Just for You by Rosalind James Page A

he was the definition of steady.
    And Hemi was too, he knew he was. He could go all the way, he was dead sure of it. When he laced up his boots, he knew exactly what he was meant to do, what he was going to do, and he went out there and did it, played his game. With flashes of inspiration and improvisation, of course, because that was what a first-five did, but all of it grounded in rock-solid fundamentals, in training and a vision of the game, a knowledge of what was happening around him that you could only have when it was in your bones, when your blood flowed for rugby, when you’d been passing and catching and kicking the ball since you were three, until it felt like an extension of your body when it came into your hands and flicked off your fingertips again, exactly where it was meant to go.
    So, yeh. He had that, he knew he did. The bush rolled past him, all the shades of green that were New Zealand, that were Northland, and he realized with a jolt that it wasthe same thing with Reka. Exactly the same thing. It was the difference between doing it for fun, and doing it for real.
    Playing rugby for fun…just about every Kiwi boy did that. But playing it at the level he did was something else. If you didn’t have what it took, not just physically but mentally, you’d find out soon enough. If you didn’t have the fire, if you didn’t have the commitment and the discipline. Body, mind, and soul.
    Whangarei had long since receded in the rear-view mirror, Auckland was ever-closer ahead, the day was fading into dusk, and he’d been in the car for half of it, and he was going to be there for longer, because he was exiting the motorway, going through the roundabout, and heading north again.

S he’d done a little crying, but after that she’d put herself into the shower, and then her nightdress, trying for briskness even as the unease grew. Had this just been another dream, based on nothing firmer than the shifting sands of Russell Harbour? Or had Hemi been telling the truth? She didn’t know, not anymore, but one thing was sure, he’d left. He was gone.
    She got tired of trying to sort it out and went to bed, even though it was only nine-thirty. Nothing to stay awake for, after all. No swimming and touching and kissing with Hemi, because who wanted to be just another notch in his bedpost? Not her, not again. And anyway, he was gone.
    She heard the rattle against her window and woke from the doze she’d finally managed to fall into. What? A storm?
    What came next wasn’t a rattle. It was a
crack
, sharp, loud, and unmistakable. She bolted upright and was out of bed in a heartbeat, and headed for the window.
    “Ow.”
She cut the wail off fast, because Sonya would be asleep downstairs. She limped to the door, turned on the light, and stared at the stone on which she’d banged her toe. And the shards of glass surrounding it.
    She skirted the winking splinters carefully, fuming. Tonight, of all night. Kids, larking about, or worse. She grabbed jandals from her closet, shoved them on her feet, then crunched her way to the window and looked out, cautious of the jagged hole in the pane, and belatedly realizing she was wearing only a short, sleeveless white nightdress. Well, bugger it. That might keep their attention while she gave them the earbashing they deserved.
    It wasn’t kids down there, though. It was Hemi, and the softest hands in New Zealand rugby had just thrown a bloody great stone through her window.
    “Sorry,” he said, and that was about the lamest thing she’d ever heard. “You all right? Don’t cut yourself. There’s glass.”
    “Yeh,” she hissed, trying to keep her voice down. “Noticed there was glass, didn’t I. Why are you here? What are you
doing?”
    “Reka?” It was Auntie Kiri, pulling her dressing gown closed, coming down the steps onto the drive between the houses, pulling up short at the sight of Hemi. “What’s happened? Everything all right?”
    “Oh, everything’s fine,”