Just My Luck (43 page)

At first, when Mako had broken the news, Nate hadn’t believed it. He’d been pretty gutted anyway, he’d had to admit, the entire time he’d been gone. Well, to be honest, before then too. Ever since Ally had left. Ever since she’d run away from him.

He’d thought about chasing her, that night. Had actually pulled over, got out of the car. Then stopped himself. What was he going to do when he caught her? Carry her back, fighting all the way, force her into the car? Kidnap her? She’d broken up with him. It was killing him to think about her running all the way home, barefoot and cold, this late at night. But it was his own bloody fault. He’d stuffed up with her about as badly as it was possible to do. Again.

And then there’d been all the time since. Each long evening stretching ahead of him, nothing but work to fill it. That’s what he’d thought he wanted, so why did it feel so . . . empty?

He’d never been lonely before this year, but it was different now. Now he kept finding himself wishing he could text Ally, could see the cheerful, saucy replies that always made him smile, gave him a little lift. That he had her funny, sweet emails to read at night, before he went to sleep. That he could phone her, no matter how inconvenient the time differences were, hear her voice, just have a chat. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to count on that simple contact, but he had. He definitely had, and it had made him begin to wonder if he’d made a mistake after all. Especially when he remembered her face. How devastated she’d been. How she’d cried. How she’d run. Every time he thought about it—and he thought about it much too often—he ached.

He’d tried to set it aside as something to think about later, once the two tough matches were behind him. Had gone through the motions of the various outings and PR moments, called on his considerable willpower to focus on the training sessions, the game plan. But when Mako had showed him those photos on Thursday night in the hotel, forced at last to do it when nothing less would convince him . . . there was no amount of discipline in the world that could’ve helped him, those next few hours.

“Sorry, mate,” Mako had apologized. “I wouldn’t have told you at all, not till after the match, but I was afraid somebody else would mention it, specially some journo, and you wouldn’t be prepared. And the other boys . . . some of them will’ve heard. Well, to be honest, probably all of them. Thought it was better to let you know now, give you some time to process.”

Nate had texted Ally that night, seen her text in return the next morning. Had tried to phone all the same, and got her voicemail. Had left a message that she hadn’t answered. Mako had told him she wasn’t doing too badly, and that had helped a little, but not much. Going out for the Captain’s Run on Friday, preparing for the game the next day had been the greatest test of his self-discipline he’d ever faced.

He’d done it, in the end. Had compartmentalized with everything he had, channeled all his anger into his performance, tackled with a ferocity to match the Pumas’ own, and somehow, probably through his teammates’ efforts rather than his own, come out with the win. And afterwards, had been so shattered that he’d barely managed the postgame interviews, the journey back to the hotel.

It hadn’t been until he was on the plane again that it had all really hit him. When there was no game to prepare for, no distraction from the anger and the pain. And the concern for Ally, so strong now that he could barely hold still, let alone sleep off the post-match aches and fatigue as most of his teammates were doing.

He’d slept, finally, hadn’t been able to deny his body the rest it needed. But his dreams had been chaotic and troubled, and he’d woken still heavy-eyed and unrefreshed, had gone through VIP Customs in Auckland like a zombie, operating on remote, his responses automatic. Had sat in the Koru Lounge in the Auckland Airport drinking one coffee after another, trying to wake himself up. By the time the attendant had told the four of them that the rest of the aircraft to Wellington was loaded and they could board, he’d been some kind of bizarre mixture of fatigue and jitters. And now he was home.

He still hadn’t showered, hadn’t changed out of the clothes he’d been wearing now for—what?—nearly twenty-four hours. His body was heavy, aching with fatigue from the restless flights, the residue of the match. But he couldn’t waste any more time. He needed to find Ally. So he trotted down the steps, back into the garage. Climbed into his car, and headed to her flat.

 He stood for minutes in front of the building, ringing the bell. At first he’d thought she was ignoring it. But after the tenth or twelfth time, he had to concede that she must not be home.

At work, he realized, could have smacked his forehead at the dullness of his thought processes. Of course. It was the middle of the afternoon, and she was at work.

Back in the car, down to the CBD. The frustrating circling to find a spot in a carpark, then jogging to the waterfront, along to the familiar door. Ally’s photo wasn’t on the notice board anymore, he realized. Why was that? Mac taking it down because of all the publicity? He was just as glad. He hated to think of blokes coming in here to have a squiz at her, after seeing . . . that.

