Auckland's shadow

Departure from the suite was an exercise in severance. I shed the clothes of the therapy session not merely for comfort, but as a deliberate discarding of the emotional residue of all things Patrick. I appreciated Blake and his support but I needed a separation from my past to my future.

I grabbed two UV umbrellas. The afternoon sun in Auckland was insistent and given my recent struggles with dehydration, proper dealing with the heat of the sun was important. "Here’s a UV umbrella," I told Vic as I handed him one. “It isn’t pretty but it’ll help us stay cooler and another ER visit.”

Vic accepted the umbrella, the slight arch of his eyebrow acknowledging the necessary function over the aesthetic. "We look prepared for a diplomatic garden party,” he chuckled

I put my passports, phones, and wallet into my cross body purse. Vic grabbed the keycard, sliding it into his wallet then put his wallet back in his pocket.

I looked through the room one last time.

 "Contacts in, important stuff with us." I said as I patted my pockets. “Ready?”

“Always, ma’am,” he replied, the formality mixed with a quiet declaration of duty.

We departed discreetly via a side exit, utilizing the secure wing's peripheral route to head east. The agents were left behind as they didn’t see us sneak out.

We had been walking for nearly five minutes when the city's background noise receding in favor of the calmer acoustics of a residential stretch. Just as the familiar, rich scent of grilled onions and spices drifted over the air—the unmistakable signature of my favorite food truck—I turned to Vic, the corner of my mouth lifting in a small, charged smile.

"See that corner, about a block ahead? The food truck is just past that massive oak tree.”

I watched his eyes immediately begin a systematic scan of the intersecting streets, processing the established homes, the pavements, and the energy of the intersection. The awareness of the area solidified in my chest, prompting the need for immediate transparency.

“By the way, this is Scott’s immediate neighborhood,” I said quietly.

“Scott’s neighborhood,” Vic repeated, the words dropping with calculated, unnerving neutrality.

"It’s my favorite food truck," I explained, meeting his gaze. "We are grabbing lunch, Vic. I don’t tell food truck owners where to put their food trucks."

He held my gaze for a moment, his jaw flexing. "Duly noted." His response was his concession.

We crossed the street under the deep shadow of the oak, turning the final corner. The food truck, a vibrant splash of turquoise and chrome, dominated the intersection, its exhaust fans humming a rhythmic undercurrent. A small  line had formed. The air was thick with the high-quality grease and spices—an anchor of sensory normalcy. We stepped to the end of the line.

Vic surveyed the compact menu window. "What is the specialty of your favorite food truck?"

"The menu is eclectic," I replied, already executing my decision matrix. "Excellent fish and chips, amazing smoked meats, a variety of falafels and a killer mac & cheese. The pulled pork sandwich is to die for."

He leaned in, his voice barely audible above the sizzle from the grill. "What catches your eye?"

"Easy," I replied. "The pulled pork sandwich and a side of the mac & cheese. I’m going to order smoked meats to take back to the hotel for later. What are you thinking?"

He considered his options quickly. "The fish and chips. And a soda."

“Good choice,” I said. “As you know, I am not a fan of seafood but Aqeel makes a mean fish and chips. No one else’s can compare.”

“Any idea why Aqeel named his truck ‘Global Grub’?” Vic asked. “Other than the obvious of food from pretty much England, Egypt and American.”

“That’s probably the reason,” I said as I sighed. “I am not one to question a business person’s decision.”

The noise of nearby conversation and the sizzle of cooking provided a noisy, welcome distraction.

We placed our order with a fairly new employee. It was clear that he didn’t know who I was and I was more than happy with that.

We collected our bagged lunches and sodas and moved to a relatively quiet patch of curb under the shade of a small awning to eat. The food was everything I remembered: deeply flavorful, satisfyingly messy, and utterly grounding.

"This is phenomenal," Vic said as he took a bite of the fish.

"Told you," I murmured, halfway through the pulled pork. "Best food – including mac & cheese -  in New Zealand."

After we cleared our wrappers, a young woman from the truck handed me a heavy bag.

"The smoked meat order, Coach," she said, smiling. "Boss said to give you extra and we gave you extra."

