andit bounces in the field of play and then goes out without anybody touching it, the team that kicked it gets to throw it in, which means they have an excellent attacking position, because it’s past the 22 on their side. They changed the rule because it’s more exciting this way, and also to make there be less bashing and tackling and more running.”
“The bashing and tackling is the interesting part, though,” Finlay said, naturallynot willing to shut up around Scarlett in the way any reasonable person would have. “If you take it out, it’s not even rugby.”
Scarlett said, “That’s what everybody says who doesn’t play. Maybe I understand better because my dad’s theskipper.”
“I do play,” Finlay said. “I play every season.”
“Well, you’re probably not very good,” Scarlett said, “or you’d know the rules.”
Fortunately, the conversation ended there, because Zane was getting ready to throw in the ball, hands behind his head—which happened to show off both his chest and his biceps,and also his tattoo, which ran all the way to the corded muscle of his forearm—and then—well, throwing it.
It was like a ballet, the lineout, if one featuring the largest ballerinas ever. Two men lifted a lock seamlessly at the front, and another two did the same at the back. To confuse the Chiefs, she guessed, about where the ball was going. Zane’s throw zipped as if catapulted, all the way to the back of the lineout this time, and the freakishly tall human at the other end of the throw caught the ball up there, his 120 kilograms held impossibly high, then was lifted down with it the same way, the whole thing seamless, like a wave cresting and breaking on the beach. Then, somehow, the Blues forwards had bunched themselves up near the touchline, Zane had the ball at the back of the shoving group of men—a maul, that was— and they were driving forward like a train, shoving the Chiefs back as they pushed from the other side to stop them. Zane was bent almost double, his powerful legs moving, moving, moving …
And then it all stopped. Sort of. Everything more or less collapsed, and she thought it was over, but Zane still had the ball, and he was running.
His kids were on their feet, screaming. Hisgrandmotherwas on her feet, screaming. Somehow, Skylar was on her feet, too. And screaming. Zane’s legs were churning the same way they had all along, like you couldn’t tire him, and when a Chiefs player came at him hard, Zane didn’t sidestep. He just put a palm out, and the other man bounced straight off him.
He was ten meters from the tryline now. Eight. Closer. He was going to …
Two players converging on him now. He couldn’t stand up against that. Hecouldn’t.
He didn’t try. A flick of the wrist, and the ball went back into waiting hands. Some back—oh, another of the Mahuta brothers, that was, a very good-looking one—was doing thedarting, weaving, twisting thing, with about five times as much grace as Zane, then sending his own pass straight past the nearest Blues player to another one a good fifteen meters away. The pass looked fast and hard as a bullet, but the other man caught it. Caught it, and dove.
Over the line. His arm stretched forward, his body landing hard on the wet grass and sliding, before he bounced straight up again as if he were on springs.
It was another Mahuta.
Zane’s kids jumping now, screaming even louder. The crowd at about a quarter voice, because there were definitely no Chiefs fans screaming.
This time, Skylar didn’t scream. She watched Zane run up to the brother who’d made the try and thump him on the back. He was joined by the brother who’d done all the dancing around. Grins behind mouthguards, Zane rumpling a brother’s hair, and they were trotting back up the field, the water splashing around their feet, ready for the kick. Like they were playing in the front paddock on the farm. Like it was fun.
Seventy-eight minutes in, and the Chiefs had won a penalty, bringing the score to 14-17. They had the ball again now and were holding onto it grimly, relentlessly, just trying to get to eighty minutes.
Zane kept blinking the rain out of his eyes, kept his legs driving in the cold, kept his feet moving through splashing water, and waited for the chance. The Chiefs got to midfield, then began to lose ground as the Blues pressed them, and the chance was coming. He could feel it. Their little No. 10 was dancing back, trying to turn, trying to spin, but somebody was coming at him.
Gordon, it was. Zane’s brother was charging, going for the little man’s legs.
The 10 flicked the ball behind him at the last minute. It was taken, but Zane was there. And going for that ball.
Another desperate pass. A kick from the fullback to get the Chiefs out of trouble. A box kick, which was the wrong choice. Too risky. And this was it. The chance.
