Chapter 9 #2
He talked to his brothers, too, taking care to put a hand on Jack’s shoulder and give him a quiet “well done tonight, bro,” upon which Jack looked sideways at him, expecting him to be taking the piss.
Zane sighed and said, “Nah, I mean it. Of course I mean it. Going up for that high ball—that was good stuff. Brave. You did well.”
“Oh,” Jack said, awkward with the praise.
“Cheers, then.” He didn’t say “Well done” himself.
Probably didn’t think he had the right. Well, everybody fought their own battle to get here and stay here, and it was hard to see that somebody else, especially a senior player and most especially your eldest brother, had fought his own.
He chatted after that with Rhys Fletcher, the coach.
What they’d both seen out there, what they needed to work on next week.
Rhys never emoted much—more intense than mercurial, Drago, and “quiet satisfaction” was more his style anyway.
Then Zane got his shower at last, where he stood under the hot water for a good ten minutes before changing into street clothes, having a belated bite to eat, and picking up his duffel to head out to the motel.
“We’re out to the bar after we get back to Auckland, bro,” Gordon said. “Sure you don’t need to come along to keep everyone under control?”
“Here’s a thought,” Zane said. “You could keep yourself under control.” And left.
The storm had mostly blown itself out, and the night was cool and fresh.
The streets were still full of revelers, on a Saturday night after the rugby, with patrons spilling out of bars, climbing into ride shares, walking home.
Zane stepped over an abandoned electric scooter he saw only at the last minute, then moved it to the verge so nobody would trip over it, and skirted a group of young men, shoving each other, laughing, out on the razzle.
He stuck his hands into his jacket pockets and strode on.
“Wait.” That was a girl, one of five, dressed to the nines and with heels too high for walking. “Aren’t you with the Blues? The skipper?”
“Yeh,” Zane said. Happened all the time. Felt awkward all the same.
“Well done tonight,” she said. “Though I shouldn’t say so.
My dad’s going to be filthy. He bets too much.
But you scored that try and all, so …” She laughed, keyed up.
“We’re just going for a drink. You could join us, if you like.
” She wasn’t much more than twenty, but she was probably older than some of her friends.
That was why she was the one doing the inviting.
Her skirt was much too short for the chill, her short jacket was open over a flimsy top, and all Zane wanted to do was get her a blanket.
“No, thanks,” he said. “But have fun.” And walked on.
He should tell her that starting a sentence with “My dad” wasn’t the best lure for an older bloke, but what did he know?
Her words had made him think about his own kids.
He’d never worried about them before like this—they were always with Nan, and what could be safer than that?
But Nan had been evasive about where she was sleeping tonight.
Surely she’d put the kids to bed first, though.
And surely she’d taken the room next to theirs, too.
Why hadn’t he asked about that? He began to walk faster.
A stop at the motel office for his room key, and a question. His kids were in Room 113, and he was in 115. Maureen Mahuta? She wasn’t on the list, sorry. He swore internally and cut across the carpark to the other wing.
A row of blue doors, with two plastic chairs and a table in front of each. Somebody in one of the chairs, wrapped in a blanket, her feet on the other chair and a glass of wine on the table, reading some kind of tablet.
It wasn’t Scarlett. It was Skylar. In front of Room 111.
He stopped in front of her. “Hi. We meet again, eh. Do you know whether my kids—” He felt a bit stupid saying it. Of course Nan would have put them to bed. “Whether they’re OK?” he finished lamely.
“Fine,” she said. “Last time I saw them, Duncan and Georgia were both asleep, and Scarlett was getting ready for bed.”
He exhaled. “Good. You saw Nan, too, then. Did you lot … uh, have fun?” Another lame question.
“No,” she said. “I mean,” she added hastily at his look of surprise, “yes, it was fun. Watching the match, I mean. The match was fun. You were very …” He could see her swallow. “Very strong.”
“Oh. Good.” He couldn’t think what else to say.
“Your Nan must have made arrangements with Scarlett,” she said. “To look after the other kids. She did well. Got them in the bath and all.”
“Wait.” He was frowning again. “How do you know?”
“Oh, you know.” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm and nearly knocked over her wine. “I could have something in common with Scarlett. Responsibility gene. I looked in.”
“Hang on,” he said. “I’ll check on them and drop this off first. Then you can tell me.”
He’d barked it out, possibly, because she opened her eyes a little wider, then laughed and saluted. “Aye-aye, Captain. If you’d like some wine while we do that, bring a glass. I’m too lazy to get up for it.”
He wouldn’t bring a glass. He’d check on the kids, find out from Skylar exactly what had happened—he did not have a good feeling—and go to bed.
He didn’t need more alcohol. He had a bruise over his ribs that was giving him a bit of niggle, and another on his thigh.
A couple of Panadol and bed, that was the treatment, and ice and PT tomorrow.
He’d do that. Absolutely. Judgment. Responsibility. Good habits.
That was a plan.