"Thank you," I said, peeling off a couple of crisp bills for Aqeel. Knowing him, he lost money on providing extra smoked meat. “Please give the money to Aqeel; it should cover the cost of the meat, herbs and cook time plus purchase of more meat.”

“Will do!” she said. “Boss will be appreciative!”

I nodded before we left.

We began the walk back to the hotel. We were nearing the massive Kauri tree  when a familiar voice sliced through the street noise, tight with forced casualness.

"Deppgrl!"

Vic and I stopped simultaneously. His body instantly shifted, his weight redistributing to place his center of gravity low, his intent clear. I intervened with a flat, hard press of my hand onto his bicep, a clear signal that I would manage this interaction. He allowed his tension to hold but settled his stance, watching as I walked toward Scott.

Scott approached cautiously, holding a coffee cup like a shield.

"Scott," I said, my tone even. "What's going on?"

He fiddled with the cup. "I just wanted to apologize, in person. I know I was an asshole. I acted out of line. The way I talked to you and the things I said - I was wrong." He forced a breath. "My mental health team has really helped me see that. I finally understand why you had the players and the coaches seek assistance. It wasn't about fixing us; it was about providing us with tools. I get that now."

I offered a small, sincere nod. "I'm happy you've accepted that. It takes discipline to admit fault and more to do the required work. I hope you continue to work on yourself."

His expression brightened with premature hope. "When will I be able to return? I'm ready to be back."

His eagerness was understandable, but irrelevant. "We require demonstrable consistency, Scott. Your return is conditioned not on compliance in session, but on verified behavioral change outside of it. I need to review several weekly reports showing genuine engagement, and then I will talk with the owners."

The initial relief drained from his face.

"Scott," I said, my voice dropping, stepping closer to ensure the message was received without ambiguity. "We are looking for substantive improvement. That is evaluated not just in your sessions, but in how you conduct yourself when you are out and about. Your mental health team has connections across this area—local businesses, community groups. These connections are now reporting to both myself and them. As you know, I have connections too. This is oversight, not negotiation."

He looked stunned, the coffee forgotten. "Why is this happening?"

"This isn't just about you," I informed him. "It's about maintaining trust and professional conduct across the entire organization. We have protocols. For everyone consistently with the All Blacks."

"Oh," he said, swallowing hard. "Thank you for letting me know."

Before he could withdraw, I delivered the incentive. "If I see consistent, profound improvement, you may be able to return in several weeks."

“Several weeks?” he asked, in utter shock.

“Yes, several weeks,” I said. “What the mental health team and I have been hearing isn’t completely positive. I contemplate turning my phone off frequently due to the feedback that I am getting in regards of you and several players but that would mean more work for me. The owners and I want you to keep your job but it is on you to do the work in order to keep your job.”

He nodded, a renewed sense of purpose replacing the shock, then turned and walked away.

Vic and I resumed our walk to the hotel, the unexpected interaction leaving a strange, vibrating silence between us.

"That was efficiently handled," Vic murmured, his hand settling on the small of my back.

"It was necessary," I confirmed. "The boundaries needed to be explicit."

We reached the hotel, where Cosmos waited near the side entrance, a look of quiet, professional concern on his face.

"Welcome back, Deppgrl and Vic. I’m sorry for delaying you to your room but Dr. Hayes left an urgent message for you immediately after you guys left,” Cosmos said. "He asked for your return to the hospital when you can. He requires a follow-up consultation regarding Vic."

Cosmos handed me the hotel phone. I took the receiver and dialed Ronan's direct line from memory.

"Dr. Hayes's office," a receptionist answered.

"It's Deppgrl. Ronan called for an urgent return visit."

Ronan's voice came on the line a moment later. "Deppgrl, thank you for calling back. I just need to see Vic before he leaves in a few days. Nothing terribly critical, but I want the specialists to see how he’s doing and clear him to fly."

"Understood," I replied. "We'll be at the hospital as soon as we can. We need to drop off a few items first."

"I'll keep my eyes open for you guys," he said.

We hung up, and I returned the phone to Cosmos.

We headed up to the suite to drop off the bag of smoked meats. We both drank a large glass of water, feeling the lingering grime of the city, and we decided a quick shower was warranted. We changed into fresh, comfortable clothes and headed back out.

