All Saints: Love and Intrigue in the Stunning New Zealand Wilderness (The New Zealand Soccer Referee Series Book 1) (2 page)

I glanced down at
Mark rolling around in the gravel wearing his best suit, the belt holding up
trousers three sizes too small and his stomach billowing over the waistband
like a pillow. “Yeah,” I relented. “Probably.”

With a nod of
acknowledgement, Foxy leaned down and hauled Mark up by his arm. While the man
still tottered, he dipped his body and flipped the huge male over his shoulder,
carrying him in a flawless fireman’s lift. I watched, impressed as he strode
over to the white car, Mark’s limp hand slapping his butt with the rhythm of
his stride. My lips quirked and I dashed back into the clubhouse to snag my
handbag, following after the strange duo.

“If he
pukes in my car, you’re cleaning it!” Foxy jibed as we pulled up at traffic
lights. Mark Lambie lurched in the back seat and I struggled to prop him up
with my body weight.

“He’s
heavy,” I grumbled. “I’m happy to swap places.”

Foxy
glared at me through the rear-view mirror and I felt the intensity of his brown
eyes weighing me up. I saw the questions in his eyes and felt relieved when he
left them unasked. Being Peter Saint’s widow hung like a millstone around my
neck, bowing my head with the pressure and responsibility. My husband carried
his secrets to the grave in Devonport overlooking the sea, but I lived with
them daily.

“Why
were you at the wedding?” I asked, making conversation. I watched Foxy’s
capable hands on the steering wheel as he made the turn into Lambie’s road and
then stopped for more lights. Lambie’s face smacked against the side window.

“My
sister’s a bridesmaid,” he answered, his tone dull. “She couldn’t find a date
at such short notice.”

My brow
furrowed as I pictured the bridesmaids; four lumps of women in too-tight
dresses and stilettos. The fifth looked lean and out of place, a twig between
voluptuous blooms in the hideous wedding photos. “The skinny one?” I asked,
remembering the olive skin and attractive Samoan features and Foxy said
nothing, his eyes still on my face. “You’re a good brother,” I sighed. “Maybe
that’s what I need; a decent brother.”

“You
don’t have one?” His question surprised me and I shook my head.

“No. My
life might’ve been different if I had.”

The
lights changed and I expected the conversation to finish but Foxy pressed on
the accelerator and fished for more information. “What makes you say that?”

I shook
my head and watched the suburb swim by in a blur, happy families in happy
houses and me outside, as always. “My father wanted a son. He could’ve passed
on the Saint legacy to him and I’d be elsewhere by now, doing amazing things
with my freedom.” I sighed, picturing blue oceans and endless beaches. Probably
Spain. Maybe Italy.

“You
could do that anyway.” His voice cut through my fantasy, dispelling it in the
first drops of rain against the windscreen. A flash of anger clashed with the
overriding sense of injustice.

“Really?”
I bit, the sarcasm ugly on my tongue. “The only way to leave All Saints is in a
coffin.”

At the
sound of retching I gave a hiss of annoyance and Foxy abandoned the car by the
curb at a jaunty angle, wrenching open the rear door and jumping backwards as
Mark projectile hurled onto his own grass verge.

I patted
Mark’s back and forced his face clear of the car’s pristine interior, grinning
at Foxy. “Nice reflexes there,” I joked. “Dad needs a new striker.”

Foxy
pulled a face and shook his head. “He really wouldn’t want me.”

I gave Mark’s
back a shove and Foxy pulled as I pushed, sweating in the humidity until the
large man stood with his bum balanced against the wing of the car. My exit was
through my own side, eager to avoid the puke and I waited until Foxy traipsed
Mark right through it and up to his front gate. “You’d give Foxy a job as a
striker, wouldn’t you, Uncle Mark?” I asked with a smile, dodging the stinking
wet hand the drunk held out towards me.

He shook
his head, his eyes wide like saucers. “Bloody hell, no!” he exclaimed. “I’m
surprised they let him in for the fat chick’s wedding!”

I bit my
lip and winced, mouthing an apology to Foxy. “Don’t be rude!” I snapped. “He
gave you a lift home, you ungrateful old man. Wait until Jackie’s mother hears
you calling her precious daughter a fat chick.”

“She
is,” he growled. “And her mother.” With a lurch he made it through the front
gate and negotiated the steps onto his porch. Instead of sobering up, he seemed
to get drunker by the second.

“I don’t
get this.” I put my hands on my hips and stared as Mark slumped onto the
doormat, his back against the peeling paint of his front door. I waved my arm
at him, confusion on my face. “You weren’t like this when we left the
clubhouse. Was there something in that cigarette?”

