Page 3 of The Hooker

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.

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