Chapter Twenty
Anyone who couldn’t pass the basic RFL—required fitness level—test was considered nonoperational. And part of that test was running two and a half kilometers under ten minutes.
Ross had done the calculations in his head a thousand times. He did them again now in the shower before the time trial, running the water as hot as he could stand to warm the scarred muscle.
Two and a half kilometers broke down to covering two hundred and fifty meters per minute. Or two hundred and sixty-four yards—he knew the sums in metric and imperial. Hell, he knew them in Swahili. Once he would have finished with minutes to spare; now he’d need every precious second.
He massaged out the knots in his thigh on autopilot, as used to the ritual as he was to shaving or cleaning his teeth.
The test would have to be done again officially, with the option of a do-over two weeks later if he failed. But Ross knew what his physical therapist and specialist didn’t. He’d reached the limit of what his body could achieve.
This was as good as his mangled limb was going to get in terms of performance and he’d only got this far through sacrificing pretty much everything else—social life, family life, coaching Tilly’s soccer team. His body couldn’t sustain this level of intensity. Or the resulting pain.
The irony of course was that once he was on patrol he’d be sitting in a Dumvee ninety percent of the time. But it was his speed under fire, the explosive ten percent that mattered.
Turning off the shower, he dressed quickly in running shorts and a T-shirt. His leg hurt, but then it always did. Yesterday’s so-called rest day looking after the kids had proved a major workout. He’d been caught up in the sisters’ drama, and then unceremoniously dumped.
Viv’s common sense in pulling back before they got too deep should have come as a relief. It hadn’t and that bothered the hell out of him. He hadn’t slept well. Not that he was sleeping well anyway since his argument with Dan. He needed to do this trial today. He needed to know.
Filling a water bottle, he headed out to the truck. Ross had deliberately waited for low tide so that he could drive along the beach—permissible at Muriwai—to a favorite secluded haunt.
The weather had settled overnight but the surf had grown through a subantarctic storm some thousand miles south and spray misted the shoreline, salting the air.
Waves rolled in like juggernauts, peaking to a perfect arcing wall of green water. Each hung on the cusp of falling before toppling in thundering white water, strewing clumps of brown seaweed the length of the beach.
He parked the SUV at the edge of the dunes and walked first, easing the tension out of his muscles and concentrating his will. Two and a half kilometers along the beach lay his finish line—weather-silvered driftwood.
When Ross first bought his plot at Muriwai he’d talked his friends into helping him clear it—no easy task, it bristled with gorse and wild blackberries. They’d attacked the scrub with machetes and axes on a scorching summer day, not a whisper of breeze to bring relief and the cicadas creating a deafening cacophony around them.
After dark the five of them—Lee, Nate, Steve, Ross and Dan—made camp on this section of beach, using the driftwood to shield a fire, drinking beer, stargazing and planning their blazing trail to glory.
Ross only needed to close his eyes to conjure their faces, burnished by firelight—Steve, the Jansen’s cousin. Assured, laconic, already married to Claire, their anchor and leader. Lee, the youngest, a cocky extrovert, impulsive in matters of the heart. Both dead now.
He didn’t dwell on Dan’s face because he was too close to hating him right now and Ross didn’t want to cross that line. And it hurt too much to picture Nate. The affection was there but the respect was gone.
Someone had to be the last man standing, but Dan didn’t understand that, and it grieved Ross. It upset him that Dan and Nate had moved on from the SAS. It seemed a betrayal of Lee’s and Steve’s memory. Remaining staunch was a matter of honor. Of respect. Of duty. Of will.
Who am I if I’m not a soldier?
Muscles loosened, he took a slug from his water bottle, chucked it into the SUV and locked the vehicle, putting the keys in his pocket. His starting point was a tussock of toi toi—white feathery pampas grass. Lining up beside it, Ross set the alarm on his Heuer for ten minutes. He’d decided he wouldn’t look at it, simply run as fast as he could toward the driftwood and try to beat the alarm.
