LUKE
I’m surprised when Steven shows up at my door on a Saturday afternoon. “Mr. Luke,” he says, crossing his arms, and dropping them again.
“Mr. Steven. Sorry, if you’re looking for Jeremy, he’s not here.”
“No, I was looking for you.”
I notice the way he’s twisting uncomfortably, and suddenly I wonder if he’s here to talk about certain things. I open the door wider. “Want to come in?”
He shakes his head, and maybe he gets what I thought he is here for, because he blushes. “No, it’s . . . it’s Jeremy. He asked me to come and get you. Quickly.”
I grip the edge of the door harder. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing bad or anything,” Steven hurriedly says. “He just sent me to bring you to the local park.”
“Next time start with ‘nothing’s wrong.’” I move down the hall to grab my keys.
“You have to bring a soccer ball,” Steven calls after me. “And your game.”
I pause at that, and then for the first time in a week, I’m really grinning. “Oh I’ll bring that, all right.”
* * *
I’m just going to have to face it: there’s no way I’ll ever get over Sam.
That becomes evident the moment I step foot out of my truck and see his Honda parked at the other end of the parking lot. Already, my pulse has quickened, and I’m scouring the fields next to the lot for any sign of him.
Well, crap.
Steven is mumbling something as he comes around the truck with the soccer ball in tow, but it’s background noise next to the voice in my head, telling me that seeing Sam so soon is a very bad idea and to hurry up and find him already.
I spot Jeremy first. He’s chatting to Simon, who’s unzipping his parker. There’s a girl there too with hair tied back off her face, wearing short shorts, a singlet, and socks pulled to her knees. Three guesses who that is.
I jog across to them, a breeze picking up snippets of their conversation and sending it my way.
“Put out the cones and we can get started.”
I slow to a walk. “Hey, Jeremy—”
And then I see him.
He’s a good fifty meters away, the late afternoon sun is picking out the golden streaks in his once-again brown hair, and a sudden wind molds the back of his T-shirt against him.
He’s gesturing toward the field as he chats with . . . is that Carole?
What is going on here?
I snap my gaze back to Jeremy, who’s deliberately not looking at me. I’m about to bring out my teacher tone and demand an explanation, when from the corner of my eye, I see Sam turn.
He’s seen me. I know it. His body tenses, and he’s no longer paying any attention to Carole chirping next to him.
I look back over, and this time I can’t take my gaze off him.
Neither can he take his off me.
I glance down, blinking at the T-shirt he’s wearing. I recognize it immediately. Stay Calm and Suck It Up.
I swallow the soccer-ball-sized lump in my throat. Seeing Sam again . . . Seeing him in something of mine . . . It relieves the ache inside at the same time as making it worse—like the pangs are more constant but less intense.
“Get your butts over here!” Jeremy shouts to his dad, effectively breaking our connection.
Steven rocks up beside me and throws the ball to Jeremy. “Damn I wish I could play.”
Jeremy rolls his eyes. “You are sideline ref.”
Simon sidles between Steven and me, and casually punches his shoulder. “No playing around with balls until your foot’s better.” A tight silence follows that, and I have to swallow back the urge to laugh. Simon is shaking his head. “Uh, I mean—that came out wrong.”
“I sure hope so!” Steven whispers—but it carries, and the way Jeremy snorts, I know he heard it too.
Simon just stares at Steven, who’s gone a shade of red that could almost be called burgundy. Simon reaches out, takes him by the hand and pulls him away as he says in a shaky voice, “I think we need to talk for a moment.”
Carole and Sam stand on either side of Jeremy. The kid tosses the ball up in the air and catches it. There’s a wicked glint in his eyes, and I’m going to find out what his angle is.
Except not right this second, since Suzy’s clearing her throat and giving Jeremy a look as she inclines her head toward Carole.
Jeremy hooks the ball under one arm. “Oh yeah, Mum, Dad, Luke, this is Suzy.”
Suzy reaches for a wide, warm smile and extends her hand for each of us to shake.
Carole is stiff but cordial, and I wonder if that’ll be the exact reaction Jeremy will have when he finally meets Greg. Sam has a friendlier smile and a nod for her. I tell her it’s nice to meet her again—formally this time, and make a mental note to make sure Jeremy has access to all the protection he needs.
“Let’s get this game going then,” Jeremy says, and yells to Simon over my shoulder, “Set up the perimeters when you’re done.”
