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“I’ll go in the backline for the third if you move me back up forward in the last quarter.” He started to protest but stopped when she raised her hand. “If there’s any dirty business, you can bench me.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You wanna be benched in the last quarter, in your milestone game?”
“I don’t want to be, but if you leave me in the backline for the rest of the game, then they’ve won, regardless of what the scoreboard says.”
“Okay, fair enough. But if one of those brutes so much as lays a fingernail on you, you’re benched.”
She rolled her eyes, bending down to pull her socks up before slapping him on the back. “Come on, let’s go wipe the floor with them.”
The third quarter was pretty uneventful, much to Rafe’s relief. The ball spent most of the play in the Bomber’s half of the ground, meaning Mikayla didn’t really have much to do up back. As the final quarter started, he pulled Grant and Smithy aside. They were both concreters and were built like Mac trucks. They weren’t fast on their feet, but if they followed his instructions properly, they could run interference if any drama came Mikayla’s way.
With the new team positions and a few of his players focused on protecting Mikayla, the opposition closed the gap in the score and with three minutes to go in the game, they were ahead by four points. One straight goal, netting six points, would be enough to take the glory and finish Mikayla’s one hundred and fiftieth on a high.
Mikayla took advantage of a break in play to jog over to him. “Take Grant and Smithy off me.”
He shook his head.
“Come on, we’re nearly there. If we lose now, I’ll be gutted.”
He couldn’t resist the pleading in her eyes and he knew he would be equally gutted if his decision lost this match for her. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Sure. There’s only three minutes left. What could possibly go wrong?”
Hoping she was right, he called Bluey, Grant and Smithy over, ready to set up a play that, if it worked, would win them the match. “Right, Mikky? If Bluey gets the ball to me out of the ruck, I’m kicking it to the left pocket and you’re gonna go high.”
“Yep, got it.” She grinned. She knew what he’d done. If the play went how he’d planned it, not only would they win the day, but she would be the one to kick the winning goal. The umpire blew the whistle and they all jogged back to their positions. Bluey won the ruck, throwing the ball onto his boot and kicking it straight to Rafe. He checked the clock. Two minutes and thirty-six seconds left. He dropped the ball and leaned down to pull his socks up, letting the time run down just a little bit more. He could see Mikayla jogging around in the right pocket. He saw her opposition player give her a bump that was a bit rougher than was strictly necessary. He pointed to the left pocket, letting his players know what he was doing. As he took a few steps back, holding the ball out in front, he saw them converge on the area he’d indicated, with Mikayla hanging back. As the ball left his foot and sailed high in the air, he watched as Mikayla bolted from the right pocket, streaking across the ground, her titian braid flying like a flag behind her. She timed her leap with precision so that she flew over the top of the pack just as the ball came down. She caught it on her chest, clutching it tightly as she fell amongst the pack, to the ground. It was glorious.
But the next thing Rafe knew, all hell broke loose. He saw Grant charge at the backman that had been tailing Mikayla all day, then Smithy had his forearm against the neck of another player. He felt dread curl in the pit of his stomach as he realized he couldn’t see Mikayla. He shot into action, running over and pushing against the milling bodies. Mikayla was sitting on the ground, Bluey kneeling over her, shielding her from the scrabble of boots around them. Rafe threw himself to his knees once he was next to her, nudging Bluey out of the way. She had blood on her face. It had started dripping from a cut in her hairline, down her cheek to her chin. Before he could do more than tamp down on the white-hot rage that hit him, the siren sounded, indicating the end of the game and the umpire blew the whistle. The melee dissipated as the umpire moved amongst the players, forcibly pushing them apart.
“Are you okay? Mikayla! Are you okay?”
She turned to him, a little dazed. “I think so. My ankle hurts.”
She hadn’t noticed the blood trickling down her face.
“Get her off the ground. Blood rule. Decide who’s going to take her kick.”
Rafe glared at the umpire, unable to gather his thoughts. There were a thousand things he should be doing right now. She had fallen to the ground pretty hard, then got stomped on. Anything could be broken, or damaged. Despite his years of experience, all his medical training deserted him as he looked at her sitting on the ground. Her breath hitched from the pain and her face was bathed in blood.
“Stop staring at me like a gormless idiot, McKenzie, and help me up,” she gasped.
He gave himself a mental shake before sliding his arm around her waist, waiting until she wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled her carefully to her feet. “I want Bluey to take my kick.” He gave Bluey the nod and the players stood back as he started moving towards the boundary line.
“For fuck’s sake,” Rafe swore when he heard Mikayla whimper with pain. He swept her up in his arms, ignoring her protest. Before they could get off the ground, though, the opposition captain jogged over.
“Hey!” There was no mistaking the angry tone in his voice and Rafe turned. He was obviously about to spray some bullshit, but whatever he was going to say died on his lips when he got a look at the murderous glint in Rafe’s eyes. He slunk off, joining his team to await the outcome of the game.
“Wait, Bluey’s lining up.”
“Seriously, Mikayla, you’re gushing blood.”
“Yeah, but we could win!”
He kept walking. Her parents and Callum were waiting at the changeroom doors, but they moved aside as he came up the stairs. Nora placed her hand on Callum’s arm as he went to say something. Rafe was grateful. He wasn’t sure he could treat Mikayla with all of them watching. He was getting a little shaky already and he hadn’t even assessed her yet. He moved through the changerooms to the first aid space, closing the door with his foot and placing Mikayla gently on the treatment bed. He grabbed a towel and dampened it in the sink, handing it to Mikayla before collecting the first aid kit. He took a moment to be grateful that they kept it well stocked.
He turned back to see that Mikayla was patting her face with the towel. She pulled it away, staring at the amount of blood on it, before reaching up to the wound, tentatively exploring it with the tips of her fingers.
“Don’t touch it,” he commanded as he snapped on a pair of latex surgical gloves.
