Page 8 of Just Come Over
“Yeh.” He waited a minute, and when she didn’t say anything, said, “You could come by on Sunday, if you like. You and Isaiah. To see the place. Give me... ideas of what to do with it, and give me a chance to get to know my nephew better.”
“Where is it?” She was working on the front of the cabinet now, crouched down with a sponge and a tea towel and wiping curry sauce off everything.
“Here. Titirangi.”
She looked up fast. “Here?”
“It’s... ah...” He rubbed his nose, then realized he was still holding the paper toweling. Now he probably had curry on his face, too. No, he definitely did, because his eyes were starting to water, and his nose to run. He needed to leave before the lights came back on. “Where the best house was. The place I like best in Auckland, too. In the trees.”
“You feel that as well? But you grew up on the sea. Your family are fishermen. And then you were in Australia, in Brisbane, Dylan said, playing League. Surely Titirangi is nothing like Brissy. I’ve only been once, but I don’t remember that.”
He hoped Dylan hadn’t saidmuchabout Brisbane. Like, for example, any or all of the things Rhys had told his brother when he’d had Dylan over to visit, hoping to impress him like the stupid kid he’d been. That wasn’t a good thought at all. “No. It was city life there. Dunno. Maybe I was reincarnated. Some Maori ancestor, up in the bush, living amongst the kauri.”
“Sounds romantic,” she said. “Probably wasn’t. All that fighting over land and women. Not too flash for the women, either.”
Something in the way she said it had him heating again. She did call to that ancestor, whoever he was. A story straight out of those days, two brothers who wanted the same woman. Back then, they’d have fought for her, she was right about that. Competed to offer her the most, to prove that he could provide for her best, or just fought. That would have worked for him. He’d have fought hard. Now, she absolutely got to choose, which was nothing but right. He reminded himself of that, and that she’d already chosen.
“Yeh,” he said. “I’ll text you the address. And if you and Isaiah come by on Sunday, I’ll show you the place and take you to breakfast. Get one of those meals I owe you out of the way. He can take a quick look at my portfolio, too, and calculate my return on investment. I’ve been thinking I need to rebalance.”
She laughed. “You joke, but in a few years, I think he’d do it. He’s not odd, you know. He’s just...”
“Very bright,” he said. “And concerned about his mum, maybe, because he knows he’s got a good one.”
Another intake of breath. She’d forgotten about scrubbing, was standing there with the sponge in one hand and the tea towel in another. Looking soft, and touchable, and... vulnerable. His voice had softened, he realized belatedly. “Maybe,” she said. “Though, like I said—“
“You try not to make him worry,” he finished. “Yeh. I know.”
He didn’t kiss her cheek when he said goodbye. He didn’t trust himself to.
He was all the way back at the hotel in the CBD when he realized that he’d never asked her why they’d needed to sell the house. How much insurance had Dylan left her? He and Dylan had talked about it, hadn’t they? Why wasn’t she covered, then? Why wasn’t she secure?
And why hadn’t he known?
That was Monday. By Tuesday, Rhys had talked sense into himself again. Of course, he’d have to start all over again on Sunday, because Zora and Isaiahwerecoming by the house then, the day after the final match of the preseason.
That was a thought for Sunday. This wasn’t Sunday. If you couldn’t compartmentalize, as a rugby player or a coach, you couldn’t do the job. Just now, he was talking tackling.
“Anticipation.” It was raining again, the tail end of the cyclone, so he raised his voice to compensate. “You can’t tackle him straight on if you don’t know where he’s going. You’ll be bouncing off, and he’ll be going straight through you. You don’t want to be that guy. But if you watch the film enough times, you know what the fella’s got up his sleeve, and you can counter it. Let’s have it again.”
The blast of his whistle, and the ball went from the halfback to the first-five, Will Tawera. A cutout pass over the next man in line, all the way to Kevin McNicholl, who had to reach up for it. He pulled it in, stepped, then stepped again, so lightning-quick that if you’d blinked, you’d have missed it, shifting his line.
He didn’t fool Marko Sendoa. The flanker was on him like an avenging angel, but pulled his tackle at the last second. No point bruising your mate’s ribs two days before the match.
Rhys blew the whistle. “That’s a hospital pass, Will,” he told his first-five. “You’ve left Kevvie hanging out to dry. Watch your leading hand. The moment you lose focus, start thinking about the rain and how you hope this is the last round, the leading hand is off anywhere but where it’s meant to go. And Marko—how did you see where Kevvie was heading?”
Marko considered a moment, then said, “He knew I was coming at him. I knew he was going to step. Couldn’t step to the right, because Koti was there, so I knew he’d step to the left. I was watching for it.”
“Yeh,” Rhys said. “Right, then. Same again. Choose a different target, Will.” He was about to blow the whistle when he saw one of the younger fellas say something to his neighbor. Tom Koru-Mansworth had been the player on the left when Kevvie had stepped. The player Kevvie had known he could beat. He dropped the hand with the whistle and called out, “Kors. Got something to share?”
The kid looked discomfited, as well he might. “No. Just having a laugh.”
Rhys let a bit of the fire show. “And you had a laugh during the time before as well. Just because the drill hasn’t started, that doesn’t mean you’re switched off. If your body’s here, your head had better be here with it. You’re switched on, and then you’re switched higher. Those are the only two choices. Why is Marko doing this drill? He knows how to tackle. Why is Hugh doing it? The skipper knows how to tackle, too. They’re here because knowing how isn’t enough. They want to do it better. Better’s always out there, just out of reach. It’s your job to grab it. Start again. This time, focus like there’s a point to it. Winners do extra. You’d bloody well better want to be a winner, or why be here at all?”
The corner of Kors’s mouth twitched. A laugh, or a grimace. It had better have been a grimace. Rhys breathed the fire back and said, “If you’re satisfied with where you are, you may as well hang up your boots and stop wasting everybody’s time. Switched on, switched higher, or go home. Same again.”
They kept on. Beside Rhys, Finn Douglas, his assistant coach and a legend himself, said, “The talent’s there. Nothing really wrong with his work rate, either, not lately.”
“You can’t coach hunger,” Rhys said shortly.