“Okay,” I say, snatching the ball from Jeremy as he knees it high into the air. “Tell us what you’re up to.”
Jeremy shrugs all too innocently. “Boredom is the father of creativity.”
“The mother of creativity,” I correct.
He thinks about it, and shakes his head. “Not in this case.”
“Sounds like we ought to ground you more often,” Sam says.
Jeremy chooses not to hear it, but I grin at the thought. “We’re going to play a small game of soccer,” Jeremy says. “Three on three with twenty-minute halves.” He throws me a look. “Losing team makes dinner for the winners. I hope you brought it, Luke.”
I level my stare on him. “Oh, I brought it and then some.”
He takes a few seconds before he inclines his head. “Good. You, Carole, and Dad are one team against me, Suzy, and Simon. Age versus beauty.” He jerks a thumb toward his dad. “He can’t play for squat.” He winks at Suzy. “And neither can she.”
Suzy barks out a laugh. “Right there.”
Jeremy smirks. “Just remember not to use your hands.”
“Like Irish dancing. Got it.”
“No, not—” He shakes his head and looks at me. “So as you can see, it looks like we’ll be about even on ability. Mum’s pretty decent, but Dad . . .”
“Give me some credit,” Sam murmurs, looking like he wants to snag the soccer ball and bounce it off his son’s head. “At least I know the rules.”
“Well you’ll have Luke, so you’ll be fine.” Jeremy lets the words linger a moment before continuing, and I wonder if he’s trying to master the art of subtext. If he is, I have to give him a solid B for effort. “So, are we all clear on the rules?”
I look over to Sam and catch him staring at me. He quickly pulls his gaze back to Jeremy and shifts his weight from foot to foot, mumbling, “Yes, very clear.”
“Excellent. Steven! Simon!”
The two come jogging back to us, both flushed and grinning. A quick look at the field shows me they were at least productive as they “talked.” There are cones along every side of our soccer pitch.
Jeremy scores a coin from his mum, and tosses it. “Heads,” I call out.
He peeks at it and his face scrunches up. “Your call.”
“The ball. And Jeremy, age will always win over beauty.”
A cheeky smirk is thrown back at me. “Two minutes to discuss strategy, then we’re starting.” Jeremy snags Suzy and jerks his head for Simon to follow.
There’s so much I want to say to Sam, but Carole is there and it’s not the moment. Instead I say, “Right then, let’s show these guys us over-thirty-year-olds can give them a run for their money.”
Sam’s quick to throw back: “I’m not thirty yet. Still have a few hours left.”
* * *
Carole hangs back and protects our goal.
Jeremy—his usual cocky self on the field—is using his fancy footwork whenever anyone gets close to him.
Luckily, I have the ball. I touch it and pass it to Sam. He immediately kicks it back to me, and I swallow a laugh, and tap it to him once more. “Nice and easy does it, just dribble it up field.”
He says, with a small kick of the ball, “Every time I have it, Jeremy’s on me. That boy’s got crazy spider legs.”
“Don’t worry about him,” I say, unable to suppress a chuckle, “just keep moving that ball. You can get it past Suzy, and when you do, you can pass to me.”
He gets past Suzy, but before he can pass, Jeremy is there, grinning in much the same way as those great whites.
“Well crap,” Sam says. “I should just give you the ball, right?”
“Nope, that’ll take too long.” And Jeremy kicks the ball through Sam’s legs and chases after it.
The nerve!
I cut over the field and close in on him and mark him close. This is one shark I’m not afraid of. “You’re going to pay for that one.”
“Look who’s come to the rescue. Gonna get the ball back for him?”
“You bet I am.”
And, guessing the fake he pulls, I get the ball and pass it back to Carole with my heel. She kicks it to Sam but, unfortunately, Suzy gets to it first.
Jeremy says quietly. “Nice to see you fight for him somewhere . . .” He leaves the sentence hanging, and looks up at me for a moment before jogging back to Suzy.
“Wrong way, wrong way,” he calls suddenly as she makes a sprint with the ball to our goal.
Simon, attention drawn to the sideline, almost manages to let the ball slip past him.
“Eyes on the ball,” Jeremy yells. “The soccer ball!”
Sam and I jerk to a halt and I’m sure he can see the laughter in my eyes as much as I can in his, and then he skims me down and blushes.