His heart was already racing. Fine, he could use the adrenaline. He took a few deep breaths, readied himself then punched the start button on his watch and kicked into a run. His injured leg didn’t have the same stride as his good one so he’d evolved a rolling gait, light on the left, heavy on the right. It wasn’t pretty but it worked.
The pace started to bite and he sucked in more air, imagined the oxygen like good oil flowing through every limb and muscle. His leg started to protest; he ignored it.
He glanced behind to check the position of his SUV, annoyed that he hadn’t marked halfway. Ahead he could pick out the driftwood, the silver stump gleaming through the sea mist.
Fixing his gaze on it, he dug deep. His heels crunched into the hard-packed sand.
The X factor that made an SAS trooper a one-percenter wasn’t strength, skill or toughness. In selection all of that was deliberately stripped away. So that when your muscles were screaming to the point you could hardly put one foot in front of the other and you were so sleep-deprived you’d lost any sense of when this torture would end, the only thing that would get you over the line—and into the elite corps—was how bad you wanted it.
He didn’t just want this. He needed it.
The fire in his leg radiated up and down the left side of his body, pulsing so white-hot that spots appeared before his eyes. The driftwood was maybe half a kilometer away. Gritting his teeth he started pumping his arms like pistons.
Unable to help himself he glanced at his watch…three minutes left He could do this. Five hundred meters, four hundred. His breath hissed, his lungs burned. But he was going to make it. He was—
His knee gave way so fast he didn’t have time to throw out a hand. Instinctively he rolled, but his left temple and cheek hit first and he landed jarringly on his side. Dazed, he touched his face. Blood. His leg was a continuous scream of agony.
His leg. Hauling himself to a sitting position Ross stretched it out gingerly, then hunched forward and rode out the nausea. His eye watered trying to get rid of the sand.
The alarm on his watch emitted a shrill beeping. He tore it off and threw it against the weather-hardened driftwood. But the damn thing was impactproof, waterproof…idiotproof.
Everything burned, his eye, his leg, his heart, the graze on his cheek. He hobbled down to the ice-cold surf and ducked his head under to rinse the grit out of his eye and wash away the blood.
When his limbs were numb with cold he stumbled out and lay on the shoreline and let the hiss of water roll over him. He could drown. For a split second Ross considered it. Rough swells, strong rips, swimming alone. His family would never guess it wasn’t an accident.
But Dan would.
Teeth chattering with cold, he shoved to his feet, one hand instinctively going to support his injury.
And if Dan knew, then Viv would know.
The SUV was two and a half kilometers south. A couple of hundred meters into it, he found a piece of driftwood and used it as a cane.
* * *
Viv stood on the sidelines, Harry at her feet sucking his way through the halftime orange segments, watching her soccer team getting thrashed on the school field in front of her.
The Under Nines soccer league played on a quarter of a soccer pitch, in mixed teams. Viv’s team, the Selwyn Primary School Small-Stars had only been on the field for ten of the eighteen-minute first-half and were already two-nil down.
Beside their coach were her substitutes, Emma, Cameron and Tilly, who was anxiously scanning the car park behind them. “Where’s Uncle Ross?” she demanded for the twelfth time. “We need him.”
“He must have been held up. I’m sure he’ll be here soon, hon.” Privately Viv was starting to worry that Ross had been in a car accident. He hadn’t phoned to say he was delayed, which was unlike him, and his cell kept clicking to call answer. On the other hand, he’d let her down before.
The ball bounced out of play and, stemming her growing disquiet, she waved to get the referee’s attention. “Substitute, please, Ref. Emma?” She turned to her forward. “Go swap with Neil and tell your teammates to calm down and stay in their positions.”
At the junior level, players tended to forget their practice drills and all chase after the ball like a pack of overexcited puppies. Viv winced as the opposition’s star player kicked his third goal into the net and punched the air in victory. Blondie, Viv called him, for his flying yellow hair and Hollywood showmanship. Or should that be showman-up-manship.
“Awww, that sucks.” Tilly stamped her foot and the studs on her soccer boot stabbed indents in the turf.
