Chapter 9 #2
I pick the ball up from the ground where I dropped it when I grabbed Liam and get back into position.
I wait until Liam is prepared to catch, roll my shoulders, breathe deeply, take a few quick steps forward, and aim the ball for Liam.
The ball slips out of my hands perfectly and lands exactly where I want it to with no twinge or niggle that throws me off and causes me to question everything and overcompensate.
Liam catches it, barely, and snarls, “Fucking hell, Hemi. I didn’t realise how hard professionals throw.” He rubs his chest and pouts at me.
I frown and jog to him and brush my hands over his chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise either.” Especially when Coach was complaining that I wasn’t throwing hard enough, that I was hesitating. “I’ll be careful next time.”
Liam swipes a quick finger over my frown until he smoothes it out. “I’m fine, it’s just a shock catching it. It’s like the hiking. Doesn’t really hurt, but it’s a shock to the system when I’m used to my cave.”
“Okay, but if it does hurt, you have to tell me.” I wait for his agreement and walk back to my place.
Not that I’m going to continue throwing as hard when he’s already said it hurts, even if it wasn’t in so many words.
I’m not here to play professionally. I’m here to have fun.
And it’s working. I’m not jeopardising that by hurting someone I lo—I freeze getting into position.
Did…did I actually just think that?
I glance at Liam who’s rearranging the ball in his hands, carefully attempting to hold it correctly, who’s out here helping me even though he’d rather be reading or writing, and I swallow down emotion. It’s too early for that. No matter how I might feel.
It’s only been nine days.
I shake my head. No matter what I feel for Liam, I refuse to hurt him, even if it’s more natural to throw hard after years of training.
“Ready?” Liam asks.
I nod, bouncing on my toes. “Come at me.” I catch the ball, and I’m off.
We continue throwing the ball back and forth until Liam’s shoved up his sleeves and sweat drips down my back. It’s not like we’ve been that physical, but jogging up and down the garden has felt like a workout.
I managed to convince Liam to run with me while throwing the ball back and forth, and he caught it more than he dropped it. I didn’t drop the ball once.
We switched jogging around the garden, throwing the ball between us, with Liam passing it to me, and I’d race to the fence as if it were a real-life scenario and I was aiming for the try line.
I stopped thinking about my shoulder. I focused on throwing the ball with less force, catching it, and scoring imaginary tries.
I didn’t think it would build confidence, but it did. The more I did it without worrying about my shoulder and focused on not hurting Liam, the better I got. I felt more secure catching the ball, had less fumbles, and aimed better passes to Liam.
If all I needed to get over myself was playing a fun game with no expectations, I would have made Charlie let me throw balls at her while she shrieked and then ran away with the ball to score her own imaginary tries.
Being here with Liam is comfortable. I don’t feel judged or stressed about the game.
I can catch the ball and move. Can take a moment to collect myself when I don’t catch it correctly or aren’t happy with how I threw it.
Hopefully, it will translate to the game.
I’m cautiously optimistic in his garden, hands red and stinging from the ball, that it will.
He lets me sort it all out in my head, and when I nod to him, continues with the drills. No questions asked.
And it feels like home.
I haven’t managed to convince myself to stop thinking that, especially not now that my feelings go deeper than I realised.
But I can’t help but hope that when I return from South Africa, instead of going to Auckland, I can come here.
To Liam. Or Liam could come to Auckland, but I think he prefers it here with his colourful kitchen and large whiteboard.
I don’t care where I am as long as it’s with him.
But I’m not going to force myself on him and into his life after I’ve already done that for the week.
I need to figure out what he wants before I ask him for more.
He probably doesn’t want a rugby player who’s in the media more than he’d like, especially when Liam doesn’t even post his face on his Instagram and uses a pseudonym.
But that won’t stop me from trying. I just need to figure out a game plan. And how to deal with the media who’ll be fucking annoying if they find out I have a boyfriend.
I catch the ball and tuck it under my arm and wrap my other around Liam’s shoulders, ducking my head to press a kiss to his damp hair. “Come on, let’s get clean and warm before dinner and an early night.”
