“You want to tell me what’s shot a burr up your ass today?”

Isaac didn’t bother looking up at his brother from his position behind his desk. He continued to add data to the spreadsheet he was working on, ignoring the tempting scent of coffee spreading through his office. “I’m busy.”

“You skipped lunch,” Sam said. “And Auntie Raewyn said you snapped at Rangi-Marie earlier. That’s not like you.”

Rangi-Marie who was fifteen and begged her way into a twice a week after-school position behind the sales counter of the family-run Kauri Whare. Rangi-Marie who, instead of assisting potential customers to choose between the skilfully turned kauri bowls if they were after a souvenir or a pricier wood-carved sculpture if they were more financially inclined, preferred to message her friends as if her life depended on it. Little cousin or not, the girl didn’t have the right to abuse the privilege of being part of Bounty Bay’s most successful and entrepreneurial business.

Isaac finally looked up. “Leave the coffee on my desk and back away slowly.”

Sam raised the mug to his nose and drew in a long sniff. “Nope. Take a walk with me. You’ll feel better and I’ll hand over your next fix.”

“You’re a dick. Gimme the coffee.” But he saved his spreadsheet and rose from his office chair. His knee gave a twinge as he put weight on it. Sam was right; he needed to stretch his legs since he’d been at his damn desk all day. Head down, working so he wouldn’t have to think about Olivia’s visit earlier. Not that there was anything to think about.

Sam grinned and raised the mug again, waggling his tongue near the rim. “Move it or lose it.”

“Touch my coffee and you’re a dead man.” He walked—limped—to the doorway and commandeered the mug before Sam really did do something gross like lick it. He wouldn’t put it past him—his younger brother thought life was one giant playground. Though Sam was only two years younger than Isaac’s thirty-four, sometimes it seemed as if there was twenty years’ difference between them. Maybe because it felt as if Isaac had lived two grueling lifetimes in the past five years.

“Drink some,” Sam said. “Then you’ll be in a more acceptable mood to survey the kingdom we have created together, dear brother.” He swept a hand behind him to the half glass wall along a short corridor that separated the Kauri Whare showroom floor from the offices, staff room, and conference room behind it.

Isaac obeyed, sipping the hot dark brew, made just the way he liked it with fresh organically grown coffee beans, ground and steamed by his specially bought coffee machine. When he’d been training, you’d never have seen him a slave to the dark master, Caffeine. No coffee, no alcohol, no crap food would’ve passed his lips. Just another annoying jock measuring protein powder and miles run at the break of dawn each morning. Now that his morning run was more of a three times a week shuffling jog and he’d swapped protein powder for actual protein—steak, medium rare, leave on the fat—he didn’t give a shit about turning to the dark side.

“Let’s roll.” Isaac took the mug with him and they strolled down the corridor and onto the showroom floor.

First thing they saw? Rangi-Marie behind the sales counter with her head angled down at her bent arms. A couple of customers browsed nearby, one of them shooting glances at her as if waiting for someone to serve them.

“Ah. So that’s what she was sulking about,” Sam said. “Probably not the first time you’ve caught her today, I’m guessing?”

“Yep.”

“You taking the good cop or bad cop approach?”

They paused by a display of kauri chopping boards and salad servers.

“I don’t know how to play good cop anymore,” Isaac said.

He left his brother at the display and walked quietly around the counter. The customers moved on to another part of the showroom, but Rangi-Marie didn’t look up, her fingers flying over the phone. She must’ve caught a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye, as she startled and moved to tuck the phone into her pocket. Isaac was faster—and meaner. He snatched it out of her hand and held it up to eye level.

“Your so hot, bae,” he read out loud. “You’re should have an apostrophe, Jimmy, you moron. C U at Andy’s Sat nite. That’s the night you told your mum you were having a sleepover with your friends, isn’t it?”

Her mouth sagged.

Amateur. Like she thought Isaac’s ma didn’t know everything about everything that went on within her family—and extended family—and would report it all in a mind-numbing litany every time her sons visited.