Neil, the kid who’d been subbed, came off the field panting. “He’s such a bighead!”
“Sportsmanship,” Viv reminded everybody, and clapped politely.
“Uncle Ross is here!” Tilly ran to meet him. “Uncle Ross…we’re losing. You’ve gotta fix it.”
“What’s the score?” he asked as he stopped next to Viv. No explanation, no apology. Now that she knew he was safe, Viv embraced the luxury of annoyance.
“Why didn’t you phone?”
“Something came up, Meredith.”
“The score’s three-nil.” Cameron, whose red hair seemed permanently charged with static, pointed to Blondie. “That guy’s nine, he shouldn’t even be playing but Mrs. Coltrane said he could, ’cause they had no one else.”
“I might have been conned,” Viv admitted, putting her irritation aside. “Blondie’s ball-handling skills leave everyone else’s for dead. Our only advantage is that he’s not a team player. When he gets the ball, he ignores his teammates and makes his own run for glory.”
“Who hasn’t gone on yet?”
“Cameron and Tilly in the second half.” Only seven players were needed but the Small-Stars rotated three substitutes. “What happened?” she added, concerned as he turned his head to follow the play. “You have a graze on your cheekbone.”
“It’s nothing.” Ross continued to follow the action. “We need all our best strikers on the field. Cam, that’s you next to Emma. Neil, I’m putting you on midfield in the second half, swap with Sasha.”
“And me,” said Tilly. “I’m a striker.”
“Offside, Ref,” Ross yelled as Blondie slammed another one into the net.
The thickset official hesitated, then blew his whistle and disallowed the goal. “I suspected as much on the first goal,” Viv exclaimed. “But I wasn’t confident enough to call it.”
“Awww, Dad!” Blondie complained. Now Viv knew why the man had a problem seeing infringements from his star player. Each team’s coach refereed a half, which was supposed to ensure fairness.
Viv might know the basic rules but she didn’t have the nuances needed for officiating. Another reason she was glad to see Ross. She frowned as he bent to ruffle Harry’s meager hair in hello. He left his bad leg straight. “Are you up to running around the field? Ross, are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” He limped down the sidelines away from her and yelled an instruction to Cory. The kid managed a raggedy pass to Emma who hovered in the goal-mouth and couldn’t miss it—though she did her best to. Four-one. The Small-Stars and their supporters broke into wild cheers.
“I knew he’d fix it,” Tilly said fervently.
Staring after Ross with a worried frown, Viv didn’t reply. He could hardly bend his knee. The whistle blew for halftime and the kids piled off the field, thirsty and disconsolate. Between making sure everyone had a water bottle and bringing out a packet of gummy snakes to replace the orange segments, she lost the opportunity to question Ross.
He gave a pep talk, calming the kids down, then talking them up until they were smiling. He was so good at this—motivating. She’d already heard how great training had been yesterday from the kids, and they’d all been disappointed when he hadn’t appeared for the pregame warmup. Viv had done her best but she wasn’t a teacher. It was clear Ross was. And he’d known exactly what to say to stop her from running home to New York.
Viv realized she hadn’t told him the outcome of her visit with Merry yet. That he hadn’t asked. She gave herself a shake. This apprehension had nothing to do with Ross, it was all about her. Merry’s rousing call to action still rang in her ears and she hadn’t yet decided what to do about it.
“Isn’t Tilly going on?” she asked as the kids ran onto the field, leaving her niece on the sidelines.
“We’ll try and get some goals on the scoreboard first.” Ross hooked the whistle around his neck, gave her the stopwatch to time-keep. “She’s cool with it.”
Tilly was retying the laces on her boot and Viv couldn’t see her face.
“Okay.” She hesitated. “Just to tell you,” she said in a voice too low for the kids to hear, “I sorted things out with Merry and she’ll tell Charlie. And she and I…Ross…we’re okay again.”
“That’s great,” he said. “Start the stopwatch when I signal you from the pitch.” Their eyes met and Viv’s blood froze at his indifference. Good or bad they always had a connection. Now it was like looking into a black hole.
