Page 87 of Under Southern Stars
“Chip kick!” Madison explains, eyes locked on the field. “Smart move!”
“Chip kick! Yes!” I echo, nodding as if I’d been expecting this all along. “Excellent chip…kicking!”
The ball bounces perfectly as Thompson races toward it. An Australian defender is closing in fast.
“She’s not going to make it,” I say, but Jack is shaking his head.
“Just watch!”
What happens next seems to unfold in slow motion. Thompson reaches the ball at the sideline, but her momentum is carrying her out of bounds. Somehow, impossibly, she plants her left foot and hops—actually hops—along the sideline, kicking the ball with her right foot while airborne.
The ball arcs perfectly into the try zone.
“SHE DID IT!” Jack roars, his voice lost in the thunderous crowd.
“DID YOU SEE THAT?” Madison screams, grabbing my arm. “SHE KICKED ON ONE LEG!”
“OH MY GOD!” I find myself jumping and screaming too, caught up in the electric atmosphere. “THAT WAS AMAZING! IS THAT WORTH POINTS?”
“Five points!” Jack shouts back. “If it’s confirmed!”
The replay appears on the giant screen, and the stadium goes berserk. Thompson hopping on one foot, defying gravity and logic, the ball crossing the line just as she tumbles out of bounds.
“They’re checking if it’s a try,” Jack explains, his voice hoarse. “Her foot might have touched the line—”
“TRY!” The referee’s voice booms over the PA system, and the stadium erupts.
“IT’S GOOD!” Madison jumps up and down. “IT COUNTS!”
“YES!” I pump my fist in the air. “This is just like when we beat Alabama my sophomore year and everyone rushed the field! I’ve never heard a stadium this loud!”
Around us, fans break into a coordinated chant that sounds more like a military drill than a celebration. The men behind us launch into what appears to be a full-blown choreographed routine, complete with hand motions.
“What are they singing?” I ask Jack, barely able to hear myself over the noise.
He listens for a moment, then laughs. “Something very unflattering about the Australian fullback’s dating history. Trust me, you don’t want the translation.”
Madison is still jumping, her face flushed with excitement. “That was INCREDIBLE! Did you see how she stayed inbounds? ONE LEG, Mom! ONE LEG!”
Jack turns to me, face flushed with excitement, eyes bright with joy. Without warning, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me—deeply, passionately, right there in the middle of the cheering crowd.
When he pulls back, there is something different in his eyes. Something I haven’t seen before. Raw emotion, unfiltered by his usual careful restraint.
“What was that for?” I ask, breathless.
“For being here. For bringing Madison. For—” He gestures around us, at the stadium, at New Zealand. “For understanding why this matters to me.”
Madison finally notices, raising her eyebrows. “Geez, get a room, you two.”
Jack laughs, throwing an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into a half-hug. “You’re just jealous you don’t have my rugby knowledge, Madison McKenzie.”
“McKenzie?” She looks startled, then grins. “I’m a Mitchell, thank you very much.”
“For now,” he says, so quietly I almost miss it.
The implications hit me like a physical force. For now. As if there might be a future where that changes. My heart does a complicated little stutter that has nothing to do with the game unfolding before us.
“Are those real flames?” I ask as fire shoots up from the corners of the field after another New Zealand score, desperate to distract myself from the sudden rush of emotion.