“Just you and Elise and Debbie and Ngaire painting each other’s nails and watching Pretty Little Liars.” He glanced down at her phone as it buzzed. “Another little gem. Send pic of your hotness. That, I can do.” He tapped the screen to take a selfie, holding the phone up to catch both his face—set in his old I’m going to shove this rugby ball where the sun don’t shine glare—and his mug with the ‘Touch this and you’re dead’ slogan printed on the side.

“Iiiisaac.” Rangi-Marie stamped her foot. The sassy teen had been replaced by a tantrum-throwing toddler. “You can’t do that.”

He tapped out a brief message—I’m not just talking about my coffee, Jimmy—and hit send.

“I can. Not just because you’re my employee and I’ve already talked to you about texting while working, but because you’re my cousin and I won’t stand by and let some pimply-faced asshole convince you to lie to your parents. They deserve your honesty, and you deserve some respect from a boy who claims to like you.”

“Whatever. Can I have my phone back?”

“That depends on what Auntie Sheryl says when I hand it to her after you’ve finished work today and you’ve explained why I had it.”

Her mouth pinched cat-ass tight. “You’re a bully.”

“You’re family.” He tucked the phone into his shirt pocket. “You can take a break in thirty minutes, and I believe your mum stopped by earlier and left some banana cake in the staff room.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Suit yourself. You have customers,” he added in a quieter voice and strolled back to Sam.

“Don’t quite know what to say about that.” Sam greeted him with a smirk. “You’ve got quite a way with the girl.”

Isaac snorted as they left the showroom and the last scheduled tour bus of the day lumbered into the parking lot. With many daily trips to the tourist attraction of Cape Reinga, the farthest drivable road in the North Island of New Zealand, Isaac had set up a deal with the tour companies years ago to make Kauri Whare a stop on their itinerary. The bus continued to rumble as passengers spilled from the air-conditioned luxury.

He slid the sunglasses that usually rested on top of his head down over his eyes, but the tourists barely glanced their way. They probably figured his little brother as just another Māori fella in his sawdust-speckled jeans and T-shirt. Isaac’s face was a different story, since it had appeared on the front page of numerous papers and websites. Both before and after the accident. The difference being that now he wasn’t rushed with people scrambling to gush over him or ask for autographs.

Big loss.

They bypassed the main workshop where Sam’s crew of talented wood turners and artists worked, including their Uncle Manu Ngata who’d taught Sam everything he knew about whakairo—Māori carving—and headed for the smaller building behind it, Sam’s private workshop.

Sam flung open the door and entered with Isaac a few steps behind. As a kid, he and Sam had spent many hours hanging around Uncle Manu’s workshop, watching him make magic with his tools. Sam had taken to whakairo like he was born with a chisel in his hand; Isaac not so much. His big hands struggled to create anything better than what a high school kid in woodworking class could produce, and Uncle Manu had gruffly but kindly suggested he’d be better off kicking a rugby ball around the bare section of land next to the workshop. Years later that same land became Kauri Whare and home to Sam and Uncle Manu’s dream.

It hadn’t been Isaac’s dream, though, not by a long shot. His mind automatically shot a freeze-frame memory into his brain. A sold-out Twickenham Stadium in London. The deafening roar of the crowd and the black-dressed fans supporting the All Blacks amid a sea of white-clad hometown supporters. The taste of blood in his mouth from a split lip, his ear throbbing in time with his pounding heart. The ache in his jaw from smiling so damn hard because they’d won, beating England by a hard-fought seven points. The English had played well, but Isaac and his squad had played fiercely and focused, with Isaac setting a personal record for the season with a try. Then the weight of an arm had hooked around his neck and he heard a distorted, “We fucking won, mate,” in his ear because Jackson still had his mouth guard in.

That moment, that day, had been both the best and worst of his life.

“Want to tell me what’s going on?” Sam asked. “Now that you’re caffeinated again.”

