20
Jack had a commitment that afternoon – a pre-arranged photoshoot for some sports magazine featuring key players of the national side. Normally, he would’ve brushed it off as routine, but today, it felt like an escape.
The Auckland studio was a renovated warehouse. A wide-open space with polished concrete floors and beams of white light streaming through tall, frosted windows. Music pulsed low in the background, rhythmic and modern, a sharp contrast to the quiet weight Jack had carried since the flight.
Assistants scurried about adjusting lights, powdering foreheads, getting water.
A giant black backdrop loomed behind him, flanked by softboxes that flooded the space in golden light.
The photographer, an excitable man in a denim jacket and sneakers, circled him like a conductor, camera clicking in fast succession.
“Alright, Jack, give me strength – yeah, that’s it. Shoulders square. Bit of fire in the eyes, mate. Think: redemption. You’ve just come off a loss, but you’re still the heartbeat of the team.”
Jack straightened, trying to look as natural as possible.
The camera clicked again and again, the strobe flashing like lightning.
He adjusted his grip on the rugby ball in his hands, veins flexing across his forearms. The jersey clung to his frame – broad chest, taut arms, every inch of him coiled with restrained energy.
“Perfect,” the photographer called. “Now loosen it up. Give me a grin. Something natural.”
Jack tried, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
His mind wandered – to the quiet flight, to the glimpse of Claire’s face illuminated by the cabin lights, her expression unreadable as she stared out the window.
He swallowed hard and forced a smirk. The camera captured it instantly, mistaking melancholy for magnetism.
They shifted scenes. He was handed a fresh training kit, the black fabric sleek and fitted, the team’s gold fronds glinting under the lights. A wind machine kicked on, lifting his hair and the edges of the jersey just enough to make him look untamed.
“Brilliant!” the photographer shouted. “Now, lean forward – hands on knees. That’s it. Grit, focus, maybe a touch of rebellion.”
Flash. Flash. Flash.
One assistant – a young woman with sharp features, a confident air, and a natural ease in the chaos – kept stepping close to hand him water, adjusting the backdrop, and smoothing stray hair from his face.
Jack noticed her immediately. There was a grace to the way she moved, a subtle warmth behind her professional efficiency that caught his attention for the briefest seconds between poses.
She handed him a water bottle. “Almost done,” she said with a polite smile. “You’re killing it, by the way.”
He gave a soft, distracted thanks, eyes distant. The truth was, he didn’t mind that kind of attention. The performance, the posturing. Especially on a day like today. It was distracting in the best way.
Then came the final setup: Jack sitting on a bench, jersey half unzipped, towel draped loosely around his neck. Sweat gleamed faintly at his temples from the lights. The photographer lowered his camera slightly, studying him.
“Hold that,” he murmured. “Right there. You look like a man with something to say – and too much to lose if he says it.”
Click.
The sound cut through the room, clean and final. A perfect capture.
Moments later, the photographer signaled the end of the session.
Jack rubbed a hand over his face, muscles aching, heart heavier than when he’d arrived.
But before he could leave, he was approached by the journalist from SportsEdge – a woman in her thirties with sharp eyes and a charming smile, recorder already in hand.
“Tough match in South Africa,” she began. “You are known for your chemistry on the field, but things looked... tense with this game. Is everything good between the team?
Jack hesitated, wiping sweat from his temple. “We are a team that moves as one,” he said finally. “Sometimes we need to be humbled. But that’s what makes us better. We’ll fix it.”
She smiled knowingly. “Speaking of moving as one... rumor mill says you might have someone special keeping you motivated lately. True?”
Jack’s grin flickered, softer this time. “Maybe.”
“Oh? Can we get a name?”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes dropping for a moment before lifting again with a quiet, almost wistful smile. “Let’s just say... she’s a healer.”
The interviewer laughed, thinking he was being coy. “A nurse?”
“Something like that,” Jack said. “Smartest person I know. Probably the reason I’m not in worse shape right now.”
The photographer snapped another shot, despite the session ending. Jack’s expression was caught between pride and longing, that unguarded vulnerability he couldn’t quite hide.
When the interview wrapped, he stepped outside into the crisp New Zealand air, phone buzzing with notifications already lighting up about the “mystery nurse.” He exhaled, eyes drifting toward the mountains in the distance.
He knew she’d see it eventually. And he didn’t know if he wanted her to be angry – or to understand, but he knew, he just knew in his bones, that she felt the same way.