He stepped inside, looked around. Couldn’t see her, but maybe she was in the back. He noticed Mac at the front desk, saw the smile of recognition, and went to meet him.

“Good to see you, mate,” Mac said. “Didn’t realize you were back. Congrats on the win. Pretty convincing. Good to see the squad fizzing again. You had a good game, too.”

Nate brushed the greeting aside. “Ally here?” he asked, not caring if he sounded abrupt. And saw the shift in the other man’s eyes, the way he looked down at the papers on the desk, lifted a binder and put it down again.

“Nah,” Mac said. “Not working here anymore, mate.”

“Since when?” Nate demanded.

“Been a few days now.”

“Where did she go, then?” Nate pressed. “Another job? What?”

Mac shrugged. “Can’t help you, I’m afraid.” And, Nate saw, he really couldn’t. He turned in frustration, headed for the door again.

“Nate.” He heard the low voice, turned to see Robbo, sorting out harnesses.

“Looking for Ally?” Robbo asked, not looking up, his hands still busy.

“Yeh. Know where she is?”

The young Australian shook his head. “Got the sack,” he said economically. “Himself,” he said with a jerk of his head toward the counter, “thought she was hurting the gym’s image. And since he knew you’d broken up with her . . .” He shrugged. “Said she was a liability.”

Nate felt sick. Everything seemed to catch up to him. His part in all this, his responsibility for it weighed him down like a 115-kilo prop lying on top of him in the breakdown. And he couldn’t shove it off again.

“Cheers,” he said blankly to Robbo. Headed for his car again.

Kristen, he thought. Kristen would know where she was. Bound to. Ally might have taken refuge with Hannah and Drew, he thought suddenly. That would have been like them, to offer her a place. Yeh, that could be it. He just had to find Kristen and ask her. And then go after Ally.

“What d’you mean, you don’t know?” he asked in frustration half an hour later.

He’d leaned on Mako’s doorbell till he had finally answered, wearing nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms and appearing as menacing as only an enraged Maori could, short on sleep and interrupted in the middle of making up for lost time with his fiancée. If Mako hadn’t been his best mate, Nate would actually have been a bit scared. As it was, Mako had finally taken pity on him, allowed him in as far as the lounge, then disappeared to get Kristen, who was sitting on the couch now beside Mako in her dressing gown, hair disheveled and looking a bit worried herself.

“I mean I don’t know,” she repeated. “I’m sorry, Nate. She got fired from her job, and she was in pretty bad shape. I tried to get her to stay here, in the flat I mean, in Wellington, because I didn’t like the way she looked, but she said no. Then I suggested that she go up and stay at Hannah and Drew’s bach for a week or two, give her some time to decide what to do. Hannah offered,” she explained, giving Nate another stab of guilt to go with the arrows that were piercing him everywhere now. “But she said she had to go. That there was nothing left for her here. That it was just too hard.”

“So she flew back home,” Nate said. “Home where? To Calgary?”

“No,” Kristen said. “To San Francisco. The Bay Area, where she was living before. She thought she could get a job there.”

“But where’s she staying?” Nate pressed.

“I don’t
know,”
Kristen insisted.

“Don’t know?” Nate barked. “Or won’t tell me? I need to know. Tell me.”

“I—” Kristen started to say, but Mako was there first.

“She doesn’t know.” He had risen to stand in front of Kristen, was glaring down at Nate. “Talk to her like that again and you’re out of my house.”

His voice wasn’t any louder than usual, but the look on his face couldn’t have been clearer.

“Sorry,” Nate said, raising his palms. “Sorry. I’m just—I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what to think.”

And that’s when it hit him, like the hardest blow to the chest he’d ever received. It literally took his breath away. He was in love with Ally. He wasn’t just concerned about her, or feeling guilty that this had happened to her, or even feeling empty and forlorn, as he had before, because he’d had an awesome girlfriend and now he didn’t. No, he felt like shit because he loved her, and he needed her, and he’d thrown her away. And she was hurting now, paying the price for being involved with him, and he couldn’t see how to fix it. And he was afraid he’d never get her back.