Isaac looked down at his mug, the coffee probably cold. He set it down on Sam’s workbench—far enough away from his brother’s current project not to get his ass chewed—and leaned a hip against the bench, sliding his sunglasses back on top of his head.

“Olivia came to see me this morning,” he said.

Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Olivia Fisher?”

“We know any other Olivias?”

His brother snorted. “Since you’ve been the definition of hermit for years, you probably don’t. But I do. She works at that hair salon in town. Nice girl. I should slip you her number.”

Isaac swatted his hand in Sam’s direction when he pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket. “I don’t want some random girl’s phone number. Can we get back to Olivia turning up on my doorstep and asking me to coach a girls’ rugby team?”

“She asked you to what?”

“Shit, Sam. Are you a damn parrot? You heard me.”

Isaac itched to move, to run, to burn off the backlog of unspent negative energy that’d built volcano-like inside him since this morning. But the best he could do was stalk to the other side of the garage-sized workshop and back again. Make that limp back again. Tiny needles of pain spread out from his kneecap and crawled up his thigh. He gritted his teeth until he reached the workbench, white-knuckling the edge and taking the weight off his bad leg.

“Knee playing up?” Sam asked quietly.

“Just one of those days. It’ll come right.” Isaac forced his game face on. “I told her no.”

His brother nodded. “Right call, do you think?”

“Course it’s the right call.”

Just the thought of walking onto the turf, even just a high school playing field, made the blood pound against Isaac’s eardrums in a sickening thud. “Can you imagine what a train wreck it’d be? Me trying to wrangle twenty teenage girls when I can’t even get Rangi-Marie to quit texting on her fucking phone during work hours?”

“Since when have you been scared of a bunch of teenage girls?”

Isaac shot Sam a screw-you glare.

“Or is it you’re scared of one teenage girl’s mum?” Sam added.

“I’m not scared of her, asshole.” Isaac kept his voice as mild as if they were talking about the long-range weather forecast. He wasn’t scared of Natalie’s sharp tongue and I hate your guts glare, but he was unwilling to cause her any further hurt. And he knew being around him hurt her.

“You can’t even say her name out loud.” Sam pulled a face. “Why do you allow Nat to keep hating you, bro?”

“You know why.” There was all kinds of subject now closed in his voice, but Sam—who’d never known when to shut the hell up—just huffed out a sigh.

“The accident, yeah, I know why back then. But now? After all this time?”

Isaac clenched his back teeth together, hard enough to almost crack molars. “Leave it alone.”

His brother showed him his palms and shrugged. “I’m just saying. Maybe you should reconsider the coaching position. Could be a way to patch up that burned bridge between you and Nat, because, seriously, it’s uncomfortable as hell when you guys are together in the same room.”

Sam picked up a chisel and flipped it, catching it deftly in his hand like a show-off bartender.

“I mean,” he added, “if your friends didn’t know better we’d mistake all the silent tension between you two for the mother of all lovers’ tiffs.”

“Based on how some of your exes would like the chance to aim a flamethrower at your junk, you’d know about lovers’ tiffs. But this isn’t like that.”

Isaac’s fingers closed around the mug, squeezing the sides as mercilessly as his gut squeezed around his spine. No, he and Nat had never been lovers. There’d never been a hint that the flare of attraction he’d felt the first time they’d met was mutual. It was an attraction he’d buried so deep inside himself over the years that he almost believed his visceral reaction to her was merely the protective urges of a brother looking out for a sister.

“It’s doing the right thing by Jackson’s family even if things continue to be awkward between me and Nat,” he added.

“They might not be so awkward if you reconsider what Olivia asked,” Sam said. “Happy daughter, happier mother. Just think about it.”

Flecks of sawdust floated in the wedge of sunshine spearing in from the workshop’s windows. In typical Bounty Bay fashion, the weather had turned on a dime. Isaac sucked in a breath, the smell of timber and polishing wax not half as soothing as the olfactory memory of liniment and locker room sweat, or the earthy smell of fresh-cut grass on a practice pitch. He wanted to crawl right out of his own skin.