“Where
are they?” Foxy asked, interest burgeoning in his expression.

“Front
left pocket,” I said, watching as he frisked Mark with capable hands. “No,
inside top. Watch the sick on his shirt though.”

Foxy
pulled out the packet and inspected it, poking his finger into the cardboard
folds. “Na, this is shop bought. Just tobacco.”

“So
why’s he getting worse?” I demanded. Staring at the unkempt bushes in Mark’s
garden, I cast my mind back to the scene in the clubhouse as Mark stood to go
outside, inviting me to accompany him. He chucked back a tot of whiskey in one
mouthful, but he’d done that twice before with little effect. “Maybe he just
reached his limit,” I conceded with a shrug. “Hey, lightweight.” I shoved
Mark’s leg with the toe of my sandal. “Where’s your door key?”

“In-shide,”
he slurred and I rolled my eyes.

Leaning
over his head I pushed my knee against his cheek to stop him looking up my
dress. Then I rang the doorbell and stood back. Fingers threaded their way
round my hem again and I wasn’t quick enough. “No! Get off, Uncle Mark. You’ve
got puke hands!” I dashed backwards, almost pitching off the porch. Only Foxy’s
quick reactions stopped me meeting a crispy looking rhododendron bush bum
first. His right hand gripped my wrist and his left snaked around my back. Once
I’d righted myself, a quick glare ensured he released me.

“I’m not
doing that again,” I insisted, jerking my head towards the bell. “You press
it.”

Foxy
obliged, jamming his finger over the doorbell and holding it down. The noise of
a police car two streets over obliterated the sound of ringing inside.

“Don’t
tell them!” Mark begged, tears welling in his eyes. I looked at Foxy in
confusion.

“Tell
who? Tell them what?”

“Good
girl,” Mark sniffed. “You always were a good girl.”

I pulled
a face of annoyance and turned, heading down the rickety steps to street level.
“See you, Uncle Mark.” I waved over my shoulder and strode towards Foxy’s car,
noticing the sheen of the paintwork in the confusing autumn weather. Sunshine
beat down on the specs of rain from the momentary shower a few seconds ago, not
a guilty cloud in the sky.

“Hey, we
can’t leave him there!” Foxy caught my arm and turned me so my breasts touched
his shirt front. “What if he pukes and suffocates himself?”

“Then
sit down next to him and make yourself comfy. Give me your car keys so I can go
back to the farcical wedding.”

“I’m not
giving you my keys!” A dimple showed in Foxy’s right cheek and I focussed on it
to help me ignore his full, kissable lips and the angular cheekbones calling to
the palms of my hands. I balled my fists to stop me thinking about how his
rough shave might feel on the sensitive skin of my fingers.

“Then
drive me back!” I snapped, turning and yanking on the passenger door handle.

“We
can’t just leave him!” he insisted. “It’s not right!”

“His
wife’s there,” I said. “We rang the bell, remember? It might just take her a
while to get to the door.”

“She’s
got cancer!” Foxy said, lowering his voice. “How’s she gonna carry him inside?”

I
snorted with laughter. “She won’t need to. With a voice like nails on a
blackboard, she only needs to shout at him and he’ll crawl inside.”

“What
made you so hard?” His hand looped around the back of my neck, his dark eyes
searching my face for clues. The invasion into my personal space made me tense
in fear and he saw the mist descend over my eyes. He still didn’t move fast
enough to avoid the swift kick I administered to his shin.

“Touch
me again and I’ll kill you,” I threatened and he stepped back, circling me like
a wary cat. Nodding once with slow precision he deactivated the central locking
and hauled open the passenger door.

“We
shouldn’t leave him.”

“He’ll
be fine!”

The
argument continued right up to the gates to the football club and Foxy drove
past the sign marking the start of All Saints territory. I felt the involuntary
shudder snake down my body from neck to ankles and gripped Foxy’s wrist as it
rested on the gear stick. “Please could you give me a ride home?” I swallowed
and worked on controlling the overwhelming sense of panic stomping through my
chest.

“Why?”
He brought the car to a halt and peered at me, his face filled with concern.

“I need
to go home.” I took slow breaths and fought the flapping fish in my heart as it
slapped and leapt, threatening to pitch me over the edge. “Actually, don’t
worry.” I gripped the door handle and gave a shove, confused when it wouldn’t
move.

“Hang
on, hang on.” Foxy pressed a button on the dashboard and I heard a comforting
click. “It locks itself.”

I nodded
and swung my legs out sideways, still belted in as I pushed at the door.
“Thanks.”