“I should get onto the field,” he added. “The other coach is tapping his watch.”
“Sure.” Viv folded her arms, so shocked she barely registered what was happening on the field until Tilly tugged on her sleeve.
“Shouldn’t I be going on now?”
Dazed, Viv checked on Harry, now absorbed in unraveling one of the bandages from the first aid kit, then her stopwatch. Six minutes in. “What’s the score?”
“Five-three to them…that guy’s gonna be too good. They need me.”
Even in her confusion, Viv smiled at her niece’s un-shakeable confidence. Truth was, Tilly was a lousy player and probably only in this grade because Merry was the only parent willing to coach.
“Ross has probably lost track of time.” Viv waited for a gap in play. “Sub, Ref?”
He looked over and held up three fingers. “Three minutes,” Viv told her niece.
At two minutes, the Small-Stars scored. Tilly was hopping from one foot to the other, more and more anxious. Viv called out again. “Sub, Ref.”
Ross lifted his hands in a time-out and limped over. “Do you want us to win, Til?”
“Yeah.”
“We stand a chance if we keep the best players on. How do you feel about staying off today?”
Viv’s stomach plummeted. “What are you doing?”
“But I’m one of the best,” Tilly said in confusion. The two subs behind her sniggered and she faltered. She looked at her uncle with her heart in her eyes. “Aren’t I?”
Viv waited for Ross to reassure her. “No, honey, you’re not,” he said. “I know it’s hard to hear but you still need to grow into your game. Right now, you’re the team’s weak link.”
Unable to believe her ears, Viv stared at him. “What are you doing?” she repeated.
Tilly stuck out that stubborn chin of hers. “I’m playing.”
Ross stared their niece down. “You can do what’s best for the team and stay off the pitch or you can be selfish and insist on playing. It’s up to you.”
“Stop this,” Viv said sharply. “You know everyone plays. You can’t leave Tilly off, she’s been looking forward to this all week.”
His face was pale, stony. “Make your choice, Tilly.”
Tilly’s mouth started to tremble. She bowed her head. “I’ll stay off,” she said in a small voice.
“You are not,” Viv said. “Ross—”
“Good girl.” He limped back onto the field.
Openmouthed, Viv stared after him, then down at Tilly who stood like a soldier in front of a firing squad, arms by her side, expression rigid, and two large tears rolling down her cheeks.
“No,” Viv said fiercely. “No, damn it. This is not right. Watch your brother.”
She strode out onto the field as Ross blew the starting whistle. Waving her arms, she yelled, “Time out, time out!”
“What the hell is this, Grand Central?” The other coach jogged onto the field, and Viv turned on him.
“If you hadn’t cheated by bringing in a nine-year-old, we wouldn’t be in this position, so wait!” He retreated to the sidelines. “Take five,” she yelled to both teams. “There are enough gummy snakes for everybody.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ross demanded.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Grabbing his arm, she swung him around so they had their backs to the intrigued spectators. “You’re the one who told me that this was all about fun, and everyone gets a turn and building the kids’ confidence and—”
“In a fair contest I’d agree with you,” he interrupted impatiently, “but it’s not a fair contest. Not with David Beckham playing.”
“What matters isn’t winning or losing, it’s about how you play the game.”
“Life doesn’t play like the manual, Viv, and the sooner Tilly learns that, the better off she’ll be.”
“Whatever kind of downer you’re on today,” she replied angrily, “doesn’t give you the right to traumatize children. Give me that whistle, I’m firing your ass. You’ve humiliated and destroyed our niece—”
“Quit being so bloody melodramatic,” he snapped.
She shoved him around to face the sidelines. “Look at her! Look at her, Ross.”
Viv didn’t glance at Tilly—she couldn’t—she watched Ross. Saw his jaw set as he struggled to remain unmoved.
“What happened to you today?” she asked, bewildered. “Tell me.”