“Yeah. I’ll think about it,” he told Sam, and taking his stone-cold coffee with him, left the workshop.

He strode back to his office, taking the coward’s way of slipping inside the main building’s back door instead of heading through the showroom. Shifting his mouse so his screen popped back to life, Isaac studied the endless rows of numbers. They blurred together.

Fuck it.

Now that the thought of rugby was back in his brain he couldn’t dig it out again. He opened a new tab on his computer, did a quick online search, and picked up his phone.

“This is Isaac Ngata,” he said when the receptionist answered his call. “Can you put me through to Mrs. Crawford’s office?”

* * *

Natalie sat on the opposite side of Margaret Crawford’s desk, sucked back in time to a teenager being called into the principal’s office for being disruptive in class. Technically Nat had been called into the principal’s office, but this time she wouldn’t be getting a lecture and detention. Probably. Margaret wouldn’t tell her over the phone what this impromptu meeting was about, only that she had a private matter to discuss.

Bounty Bay High School’s principal wasn’t looking her usual unruffled self. She fiddled with papers on her desk, took her glasses off, folded the arms in, then two beats later unfolded them and set them back on her face. She cleared her throat, linking her hands on her desk.

“Thank you for coming in at such short notice.” Margaret looked at Nat over the rim of her glasses. “As I reassured you over the phone, this meeting isn’t directly about Olivia.”

“Okay.”

Nat racked her brains for principal’s office meetings that didn’t directly involve her daughter. She’d already joined the school fund-raising committee, plus volunteered as a last-minute chaperone at the junior dance earlier in the year. As had Isaac—a huge favor for his friend Owen—to the whispers and pointed fingers from some of the other parents at the event.

“I’ll get right to the point, Mrs. Fisher. The school board is considering an offer from a coach volunteering to take over the girls’ rugby team until Ms. Pierce returns at the beginning of the fourth term or until a more suitable replacement can be found.”

“That’s wonderful!” Nat released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Olivia will be very happy to hear that.”

“I’m not so sure she will,” Margaret said. “Though the candidate checks many of the boxes required, the board is split whether or not to accept the offer. I suggested initiating a discussion with you and then reporting back to the board with your recommendations.”

Her recommendations? Just because Jackson knew the sport inside out and back to front didn’t mean his wife had any clue as to what made a good coach.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not sure I follow. Why does the board want my opinion on a new coach?”

Margaret’s cheeks sucked in and she shot a sideways glance to her office windows which overlooked the school’s playing fields. There was a PE class out on it, the kids running laps around the perimeter while a teacher blew a whistle in the center.

The older woman’s shoulders straightened and her gaze flicked back to Nat. “Because the candidate in question is Isaac Ngata.”

The only sound to escape Nat’s rapidly closing windpipe was a breathy, “Oh.”

The sudden lack of oxygen in her lungs prevented her from adding a number of four-letter words that weren’t suitable to utter in front of a school principal.

She swallowed hard. “Considering his experience, I understand why the board asked him about the coaching position.”

“The board didn’t ask him, Natalie. Isaac contacted me to inquire about the opening,” Margaret said.

Wait—what? Isaac had asked the school about coaching, not the other way around?

“He sounded quite enthusiastic about the prospect of getting back on the field,” the older woman added.

Now Nat knew Margaret was delusional. Isaac wasn’t enthusiastic about anything. At least, nothing that she’d witnessed in the past five years. The man had retreated into his shell like a cranky turtle. But coaching the girls’ rugby team, the one that Olivia wanted to join? Part of her wanted to shout “Oh, hell no,” and demand the school continue to search for a different replacement. Another part of her, a much smaller part, said she was overreacting and no matter what her personal feelings were toward Isaac, he would be a good coach. Think of the greater good, she told herself. The girls, including her daughter, who loved the sport, wouldn’t get to play otherwise.

“I don’t see what the problem is, then,” Nat said. “You won’t find someone in town with more experience, and if he’s willing to volunteer his time—”

“The problem is his reputation.” Margaret’s mouth pinched shut and her gaze rested somewhere past Nat’s shoulder.

