Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Daisy
I wince when Jamison Atoa is tackled and covered in yellow jerseys. “Jesus. They’re out for blood tonight.”
“They haven’t won the cup in a bajillion years. They’re desperate.” Adam whistles low at what’s happening on the field, and I watch Jamie thrust the ball from under the pileup to Hemi, who sprints for the try line. We hold our breath and groan when he’s taken down too. “And their new coach is insane.”
“You know him?”
“I know of him. Fucking bastard.”
I slump against the hard metal below my butt when Australia manages to intercept the ball and makes a break for it.
I don’t flinch when Adam, the head physiotherapist for New Zealand’s national rugby team, and my boss, yells, “Come on, boys! Get in there!”
I’ve never understood why everyone calls them boys. Jamie launches himself at an opposing player, wraps his arms around their waist in mid-air, and they collapse in a pile of limbs and blood.
They’re men. Generally large and loud men, who lift weights more than I weigh mid-cycle when I need carbs and sugar to get me through the day. Some of them are older, like Jamie, and have played professionally for years, but a few of them are fresh out of their teens and desperate to prove their worth. Those players I’d call boys. It’s odd to call someone like Jamie a boy. He’s mid-thirties and the only player taller than him is Suli, our number four lock and captain, who’s huge.
Suli tackles an opposing player; his rich brown skin is streaked with grass, and there are green flecks in his thick black beard too.
The stadium groans when Australia gets a try. “Our coach will be a bastard if they lose this game.”
“Ah, but they’ll deserve it. The boys are playing like shit.” Adam stands and moves to talk with the subs, the eight men waiting to swap out with one of the starting fifteen boys to get some minutes in.
Adam isn’t entirely wrong. Playing like shit is harsh. I’m more inclined to say they’re off their game, but the coaches would use the former. I can almost feel the huffing fury Alex Clark, the head coach, will be sending through the radio to the strength and conditioning coach on the sideline. Who, admittedly, seems to share the fury if his red face is any indication, though he’s attempting to hide it and letting the captain try to whip the fifteen into shape.
It’s clearly not riveting information if Jamie has time to spy me on the sidelines amongst the medics and subs to wink at me. I roll my eyes and look pointedly at his eyebrow, which is dripping blood down the side of his face. Clearly the ref didn’t take issue with the blood, but someone could at least wipe it.
Jamie wiggles his eyebrows with his mouth guard hanging from the side of his mouth, causing the blood to do a gruesome dance, and then his body follows and does a weird shuffle dance thing.
Suli beside him glances at me and shoves Jamie with his tattooed arm mid-pep talk. Jamie winces comically and refocuses.
“Fuck’s sake, he’s gonna get himself murdered.”
“At least he’s playing well,” Adam says, joining me again and crossing his arms. His dark amber skin is on display instead of huddled in the team uniform windbreaker like I am. His black hair blows in the wind, but it doesn’t bother him like it does for me. I always wear a cap and plait my hair to avoid the wind tangling my long hair.
A medic finally joins the huddle and wipes Jamie’s eyebrow roughly and slaps a big white patch over it. Alex must want to keep him on the field.
“If you keep yelling, one of the boys will hear, or worse, the cameras.”
Adam waves the comment away. “The boys know they’re playing like primary school ripper rugby. And if they haven’t figured it out, they’ll know tomorrow.”
Hemi rolls his shoulder and we both narrow our eyes at him. We glance at each other and come to the same conclusion. Something’s wrong with his dominant arm. And he hasn’t brought it up with the physio team, which means we need to approach him, carefully, and discuss an injury. Never a good thing. And not something an elite athlete wants brought up, but the smart ones know they have to if they want to stay on top of their game. If they want to stay on the starting fifteen.
Rain splatters on my hands and my cap barely keeps it out of my eyes, but at least I’m not sprinting through the rain for the white line to dive over—with an entire team chasing behind me, hoping to tackle me to the muddy field below.