He turned away from the spectators, rubbed his forehead with a shaky hand. “I did a time trial this morning…a run. Not only did I fail, but I’ve knocked back my return to the unit—by a month at least, the doctor said. My CO will be fucking thrilled. He told me not to train. Whatever hope I had of deployment’s permanently shot. I’m screwed, Viv.”
Her heart broke for him, but he’d never forgive her for pitying him and they had a devastated little girl on the sidelines.
Ross took off the whistle. “Tell Til I’m sorry. Take over. I thought I could put a lid on this, but I can’t. I can’t.”
“Don’t walk away,” she said. “Only you can fix this with Tilly.”
“I can’t even fix myself,” he said harshly.
Viv took a deep breath. “You know your pity party is getting really old.”
“What?”
“Life’s chosen another path for you, so suck it up and quit blaming my brother and the unit for not letting you play out your revenge fantasies,” she said brutally. “Steve’s and Lee’s deaths were tragic, but using anger to fill the void left by their passing won’t solve anything. Deal with your grief, Ross.”
His gaze met hers. “Who am I if I’m not a soldier?”
She had to dig her hands in the pockets of her sweatpants not to touch him. “You’re still a soldier,” she said crisply. “It’s only your mission that’s changed. Quit serving The Iceman’s ego and serve where you’re needed. And right now, that’s here.”
He wavered.
“Tilly needs you, Ross,” she added quietly. “Follow your own advice and do what’s best for the team.”
He dug his fingers into his scalp. “Okay.”
They found the teams mingling, gummy worms doing more to reconcile them than any lecture on sportsmanship. Harry was right in the thick of it, being oohed and ahhed over by some of the girls, a rainbow smear around his clownlike mouth. Tilly stood apart.
“Can we start now?” the other coach called sarcastically as they approached, shooing his team onto the field. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Five more minutes,” Ross said, and gestured the Small-Stars into a huddle. Tilly stayed where she was. “Guys, I had some bad news this morning,” he said, “and I took it out on Tilly and I want to apologize to her in front of you all. She’s got guts and heart and even though she’s willing to step aside, I’m not letting her. In this team everyone has a place and we encourage each other first and worry about winning second. Are you all with me?”
The children broke into a chorus of enthusiastic yeahs. “Everyone on the pitch…Neil, you come off for Tilly.”
Their niece shook her head. “I don’t want to play if I’m not any good,” she said.
“You are good,” said Ross. “Terrific for a seven-year-old. I’m so sorry, honey, please go on.”
“No. I don’t want to be the weak link.” She looked down at her boots. “I don’t want to be a loser,” she whispered.
Ross wasn’t going to be able to repair this. Viv swallowed hard.
Stretching out his left leg, Ross sat down on the damp grass to bring himself closer to their niece’s level. “You have a skill no one else has,” he said. “But you won’t like it.”
Tilly shot him a sidelong glance. “What?” she asked sullenly.
“It’s not a glory job but I need a defender,” he said. “Defense takes a special person. Someone stubborn and persistent, who can work against great odds.” Viv recognized a phrase from Ross’s SAS DVD.
Tilly said nothing—too scared now of being hurt again—but Viv could tell she was intrigued.
“See that Blondie kid?” Ross pointed. “He’s scoring all the goals because no one’s marking him. I need someone who’ll make it hard for him to get to the ball.”
Tilly eyed the much taller bigger boy. “And you think I can do it?” she said doubtfully.
“You’re Attila,” said Ross as though that explained everything. And actually it did.
Tilly looked thoughtful. “You stick to him like glue,” Ross continued. “Forget about trying to get the ball. Don’t even watch the ball. You watch him and you stay with him. When he gets mad, pretend you don’t hear. Will you do that for me?”
The little girl’s chin lifted and she rubbed her eyes. “Yes,” she said. Ross gave her the ball and she ran onto the field to join the others.
Genius, the man was a genius, and Viv finally acknowledged that she loved him. Completely, irrevocably and for always. Loved him. God help her.
Ross held out his hand and she helped him up, resisting the urge to throw herself into his arms and beg him to love her back.