“Look,
stop!” Foxy grabbed my wrist and pulled, frowning as the contents of my handbag
spewed into the footwell. “I’ll take you home. Just close the door.” The
authority in his voice forced obedience and I closed the door, feeling lipstick
and a mascara under my shoe as I put my feet back on the mat. I chewed my lip
and wouldn’t look at him.

The car
swung around in the car park like shears through silk and I heaved a sigh of
relief as the All Saints sign asked us to ‘Please drive home safely.’ At the
main road, Foxy straddled the lane and fixed his perceptive brown eyes on my
flushed face.

“What’s
your address?” he asked, his hand on the indicator ready to send the lights
flashing left or right.

I
swallowed and then gave the complete stranger my home address, wondering as he
flicked the indicator right, if I’d made yet another monumentally terrible life
choice.

I poured wine with shaking hands and lifted the glass to sniff the
contents. The merlot smelled ok although it’d been open awhile; probably a
month or more. Marking school work filled my evenings nowadays and living alone
offered no sober driver if I needed to dash out in an emergency. My father’s
health declined in fits and starts and I wouldn’t want to miss the end. I
pursed my lips and forced the thoughts away. The smile fixed itself like a
wooden mask as I turned and approached the small sitting area, handing a glass
to Foxy.

“Thanks.” He lifted
it to his full lips and drew a healthy sip. He put the glass on the table and
got comfy, bending one long leg beneath him on the two seater sofa. His dark
eyes followed me as I moved to the opposite side of the room and sat on the
other one.

“Sorry Mark was
rude about your soccer skills?” I said. “I can’t imagine why he’d be so nasty.”

He raised his
eyebrows and gave me a knowing look. “You can’t?” Full lips quirked upward in a
smirk and I laughed, despite myself. The sound seemed distant as though it
belonged to someone else. I’d forgotten what it felt like to find something
genuinely funny without the jaded pinch which seemed to accompany my humour
nowadays. The stranger studied me with calm assurance. “My sister just texted.
She doesn’t need a ride home.”

“How come?” I
asked, concerned for the pretty dark-haired girl in the long, silver gown.

He shrugged and
looked unruffled. “Last time I saw her, she had her tongue pushed down the
throat of a Devonport defender. I think she’ll be fine.”

I smiled and tried
to remember the thrill of the chase, coming up against a bone jarring brick
wall. My teenage crush married someone else and his donning of a police uniform
meant he was dead to the Saints. There were few rules but all three of them
were written in family blood.
Thou shalt not marry a cop, a convict or a
referee; of either sex.

Foxy swigged his
wine as an awkward silence descended and I dragged my rebellious brain back to
the moment. “Why do they call you Foxy?” I asked, making an effort with the
conversation as curiosity budded in my chest. The man intrigued me. He looked
like any of the other soccer players in the club house; athletic, muscular and
capable of running eight kilometres in a game without breaking a sweat.

“Teina Fox,” he
replied. “It’s my name.”

“You look
familiar,” I said. “Who do you play for?”

An expression of
confusion moved across his face and he downed the last of his wine. “Why aren’t
you in the line-up this season?”

The strategic
change stumped me for a second and I swallowed and lowered my eyes. “I don’t
want to.” I clenched my jaw. Teina watched me and sized up my reply, finding it
wanting.

“That’s crap.”

My brown eyes
flashed and I felt an angry pulse begin in the side of my neck. “It’s my
choice!” I snapped.

He shrugged and
still those dark eyes bored into my face. “You were the best defender they had.
I’ve seen what’s on offer and they’ll struggle without you.”

Misplaced vanity
gave my ego a moment in which to stroke itself before I regained control. “It’s
nice of you to say that,” I conceded. “But they’ll be fine. They’re a great
bunch; they’ll work for it.”

“Na.” Teina leaned
forward and placed his glass on the table with exaggerated care. “You put those
girls into that league; you should help keep them there.”

I knew my smile
appeared ragged as I seethed inside. “You know nothing about it.”

He pinched his top
lip between thumb and finger and sat as though ready to leave. My head screamed
a warning at him to go but my heart appealed to the inner loneliness I saw in
his eyes and he gave a quizzical smile. “You’re right; it’s none of my
business. Play, don’t play. It’s up to you.”

“Thank you!” I
snapped. “What I choose to do with my weekends will be my choice from now on.”

“And what’s that?”
His tone seemed placid and so non-confrontational; a casual enquiry from a
stranger. He didn’t know me, my family or my circumstances.

“Pole dancing,” I
said, keeping a straight face. “I figure it’ll be fun.”

Teina’s eyes
crinkled at the sides and his lips spread in an attractive grin. “For who?”

