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The ball was coming down. Too high, still, even as Trevor ran backward to get it. Misjudged. Luke saw his moment, reached for Trevor’s waist, and lifted him overhead.
He felt Trevor overbalancing, reaching too far, then going arse-over-teakettle, headfirst and backward toward the ground, and Luke stiffened every muscle and held on.
It barely took a second, and he felt every fraction of it. When Trevor’s feet were in the air, and when Luke started pulling him in the other direction. When Luke’s arms came back to vertical and he could see Trevor’s feet again. When he was planting his feet and bringing the big lock’s 105 kG down slowly. Slowly. Not letting him fall.
Trevor’s feet on the ground, the ball in his arms. Trevor hitting the line, and Luke right behind him, adding his weight. The crowd singing Flower of Scotland, willing their team on. Trying to get under Luke’s skin, but he didn’t need to let them.
The earth had shifted on its axis, and he was in the right place again. Doing his role. Anchoring his team. Pressing on.
No moment but this one. No purpose but domination.
He was here, and he was strong. That was enough.
Hayden was having a hard time breathing. They weren’t even three minutes into the game, and England was driving, the backs with the ball now, handing it off. Down the field, playing like men possessed. Like it wasn’t the beginning, but the end. Like they had something to prove.
The big screen overhead was showing it, of course. And then switching off to show that lift. How Luke had, somehow, held somebody up whose entire body weight was pulling him backward, and then lifted him overhead again and set him down.
How?
How?
Beside him, Madelyn was saying, “How did he do that? How ever did he do that?”
Hayden finally came up with the answer. “Because he had to.”
Around him, the noise swelled. The crowd was on its feet, the Scots singing and the English singing back. Swing Low, Sweet Chariot being drowned out, then rising again.
Scotland finally getting it together, stiffening their line. Repelling the backs, and then repelling them again, until it was the forwards taking their turn, the same way he’d seen it happen before, bashing into the opposition like the most brutal game of Red Rover ever.
Hayden had been rubbish at Red Rover. On purpose. In his opinion, if other kids wanted to brutalize him, he wasn’t going to line up for the chance, and he wasn’t going to dislocate his arms trying to stop them, either.
He had not been popular on the playground.
This was different. He was on his feet along with everybody else, watching Luke drive his team on. As if he was prepared to leave it all out there, and he’d do anything it took.
One player after another taking the ball. The singing louder now, the Scots emptying their lungs. The Scottish line holding. Holding.
Luke didn’t carry the ball much. Hayden knew that. He didn’t expect it. Luke was that fella just behind the ball carrier, helping him on, securing possession for the next attempt.
Two, three, four more attempts, and then a break in the line. The tall fella, the one Luke had lifted earlier, who’d been on the lift in Rome with them and hadn’t said anything, just looked horrified, smashed his way through and drove on with Luke behind him.
Eight meters out. He was going to score. He was going to …
Players closing in fast from both sides.
He passed the ball to Luke.
A player driving hard at Luke, going for his upper body, and Luke plowing straight through him. Another one grabbing at his jersey, and Luke’s legs never stopped.
Three meters. Two. A player coming so fast, he looked like he was flying, diving from behind for Luke’s ankles, grabbing hold, hanging on.
It was like watching a totara fall in the forest, its roots holding as long as they could, and then the long, slow, inexorable crash to earth. Luke was falling. He was going to come up short. He was going to …
Luke strained. Stretched. Took another step even as he was being pulled down by the ankles.
I’m strong as oak, and I’m steady as hell.
The field nearly shook as he went down.