A large icy pebble dropped into Nat’s stomach and froze the rest of her gut. She knew without Margaret saying anything else what the school board’s concerns were.

“He was one of New Zealand’s top athletes, totally dedicated to the sport both on and off the field,” Nat said. “That’s his reputation.”

“Mrs. Fisher—Natalie—I hate to bring this up, but as a parent of an impressionable teenage girl, you must be aware of what I’m talking about. The incident in London and the scandal surrounding the unfortunate involvement of that female fan…” Margaret sighed, tendrils of rosy-pink spreading over her cheekbones. “As I said, I’m sorry to dredge this up, but the board questions if a man with Mr. Ngata’s, er, history, should be given such a position of responsibility.”

Unfortunate involvement of that female fan. The words jumbled around Nat’s head, bouncing off memories and images of the aftermath of Jackson’s accident. The two policemen on her doorstep with sympathetic eyes and grim mouths. The incessantly ringing phone. The reporters camped on the sidewalk. The screaming newspaper headlines. The magazine articles and online tributes.

And Lucy Gilbert, her beautiful dark eyes haunted as a photographer captured her braced on crutches still as she made her way through Auckland International Airport two weeks after the accident. The twenty-four-year-old woman who’d suffered a broken leg and fractured wrist, but lived because Jackson heroically pushed her out of the car’s murderous path as it jumped the curb and plowed into them. The woman that Isaac had hit on that night, even though he had a serious girlfriend back home, even though the woman was engaged.

Natalie crossed her legs and leaned forward, ensuring that she had Margaret’s complete attention. No matter her personal issues with the man, his integrity being called into question turned the icy pit in her stomach to bubbling lava.

“The only relevance of Mr. Ngata’s history is his knowledge of rugby and his skill on the field. You would’ve had him police vetted and he’ll have a perfect record. I’ve known Isaac for over thirteen years, and the school would be lucky to have him, even on a temporary basis.”

“I’ll pass your recommendation on to the board,” said Margaret. “Would you be willing, if Mr. Ngata is offered the position, to act as an informal liaison between him, the school, and the parents of the girls’ team?”

Nat’s jaw sagged. Whoa. That had escalated quickly and unexpectedly. “You want me to what?”

Margaret’s eyebrow arched above the lens of her glasses. “You’re obviously still on amicable terms with him, and Olivia seems very keen to play. It seems logical for you as her mother to see things run smoothly as Mr. Ngata transitions from player to coach. He may have a lot of experience with rugby, but I doubt he’s had much experience with excitable teenage girls. If you were there for practices to start with it would imbue the board and the parents with a lot more confidence.”

Every freaking after-school practice? With Isaac?

“I’ve seen him around town,” Margaret added. “He comes across as a little…intimidating. I’m not sure how the girls will respond to that, but if they see that you’re not intimidated by him—well, maybe you’ll bring out his softer side.”

Hah! Nat had never managed to bring out anything from Isaac other than the surface layer of his life. The man had always been a closed book around her, even though she’d once considered him a friend. And as for a ‘softer side,’ she wasn’t convinced he even had one.

“I’ll take it into consideration,” Nat said. “Once we know which way the board will vote.”

“We’re having an emergency meeting at lunch. I think your commitment to help would sway them to agree. Do we have it?”

Dammit, the woman was a pit bull. Two afternoons a week and Saturday morning practices. A couple of months max. And Olivia really wanted the opportunity to play. Nat had never hesitated to sacrifice for her daughter before, and besides, with running interference for twenty-plus girls she’d hardly notice Isaac was there.

“Yes.” Nat picked up her purse and stood. “If the board decides on Isaac, I’m willing to do what’s required.”

Margaret beamed at her. “Wonderful. I’ll let you know their decision after lunch.”

Nat gave an internal eye roll but shook the principal’s hand before leaving her office. She needed some fresh air because, man, it felt as if she’d just been in the bowels of hell sealing a deal with the devil.