Just in Time (Escape to New Zealand Book 8)

by James, Rosalind

  The minutes ticked by, one eternal second after another. I sat in an armchair that should have been comfortable, except that nothing could possibly be comfortable now, and waited. Because that was what you did in a waiting room.

  My mind tried to skitter down into panic, and I began to count the petals on the flowers in the huge framed watercolor opposite me in a desperate attempt to reverse it, or at least to stop it. That wasn’t going to help. I needed to stay calm. For myself, and for Karen. When Karen opened her eyes again, she was going to see a sister who was smiling, who was telling her that everything was going to be all right, and who could make her believe it.

  Surely it would be true.

  I yanked my mind back to the flowers again. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one.

  “All right?”

  I dragged my gaze to Hemi, and he must have seen what I was trying so hard to hide, because he was closing his laptop and setting it down beside him.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he told me gently. One big hand smoothed over my hair, and his lips brushed my forehead, and that was almost worse. I was going to cry after all, if he kept doing that. I was going to lose it.

  I pushed myself back from him. “I know,” I said. “I know, because Dr. Feingold is the best. I’m all right. Really.” My hands were cold. Shaking. I pressed them together for warmth, for stability, like a desperate prayer.

  “I’ll go get you a cup of coffee,” he said, and I nodded. Not that I cared.

  That was why he was in the little anteroom when Dr. Feingold came out at last, the green scrubs covering him from cap to toes. Not looking worried, and not smiling, either. Looking perfectly…neutral. But something in his face…

  My legs trembled as I stood up and forced myself to walk to him. And if the minutes I’d waited had been long, this walk was a hundred miles.

  “It went reasonably well,” he said, and my legs began shaking so badly, my knees were actually knocking together. My arms had gone around myself, and even my lips were trembling, my teeth wanting to chatter, the cold fear grabbing at my heart and lungs. I couldn’t get my breath. And still I waited.

  “I’m still thinking we’re probably all right,” Dr. Feingold said. “But I’m sorry, Hope. It’s not quite as clear-cut as I could have wished. We’ll have to wait for the results.”

  Hemi was there beside me. When had he arrived? I didn’t even know. “How long?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow,” the doctor said. “If it’s fast.” He exchanged a look with Hemi, and I knew what that look meant. That Hemi would manage, somehow, for it to be fast. So I would know. So I could cope, and help Karen cope, too.

  But for now, all we could do was—

  An electronic warble broke the thought, and she jerked her hands from the keyboard, sat back, and tried to gather herself.

  Phone. Ringing. Where?

  She scrabbled under the papers on the desk, then finally realized that it was hiding behind the screen of her laptop. By the time she pressed the button, it had gone to voicemail.

  Another ding as she held it, and as she watched, a text came up from Will.

  u srsly need 2 call faith

  What? Another second, and a second text was appearing below it.

  Here I am doing it. Call me back.

  She was smiling as she pushed the button, and the phone rang only once on the other end before he was picking up.

  “Right,” he said, and she melted a little, just hearing that voice. She had it so bad, no matter what she told herself. “I know I want to call Faith,” he said, “but why do I need to? Specially seriously. Oh, pardon. Srsly.”

  She laughed, wishing she didn’t sound quite so breathless. “Was that Talia? Why?”

  “Dunno. Waiting to hear, aren’t I. Sorry I didn’t ring you sooner. Finally got a chance, once my roomie left to go find a quiet spot himself to have a chat with his partner. Hard to talk dirty to your woman with your big ugly skipper sitting on the next bed, if you know what I mean.”

  “Um…skipper?” Your woman.

  Stop it, she scolded herself. Stop it now.

  “Yeh. Hugh Latimer. My skipper on the Blues. Captain. My roomie. Never mind. Srsly? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Especially not srsly. Talia took me for that walk on the forest track after school, like you wanted to do, and it was fine. She seemed pretty good, to me.”

  “Hang on. I’m getting another one from her.” She waited a moment, and he quoted, “She’s pining 4 you I think. So quiet.”

  “I am not pining. I do not pine.” Well, maybe, but she wasn’t telling him that. “She’s being romantic, that’s all. And all right, maybe I was thinking about some work stuff.”

  “Not going well?”

  “No, it’s going fine.” She couldn’t really explain about the story that, since he’d left, had filled her head and insisted that it be told, right now. About how impatiently she’d scribbled down her Roundup copy over the couple days since Will had left, had emailed back and forth with the webmaster on Calvin’s site. She’d handled all those details she didn’t care a bit about anymore, nearly having to hold herself in the chair to do it, aching to get back to the real thing. She’d wanted to go out with Talia, of course she had. But her mind had kept drifting back to her story during every quiet moment.

  “How’s that whole thing going?” he asked. “I’ve never asked you, I realize. Never wanted to look. The website and all. Must be doing all right, I guess, or I wouldn’t have been found out.”

  “You don’t really want to know that. It’s got to be the last thing you want to hear about.”

  “Matters to you, though, doesn’t it. I get that. And it’s not your fault that I did a stupid thing in signing on for it.”

  “That’s really…” She cleared her throat. “Really generous of you.”

  “Nah. Just realistic. And fair, maybe, I hope.”

  “Well, then, let’s just say that Calvin’s got a new shoot planned, and that he’s ready to do it all again, because that’s how well it’s going. The subscription revenue is…wow. Beyond all our projections, which makes taking pictures for craft books, of little girls wearing the cute homemade barrettes they made, look a whole lot less lucrative. And you’d better tell your teammates to steer clear of Vegas, because I hate to tell you, but this time there are two guys. And a girl, of course.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Nope. Variety is the spice of life, I guess. And sharing is special. Going to be auditioning them next week, as soon as I get back.” Which wasn’t the best thing to remind herself of, even as it was exactly what she needed to remind herself of.

  There was a little silence on the other end of the line, and then he said, “Yeh. You need to get back.”

  “Three jobs,” she said, trying her best for brisk. “And only one of them with my mother. Career path and all that.”

  “Anyway,” he said. “You get the hotel booking, the plane tickets, match tickets and all that I sent along for you and Talia?”

  “I sure did. Not going to see you, though, I guess.”

  “Not till you get back to Auckland, when I collect you at the airport. But you’ll see me on the paddock,” he assured her. “One more New Zealand experience for you, and I’ll do my best to make it a good one. And here’s Hugh coming back in,” he added in what sounded like resignation. “So all the dirty stuff will have to wait. I propose we skip the boring bits and get straight to the important part next time.”

  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.

  Come the Hour, Come the Man

  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.