I don’t know what to make of that. Was Jeremy right about what he said? Could it be Sam just hasn’t seen it yet? That maybe he . . . maybe . . .
Or is thinking like this setting myself up for another fall?
Steven blows the whistle for halftime. We take five minutes to gather at the sideline, and Carole surprises us with a cooler full of water and some snacks.
I take a long, cool drink, and while it clears my throat, it does nothing to clear my thoughts.
Sam pulls Jeremy aside and, curious at exactly what the boy thinks he’s up to, I stroll nearer, straining to listen.
“I don’t get how this is supposed to make him st—”
Jeremy cuts his dad off. “You’ll figure it out. I have to save Suzy from Mum.”
“But—”
Jeremy is already hurrying to Suzy’s side, calling over his shoulder. “Just enjoy the game, Dad. You wanted to play a sport before thirty, didn’t you?”
“What? How did you—?”
But Steven blows the whistle for the second half. Sam stalks toward the field. When he sees me, he growls. “That boy’s up to something. And after this game, you and I need to talk!”
Back on the field, Jeremy coaches Suzy through scoring a goal, cheering and lifting her up after she kicks it through the cones.
When I snag the ball from the kid, late in the second half, I take it and run, carrying the ball quickly to our goal and slipping it home. Sam jumps up, looking like he’s about to swing his arms around my neck and pull me into a hug, but he turns it into a high-five instead. “We over thirties really still have it!”
I send him a wink. “Not quite thirty yet, remember?”
He flushes. “Yeah, but soon enough.”
We take our starting positions once more. Jeremy begins with the ball. A bad pass has it back in our possession in no time. Sam sends the ball to Carole. She takes it, mutters something along the lines of “I’ll give you kids age,” and dribbles the ball down the middle of the field, fakes a pass to Sam on her flank, and scores.
It all happens so swiftly and suddenly, the goal is followed by a moment of quiet shock.
And then, “Damn, Mum. Think I know who I got my talent from.”
“Hey!” Sam says, but his scowl fast disappears into a grin. “Nice one, Carole.”
Then we’re in the last five minutes of the game. Jeremy keeps looking at his watch, and the lack of concentration makes it easy to swipe the ball from him. “Think next time I’ll be asking you to ‘bring it,’” I say to him.
That stirs him up. Next thing I know, he’s on the ground, his foot sliding forward to take possession of the ball.
Simon catches the rough pass, and dribbles, cutting back to Jeremy just before the goal.
I can see what’s going to happen. Jeremy will simply tap the ball home, and we’d be tied 2-2. I wait for it.
But it doesn’t happen.
Jeremy misses the goal. A goal he should have made—a goal even Suzy or Sam would’ve managed.
The whistle sounds, marking the end of the game.
And we’ve won.
This time Sam does throw his arms around me into a cheering hug, and I’m not going to tell him I think the game might’ve been rigged. When Carole trots over, we include her in the team hug, and I notice how quickly the warmth of his touch becomes impersonal and distanced.
“Oh gosh-darn it!” Jeremy says, swinging his arm and clicking his fingers. “We lost.” His disappointment is so fake it looks Photoshopped by an amateur. “Guess that means Simon, Suzy and I have to cook.” He turns his gaze to me. “Dinner will be ready in an hour. Stay out of your house until then.” To his dad he says, “Hang with Luke and make sure he doesn’t go anywhere too far.” He pauses a second. “Wouldn’t want your Shepherd’s Pie to get cold.”
Sam nods, and untangling himself from me and Carole, asks her, “You hanging with us too?” There’s a slight edge to his voice, and if I’m not mistaken, it sounds like he doesn’t particularly want her there.
“No, no,” she says, grinning. “I, ah, promised I’d call Greg. Yeah, Greg. I’ll just meet you at your place in an hour, that right, Jeremy?”
Jeremy looks from me to his dad. “Yeah. One hour. That should be plenty enough time to sort things out.”
* * *
“He couldn’t have been more obvious,” Sam says, hopping into the passenger side of my car. “Pushing us together like this.” He sighs. “He hates that things are weird between us. That we haven’t hung out in over a week.”
I draw my seatbelt and click it in.
I lean back and stare at the field, picturing us playing soccer, as he adds softly, “So do I.”
I take in Sam’s frown and clenched fists in his lap. There’s a quiver at the edge of his lip, like he wants to say something more.
Dammit, but I want to reach out, lift his chin, kiss his lips.