I played one game of rugby at university after my friend Liam got me into watching it. Watching someone get tackled and everyone piling on top of them is extremely different from being the one under the pile. After that, I decided while I love rugby, playing it isn’t for me, so I focused on getting my masters in physiotherapy and working my way through the different regional rugby teams before landing assistant physiotherapist for the national team three years ago.
A dream come true, but that doesn’t mean rain slipping under my jacket is pleasant. I shiver and cross my arms tightly. So much for being waterproof.
We win by the skin of our teeth, and after everyone’s celebrated on the field and shaken the Aussie’s hands, we follow our team to the changing sheds. The rowdy sheds where beer is handed out and tight jerseys that stick to wet skin are aggressively tugged off.
Alex helps drag off black jerseys, somehow keeping his crisp suit clean and his brown hair unruffled, but if you know what to look for, you can tell he’s frustrated by the tight lines bracketing his pale lips, visible through his beard. His cool ivory skin is paler than usual after the sloppy game. He’ll let them have the win today and tomorrow everything will be dissected.
I move through the large room with cubbies for each player to sit in around the perimeter of the wall, and a large table running the length of the room covered in sports drinks, water, fruit, and muesli bars. Most of the boys have collapsed in their cubby, drinking beer or chugging electrolytes. Some are still in their jerseys while others have removed them immediately and sit bare-chested.
I find Hemi in his jersey, his light brown skin glistening with sweat and his chestnut hair cut into a short mullet—apparently the new hairstyle everyone wants—flattened to his scalp from the rain, and nod at his shoulder. “Feeling all right?”
He purses his lips and nods. “Fine, why?”
“Come to the medic room tomorrow and I’ll strap it for you.”
“Don’t need it strapped.” He glances around the room, his hazel eyes tightening with what I think is panic, but no one can hear our conversation over the noise.
“Come anyway. I’ll tell you about the shenanigans my niece has been getting up to.”
Hemi’s eyes trace my face before he gives a curt nod.
“That try in the last minute was a beauty,” I say, nudging his knee until a small smile appears on his face.
“She’s right. Didn’t record it though, sorry,” a woman’s voice says behind me.
Hemi grins at the woman who appears at my shoulder. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail and her eyeliner is the sharpest I’ve ever seen. She has the same eye colour as Hemi but hers lean more green, and despite the fact her skin is a few shades lighter than Hemi’s, you can tell they’re siblings as soon as you see them both smile.
“That’s because you only record when I wipe out.” Hemi stands and kisses her cheek, wraps a sweaty arm around her, which she shoves off, and turns to me. “This is my sister Charlotte. Charlie, this is the assistant physio Daisy.”
I shake her hand. “Lovely to meet you, Charlotte. I’ll leave you two to catch up, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” I raise my eyebrows at Hemi until he gives a grudging nod and turns to his sister.
I face the rest of the room and notice Alex staring at Charlotte but decide to avoid him while he’s sporting that intense look in his blue eyes. Entirely too scary to talk to him about Hemi right now.
I do a full round of the room asking about ankles, wrists, hamstrings, and shoulders, and make a mental list of who I want to see tomorrow to ensure nothing turns into an injury. I end up at Jamie’s cubby and raise my brows at him.
“You’re bleeding again,” I tell him blandly.
Jamie grins. “The colour of winners, Daze.”
“The colour of someone who needs to make sure it’s treated.” I stare at him, and he sips beer and shrugs his oversized shoulders.
“I’ll find someone in a minute. Help me out of this?” He tugs the tight jersey away from his skin and it snaps back sharply.
I sigh and nod. He sets his drink down and stands, bends at the hips, and sticks his arms out straight. I roll my eyes and reach for the bottom of the jersey. Brushing the heated skin at his lower back, I grab the jersey and tug. I yank as hard as I can while he edges backwards. I manage to tug it to his wrists and stumble as it comes free, catching myself on the table before I crash into someone.