Mako looked at him soberly, nodded once, sat down again.

Nate tried to focus. “If you don’t know, you don’t know,” he said to Kristen. “But sooner or later, she’ll tell you, won’t she?”

“I think so,” Kristen said slowly. “It’s hard for me to say, because I’ve never seen Ally like this. She’s always so cheerful, so optimistic. She always . . . bounces. But all that was knocked out of her, I think. Just too many things, one after the other.”

“Life can do that,” Mako said. “One blow too many.”

“Yeah,” Kristen sighed. “I think that was it. But she has to get me her new email address eventually, and her physical address too, or I won’t be able to forward anything. Mail, you know. Tax stuff.”

One blow too many. Bloody hell, it hurt to hear that. “When she does,” Nate said, “will you tell me? Please?”

“I don’t want to see her hurt any more,” Kristen said hesitantly.

“I won’t be trying to hurt her. I made a mistake, and I need to tell her that. If I talk to her, and she doesn’t want me anymore,” he said, swallowing against the thought of it, “I’ll leave her alone, I promise. I won’t harass her. But I do need to talk to her. To find out how she feels. To tell her how I feel.”

Kristen hesitated, looked quickly at Mako.

“Your choice,” he said gently. “Toro means it, but you’re the one who knows her best. Your choice.”

Thanks, mate, Nate thought bitterly. No question where Mako’s loyalties lay. Kristen would never be in any doubt of that.

Kristen nodded with decision. “When I hear from her,” she promised Nate, “I’ll let you know. Everyone makes mistakes, I know that. Sometimes you just need a second chance. I’ll help you get yours, if I can.”

On International Boulevard

Nate turned the corner at the prompting of the GPS, muttering, “Right, keep right,” as he had been ever since he’d exited the freeway in Oakland. He could have concentrated better if he hadn’t been distracted by the group of young men loitering outside the corner liquor store, the graffiti marking every available bit of wall. He was glad the fella at the hire car place had insisted on the GPS, when Nate had told him where he was going.

“You don’t want to risk getting lost,” the man had cautioned. “The motels there are cheap, I know,” he said, giving Nate a quick inspection, clearly unimpressed by the rumpled, unshaven bloke standing before him in a T-shirt and jeans. “But you get what you pay for. You really don’t want to be staying on International Boulevard. It’s not, like,
International,
classy or something, like you might be thinking. Spend a little more, stay someplace else. My advice.”

“I can take care of myself,” Nate said.

“You look like you can,” the man agreed. “But we’re not talkin’ fistfight here. We’re talkin’ guns.”

“I promise not to get shot,” Nate said impatiently. “Or to let the car get shot either. Just give me the bloody thing, would you?”

Now, he saw what the man had meant. And this was where Ally was living? His gut clenched at the thought.

He hoped she was home. It was just after two in the afternoon. Kristen had said that Ally had found a job, so who knew. If Nate had lived in this neighborhood, he wouldn’t have spent a minute more here than he had to. But then again, if Ally was living in this neighborhood, it was because she couldn’t afford anything else, so her entertainment options during her time off might be limited.

“Destination is on the right,” the GPS prompted, and Nate eased to the curb, shifted into Park. A wooden-framed house, its stark lines unadorned by any trim or embellishment, painted white much too long ago and divided into flats. Iron bars on the narrow windows, front garden concreted over like most on the street to allow more parking. None of the trees he’d seen on other streets, some of their leaves changing now. Just a bit of rubbish blowing down the road in the crisp autumn breeze.

Nate shoved the GPS unit into the glove box and got out, taking care to lock the doors behind him. Walked up the uneven pavement, the four cracked concrete steps. Two doors, one to the downstairs flat, the other to the upstairs, he guessed. She was A. Downstairs, then. Worse and worse. He pressed the button. And waited.

Ally heard the doorbell, got up off her narrow bed with a sigh. She’d been doing some online research, dismayed by the cost of every program she’d found. But this was her future, she reminded herself as she walked past the kitchen that her new roommates never seemed to clean, through the depressingly messy living room—the reason she spent most of her free time in her bedroom—toward the insistent bell, ringing again now. She was going to be investing in herself. Anything worth having was worth working for. And, she hoped, worth going into debt for. Because she needed to do this, and she needed to do it herself.