Fight. I want to fight for us.
And in the same breath, I can’t bear to hear him say no again.
“Nice T-shirt,” I murmur as I grip the steering wheel hard with my left hand and turn the key in the ignition. “How about a drive?”
“I accidently packed it in my suitcase after Stewart Island. I like it.” His head dips to the side, and in my imagination—it has to be—he smells it. “A drive sounds good. The bays?”
It’s quiet between us as I steer around the bays. Sam is rubbing his palms over his thighs. “Remember the last time we drove out here?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “You said you want me to teach Jeremy how to drive.”
Sam stops his hands on his thighs and shifts in his seat. “How can you so casually mention that, while at the same time you’re planning to move?”
“What?”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“Again. What? Where’d you hear that I’m moving?”
“Jeremy. He told me this afternoon, and said I have to help him keep you from going. Somehow playing soccer with you was meant to help. Don’t ask me how, exactly.”
I frown. The meddling boy! Why would he—
I pull the truck into a turning bay much the same as the last time, and stop the car. I laugh and shake my head. The laughter edges on something rawer, though.
You didn’t fight, so he’s trying for you.
I don’t know whether I want to hug him or kick his ass.
“It’s good to hear you laughing, Luke,” Sam says, flinging open the glove box out of habit and the need to fidget more than a search for a mint. “But I wouldn’t mind joining in . . .”
“He’s got some cunning, all right.” I swivel in the seat toward him, opening the small nook in the console where I keep the mints. I unwrap one. “I’m not moving anywhere.” I let that process a moment, and hand the mint over. He takes it, but he doesn’t seem to see it.
I continue, “He knows how I feel about you, Sam. Seems he knew even before I did. He came to visit me the other day, and I told him it wasn’t until I was away in Auckland that it suddenly . . . clicked for me.”
I wait a moment, and Sam lets out a slow, unsteady breath. “So you’re not moving?”
“No.”
“You’re not moving,” he repeats to himself. “You’re not moving.” He drops the mint on the dashboard. With trembling fingers he clicks open his belt, and gets out of the car.
“Sam?”
Out the windows, I see him move around to the back of my truck.
I call again, unbuckling my belt and leaping out of the drivers’ side. “Sam?”
I find him doubled over at the back of the truck, gripping onto the metal railing at the back. He’s shaking, and something like a sob or the need to throw up wracks his body.
“Shit, Sam, are you all right?” I bundle him up in my arms and draw him tight against me. He grips me like I’m the only thing to stop him from flying away.
“It feels like . . . falling. Can’t stop it.”
He’s not making any sense. I smooth down his hair, and hate that all I have to offer him are the usual words of comfort. “Hey, it’s going to be fine.”
“It’s just you,” he says over and over. “I knew it the moment she said it. It’s just you.”
I slide one of his legs between mine to bring him even closer, to let him know I’ve got him. All of him. His breathing slows, but his grip doesn’t give up. I twist us so his back is against the truck and the cool breeze from the sea isn’t hitting him so much.
He draws his head back just enough to look at me. “I get it.”
“What’s that, Sam?”
“I get what Jeremy’s doing.” He glances to his side, out toward the sea. “He’s trying to give me my own Auckland.” He shakes his head, and I tense, balancing on this aching, suddenly rising cliff of hope. “But—but—” He swallows, and his hands slide off my back.
I close my eyes, waiting for the rest of it. For him to say Jeremy tried, but there is no Auckland for him. There never will be.
His breath hitches, close against my chin.
“He didn’t have to, Luke.”
Fingers touch the sides of my face, and I open my eyes. What is he talking about? What did he just say—?
He leans in and presses his lips against mine. One soft kiss, his top lip lingering on my bottom one. “He really didn’t have to—”
My hand slides firmly between his shoulder blades to his neck, where I squeeze as I crush him into me. I steal those words from his mouth with a deep kiss that I don’t want to stop, and that Sam is not stopping either.
No, far from it. His tongue is twisting with mine, curling, seeking, sucking . . .
The ache in my gut morphs into something else. Fear, I recognize. I pull back to brush his lips, and I wait, wait for him to push me away, to say something and stop this. I’m giving him his last chance.
He leans back, hand curving along the arch of my back, over my shoulders to linger on my chest. He takes a deep breath, and holding my gaze, grips my shirt and tugs me toward him. “Don’t let go of me.”