Jamie sighs and shakes himself like a dog removing water from its coat, and collapses in his cubby, taking a sip from his drink.
Now bare-chested, he relaxes and I see the game drain from him. His skin, a medium brown colour that darkens in summer, is damp and his hair is an adorable dark curly mess from the rain, sweat, and bandage and tape around his forehead to protect his ears in scrums. Being the hooker means he gets bashed around a lot, and it’s common practice now to attempt to protect yourself. It also means his chest is thick and wide and his shoulders are broad, and his belly is slightly rounded, covering the muscle it takes to hold off grown men, but that’s neither here nor there.
He rips off the ear protection to reveal ears that carry the look of a teenage boy who didn’t listen to his mother and wrap them like he should have, and rolls his neck. He scratches at the dark stubble on his cheeks and sighs contentedly.
I suppress a smile. “Better?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s the knee?” The tape held up, and he was walking fine at the end of the game so hopefully it minimised the pain. He’s not injured, but playing for so long, especially his position that takes a lot of hits, takes a toll on your body regardless of injury.
“Feels good.”
“And the hami?” The hamstring is more of a concern at the moment. If it turns into a full-blown injury, he’ll be out. He stays quiet, his dark eyes skittish and shrugs, raking a hand through his curls instead of answering me. Well, at least I know where he’s at. “We’ll work on it tomorrow.”
He grunts and finishes his beer. Jamie stands and towers over me. My head comes to his shoulder, but he’s never made me feel small or less than.
“Can you take the tape off?” When all I do is stare at him, he pouts at me and says, “Please?”
A routine we do after every game. I don’t know why, but it works. I enjoy him sticking out his bottom lip, and I also enjoy ripping out his leg hair. I crouch in front of him and look up through my lashes. My eyes meet dark chocolate ones. I grasp the edge of the tape and rip. Jamie tenses and his nostrils flare. I bite my lip to hide my smile.
“You enjoy hurting me, don’t you?”
Clearly I don’t hide my smile well. “No, but I do enjoy that ripping out leg hair is apparently more painful than having men squash your head and have them pile on top of you.”
I turn him around and lift his already short shorts higher to reach the tape on his thick hamstring decorated with black ink that runs from the top of his ass to his ankle in a pattern of swirls, triangles, lines, solid black, and dots interspersed throughout, and rip it off quickly.He shakes his legs out, turns, and holds out a hand to help me stand. His hand is twice my size and warm. He’s like a portable heater.
“Thanks. And it isn’t more painful, I just hate doing it. I can’t bring myself to rip it, so it makes the pain worse.”
“One day, I’ll take you to get your legs waxed and you’ll know real pain.” I show him the tape. “There’s like three hairs. Wait until I slap wax on your hairy leg and you cry when I rip hair off your inner thighs.”
He cringes. “Hard pass.”
Jamie sits heavily, and I nudge his boots with my sneaker. “Good game. You held them together.”
“Don’t let the others hear you say that.”
“They already know it. If they want to win the Bledisloe Cup, everyone needs to pull themselves together. Especially if they want to win the Freedom Cup against South Africa too.” We share a look, knowing what’s coming.
Injury, blood, tears, and potentially the best games in The Rugby Championship. We’re in the middle of the series and have already played our two test matches with Argentina. We have two games against South Africa, which they’re hosting, and one more game against Australia to close out the series. Two cups to win within the series and the overall championship to win. It’s a lot of pressure, and with the amount of injuries around and the newer players Alex is trying out, the boys are flagging earlier than usual. It’s my job to make sure they feel good before a game, while hopefully giving them something to talk about other than rugby. A lot of the game is mental. Anyone would need a break, and I make sure to give them that.
“You’re right. And thanks.” He scratches his chest, right over the hair sprinkled across it, and I avert my eyes from the trail leading below his belly button.
“No worries, it’s true.”
