The Rugby Captain – Part 1: Rival Captains

Rival captains forced to share a hotel room.

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The hotel had been booked for the whole squad, and somewhere between the reservation desk and the third floor, a clerk had made a mistake.

"One room," Tama repeated, staring at the card key in his hand. "With one bed."

"It says two beds," said Harry, from the doorway behind him, in the clipped accent of a man who had grown up in Christchurch and never let anyone forget it. "The clerk must have misread the form."

"Brilliant," said Tama. "We're in the final tomorrow and I have to share a room with the bloke who spent the whole semi-final trying to break my nose."

"I was tackling you," Harry said. "You were in the way."

"You were aiming for my face."

"I was aiming for the ball, Tama. Your face got in the way of the ball."

Tama dropped his kit bag on the floor with a thud and turned around. Harry was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark hair still damp from the shower. He had a bruise across one cheekbone from the game, and the sight of it made Tama's stomach twist with something he refused to name.

They had been rivals for six years. Captains of two clubs in the same city, fighting for the same trophies, and never once speaking outside the post-match press conferences. Harry was the best hooker in the country, all grit and precision and a sharp tongue. Tama was the flanker everyone called a showman, all flair and laughter, and too good to be taken seriously.

Neither of them had ever admitted, out loud, that they respected each other.

"Fine," Tama said. "One bed. You take the left side."

"I'll take the floor."

"Don't be an idiot. You'll never walk again before the final."

Harry gave a short, reluctant laugh. "All right. Left side. And no snoring."

"I don't snore."

"You snored all through the bus trip to Hamilton."

"That was your snoring, mate. I was awake the whole time, listening to you."

They ate room service sandwiches on the balcony, sitting in silence in the cool Auckland night while the harbour lights blinked across the water. A ferry slid past, its windows bright. Somewhere below, a group of tourists were laughing and singing.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" Harry asked suddenly.

Tama glanced at him. "About what?"

"About me. Six years of playing against each other. You always made a joke when we passed in the tunnel, and I always pretended I didn't notice." Harry looked out at the water, his jaw tight. "I noticed."

Tama set down his sandwich.

"Because you scared me," he said quietly. "The first time I saw you play, you hit three men in a row like it was nothing. And then you looked at me across the pitch, like you knew exactly what I was thinking before I did. I didn't know what to do with that."

Harry turned his head slowly.

"And now?" he asked.

"Now we have one bed and a final tomorrow." Tama met his eyes steadily. "And I'm still scared. But it's not the bad kind."

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Next: Part 2, The Final. A late-night conversation, a promise made in the dark, and a victory that is not just about the trophy.