Page 1 of The Hooker

CHAPTERONE

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 themboys.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 isextremelydifferent 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?”

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