“Okay, boys, time to cool down and jump in the ice baths,” the strength and conditioning coach George says. The red has finally leeched from his cheeks, leaving his suntanned skin and deep forehead lines time to recover from the game.
The room groans collectively, including Jamie, who manages to keep it quiet, and they stand and file out of the room. Jamie rises and holds his fist out. I bump it with mine and open my palm for him to slap in a gentle low five.
“I’ll meet you by the car when you’re done. I need to write some notes and look at Nick’s knee.”
“Sweet, see you soon.” He heads to the exit and drops his empty beer bottle in the recycling bin.
I make sure everyone gets to the pool area and head to the medic room to write up notes and discuss plans with Adam about Nick and Hemi. I pass Charlotte talking to Alex but duck my head to avoid being pulled into whatever they’re talking about.
When I wrap everything up for the night, I head to the staff car park and find Jamie leaning against my car. It’s significantly smaller than his, but I always drive on game nights so he can have a drink afterwards. The white patch on his eyebrow is stark on his skin, and his hands are shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. He’s wearing shorts despite the wind creeping inside my windbreaker.
“Have you been waiting long? I didn’t realise the time.” I unlock the car and we dump our gear in the boot and get in the front.
“Nah. I don’t mind waiting.” He stretches his legs out as much as he can in the front seat—already pushed as far away from the dashboard as possible—and closes his eyes. The generic scent from the soap they use in the sheds spreads through my car, and I inhale deeply.
He crashes after a game. The adrenaline leaves his body in the sheds and then he attempts to stay awake while I drive us from Eden Park across Auckland to the North Shore. Which is a real bitch because all of Auckland comes to the game and then we have to join the traffic to get home. We live on the same street, me in an old seventies house that’s drafty in winter and a sauna in summer, Jamie in a renovated villa at the end of the street with blush-pink roses climbing up the outside. His mum likes them. I have no idea how he keeps them alive.
My brother is a florist, and he owns a flower shop near a beach outside of Auckland, but despite our parents calling us plant names, the green thumb only transferred to Sage. I’m great at keeping succulents alive though because I’m fantastic at forgetting they exist.
Jamie and I started carpooling mid-way through my first year when his car needed work and we realised we lived on the same street. Auckland busses aren’t reliable to get you anywhere on time, let alone across town in less than an hour. So I drove him. Then, a week later, he showed up at my door and offered to drive me. Now we alternate daily, and when the games are in Auckland, I drive us so he can focus on the game and fall asleep in the traffic on the way home.
Sometimes he talks, but usually he tucks his chin to his chest and snores softly to the pop music on the radio as streetlights flicker over his face. I don’t know how he does it. I can’t sleep in cars, especially when I know I’ll be home soon, in pyjamas and bed, but then again, I didn’t play eighty minutes of rugby.
He snores louder than usual as I turn into our street and jerks himself awake. I laugh under my breath, and he catches my smile. “What?” he asks, his voice husky with sleep and from yelling on the field.
I shake my head and pull into his driveway. “Nothing. Here you are, good sir, your lodging for the night.”
He doesn’t take my teasing tone. Just smiles at me softly. Lips wide and plump. “Thanks, Daze. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Always.”
He opens the car door, but before he leaves, he holds out his fist. I tap it with mine and open my palm for him to slap. His callouses scrape deliciously on my skin, but this time after the low five, he grasps my hand and squeezes.
Jamie closes the door and grabs his bags from the boot and waves at me as he climbs the stairs of his veranda, passing his roses to the front door. I stay there until the door closes and then I reverse and drive up the street to my house and into the garage.
He only squeezes my hand like that in the car. Every time we get home, he does it.
But never when we’re with anyone else. I don’t know why.
And I don’t know why my right hand always feels warmer and tingles until I fall asleep. It doesn’t matter if I shower or workout after he does it.
I always fall asleep with one hand warmer than the other.