Liam’s arm snakes around my waist. “Are you sure you don’t need more time?”
“No, this was enough.” I wrap my arms around him properly and hug him tightly, the ball pressed against his back. “Thank you, for everything.”
Liam untucks his head from my neck, smiles at me, and says, “Anytime,” before dragging me inside and into the steamy shower where my shoulder feels normal and my chest continues to feel warm and gooey whenever I look at him.
“Are you going to watch the game with me?” I ask, setting an alarm for four-thirty in the morning.
“Of course I will.” Liam rolls to his side and tucks close to me for our last night together.
The alarm goes off entirely too soon, and we stumble to the lounge yawning.
I’m always with the team, and it’s been years since I got up at the ass crack to watch a game. I forgot how brutal it is.
It’s not long before we’re huddled on the couch with the TV on and mugs of tea on the coffee table.
Neither of us feel like eating so early.
The TV lights the lounge; we kept the other lights off, and it’s an oddly cosy experience sitting beside him on the couch with tea and rugby.
Or it would be if my hands weren’t shaking.
My leg bounces listening to the national anthem as the camera pans across my teammates, wearing their black jerseys and staring into the distance. The camera focuses on Jamie, who’s singing his heart out, and then on Suli, whose lips are barely moving underneath his beard. I snort.
“You look just like him when they focus on you,” Liam says.
I stare at him, affronted. “I sing the anthem.”
“Not with enthusiasm. You are one of the only confident players during the Māori part, though.” The anthem ends, and the team heads to the field for the haka.
I roll my eyes. “Considering I am Māori, I figured I’d better learn that part properly.”
“You didn’t before?”
“Only parts of it we learned at primary school, I never really learned the words.” I shrug and ignore the familiar discomfort when discussing my whakapapa. “Mum didn’t grow up speaking the language after it was beaten out of her parents, so I never learned. One day I’d like to.”
“Does Charlie know any?”
I shake my head. “And she’s white presenting too with her blonde hair and paler skin, so she has a whole other layer of stuff to figure out.” I sigh. “Maybe I should take a class or something.”
Liam touches my hand. “That sounds like a great idea. I think some universities and schools offer free classes for the community.”
“I’ll talk to Charlie and see what she thinks after the season.
” It’ll probably take my whole life to unravel and understand the complexities of being indigenous and reclaiming the language and culture, but maybe a class wouldn’t be too hard.
Or disheartening. Charlie would probably be keen, but do I want to do school work again?
I scrunch my nose. Maybe I’ll think about it a bit more.
I turn back to the TV and leave the difficult topics for another day and groan when I see who’s replaced me, forgetting that Alex told me on the phone when I was booted off the squad.
“I can’t believe they gave me mandatory time off because of a nonexistent injury, only to replace me with fucking Peter. He can barely catch the ball,” I grumble.
Liam raises his eyebrows at me. “If he couldn’t catch the ball, he wouldn’t be on the team.”
“You wait and watch. There’s a reason he barely gets any minutes.”
It’s apparent as soon as kickoff happens that it’s going downhill.
“What the actual fuck was that?” Liam snarls when Johnny, our fullback, is tackled but manages to get the ball to Peter, who loses it immediately and stands there for a few seconds instead of chasing the opposition.
“Told you.” The bloody Freedom Cup is on the line. If we lose this game, we have to win the next. Otherwise we lose the cup, which would be an embarrassment.
“You were catching better than that last week, even with your shoulder.” Liam doesn’t look at me when he says it, and his voice is distinctly casual. “You were hesitating and second-guessing yourself, not literally dropping the ball and watching the opposition pick it up.”
I fiddle with my cup. “Thanks. I made it harder to win those games, though,” I finish quietly. I sigh heavily and stare at the TV blankly, barely taking in the fact that South Africa scored another try. “There is a reason I’m not playing.”
“There is. But that’s because of the pressure you’re putting on yourself. All the pressure from the coaches.” Liam presses his knee to mine. “You needed some time away to regroup. How do you feel now?” he asks carefully, not looking at me, to give me space, I guess.