“Whomever I choose
to dance for,” I replied and then bit my lip. Who was I kidding? I tutted and
closed my eyes, pinching my exposed thigh hard enough to stem the unexpected
flash of emotion.

I heard the sofa
creak and tensed, waiting for the tap of Teina’s shoes on the wooden floor as
he left. His footsteps sounded light and I jumped as the sofa cushion next to
me dipped. He slipped an arm around me and kissed the side of my head and the
fraternalism of the action stabbed at the root of my misery. “Sorry,” he
whispered. “My sister says I shouldn’t bait people but I can’t help it.
Besides,” he squeezed my shoulder, “your eyes flash when you’re mad.”

“And that’s a good
thing?” I asked, sounding sore.

“Yeah,” he replied
and kissed the side of my head again. “You know why.”

But I didn’t and
the courage I needed to ask for clarification evaded me. I smelled pleasant
aftershave and comforting maleness and in a fit of false modesty, shrugged
myself free of Teina’s arm and snatched up his glass. “I’ll get you another.”
My legs felt shaky on the way to the kitchen and nervousness made me slop wine
over the side of the glass. I put it into his hand and crossed to the other
sofa, leaving the coffee table between us like a boundary marker.

“Who do you play
for?” I repeated the question and handed him the glass, watching his discomfort
in the long blink of the enviable dark eyelashes.

“Nobody,” he said
and I narrowed my eyes and let them rove across the muscular chest and athletic
build. His gym training showed in the definition beneath the fabric of his
shirt and he’d seemed at ease around the club house and Mark Lambie. Why would
he lie?

“You’re a referee.”
The realisation came to me as his identity fitted into place. In my mind’s eye
I saw the black shirt and shorts on the lithe body and marvelled he’d been
allowed to attend the wedding. My family hated any brand of soccer authority,
especially those in possession of whistles, cards and the ability to turn the
game against All Saints. “You red carded my husband once,” I said, a smile
playing on my lips.

Foxy winced. “Yeah.
Sorry.”

“He deserved it.” I
shrugged. My mind wandered, remembering that one game when Pete didn’t go out
with the team to drown his sorrows. He came home to me that night instead,
robbing my peace with his whining about the card and making me wish he’d gone
on a bender that would last through Sunday when he rolled home stinking of
beer, other people’s scent and sex. Something happened that night; something
I’d rather forget.

Foxy sipped the
wine, silence growing between us. If I kept this up he’d leave and I’d be alone
again. The walls threatened to close in on me, squeezing so hard I couldn’t
breathe. I didn’t want that; I needed his company and I rallied, trying not to
drive him away. “What do you do when you’re not blowing your whistle?” I asked,
wincing at my social ineptitude.

Foxy’s dark eyes
settled on me, his black fringe flipping into his face as he blinked. “Law,” he
replied after a moment’s hesitation. “In town.”

I nodded, sensing
the thread of connection as he held my gaze and my stomach flipped. “From one
sort of refereeing to another,” I replied sagely, thinking of cops and hardened
criminals and he laughed. His teeth looked straight and white against his olive
skin, a small chip in the side of one of his front teeth marring the
perfection, but making him seem less perfect. He leaned forward and sat his
glass on the coffee table, stretching his arms backwards so that his hands
touched the wall behind. Defined chest muscles and washboard abdominals pressed
against his shirt and I caught the outline of a tattoo through his white
sleeve. He studied me, his eyes calm and steady as he tried to read my
thoughts. I held my breath and craved the feeling of his arms around me,
crushing me to his chest and telling me everything would be ok. I wanted arms
which weren’t my dad’s spindly, decaying muscle tone and empty platitudes. I
ached to be held and cossetted, made to feel special and needed. I wanted it. I
didn’t want what went with it.

“I should go,” he
said and something clicked in my chest. His company provided a temporary balm
for my unease. I’d lived in the apartment for six months and in that time had
two unwanted visitors. I owned little worth taking but they tossed the place
both times. The second time they’d done everyone on my floor. Druggies, the
cops reckoned. Loneliness snaked a cold hand around my heart and terrified me
with the thought of the long, empty nights ahead. My singleness spread before
me like an endless road of torment and rejection, resounding with the last
words my husband spoke to me. ‘
Geez, Ursula. The only great thing about you
is your Saint name. I don’t know why I thought we could pull this off
.’ His
body lay in the cemetery as beetles and earthworms sucked the skin from his
bones; more use in death than he ever proved to be in life. Yet still he
retained the power to hurt me. An overwhelming need to overwrite the entirety
of our marriage with something else drove me to my feet, desperate for the
attractive male to stay. I owned nothing worth giving away and as I offered the
final, most precious thing, my conscience screamed at me to stop.