"Ready for the mandated Round Two?" Vic asked, securing his UV umbrella with a wry twist of his lips.

"Better be," I replied. "Thankfully, the hospital is only two blocks away. No need to worry about Scott's turf this time."

The walk back to the hospital was brief. In the main lobby, the nurse who had attended me when my nose was broken greeted us.

"Welcome back," she said, with a warm smile. "Dr. Hayes is expecting you. I'll take you to his private office."

We followed her. Ronan was waiting, standing by his desk, professional and reassuring in his lab coat.

"Thank you for coming in so quickly," Ronan said, shaking Vic's hand. "Have a seat."

He guided Vic to a high stool and began his examination. Ronan was satisfied with the bruising's progression and the significant reduction in swelling around the nose.

"Excellent, excellent," Ronan murmured. He picked up his desk phone. "Dr. Evans can you and Dr. Chen pop over to my office for a quick consultation?"

Moments later, the eye surgeon and plastic surgeon entered. They performed a quick, collaborative exam on Vic's eye and nose, expressing their satisfaction with the healing progress.

"Have you been strictly adhering to the prescribed regimen: the pain medication, the antibiotic eye drops, and the oral antibiotics?" the eye surgeon inquired.

"Yeah, I am," Vic confirmed. "I take the pain meds twice a day—morning and night—but I've been managing daytime discomfort with OTC pain relievers. The drops and oral meds are taken as prescribed."

Ronan nodded, picking up a prescription pad. "If that’s the case, I'm going to transition you to a lower-dose pain med. Also, you should integrate alternating ice and heat applications several times a day to assist in both pain management and promote healing."

Vic accepted the instructions. "Will do. Thank you."

The surgeons left. Vic, Ronan, and I talked briefly about the importance of continued rest before we left the office. As we headed out, Vic was relieved that he was cleared to fly but he didn’t want to leave me here, alone, in New Zealand with “the blond caveman” that Vic called Scott.

We headed to The Corner Well – the small, well-maintained pharmacy that operated efficiently near the hotel and the pharmacy I used frequently when in New Zealand.  We headed to the pharmacy counter where my favorite pharmacist was working

The pharmacist, Brenda, recognized me instantly. "Good afternoon, Coach Deppgrl," she greeted me, her accent distinctly Kiwi. "It’s been a while. How’s the team?”

"They’re doing well, Brenda," I confirmed, placing Vic's prescription before her. "This is for my friend Vic. Since he’s a not a resident, he doesn’t have insurance. Do you guys still use discount cards?”

Brenda took the offered prescription and addressed Vic. "Welcome to New Zealand, Vic," she said. "We do. Would you guys like to use it?"

Vic, standing nearby, offered a knowing look at the use of my nickname. "Coach Deppgrl," he commented, a brief smile touching his lips. He then addressed Brenda, shaking his head. "That would be great, thanks!"

Brenda processed the discount card details. "Got it. Just give me about ten to fifteen minutes to get it ready.”

“Sure thing,” I said. “We’re in no rush.”

We decided to walk around for a bit and about twelve minutes, Brenda called us over. She handed the prescription over "Here is your prescription, Vic. The total is $48 NZD.”

I used my credit card to make the payment and expressed my gratitude. Stepping back outside, Vic placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "That was quick and a far better experience than back home." The day’s light was beginning to fade as we proceeded directly back to the hotel.

Vic and I  spent the rest of my days off before returning to work establishing a disciplined routine that prioritized my mental health sessions and Vic's physical recovery. We took short, guarded trips around Auckland - anything to maintain a sense of freedom without incurring exhaustion. On the days we were too tired to go out for lunch or dinner, we ate the smoked meat from Aqeel’s food truck.

Charlie, the owners, the coaches, and the players all showed their support when I returned on Wednesday. Vic joined me at the arena from Wednesday through Saturday for practices. The team's relief at my return was palpable and gratifying. Our new routine was structured: morning practice, film review with suggestions from the coaches, and the players and coaches meeting with their individual mental health team. The players' commitment was impressive, and I felt myself fully reintegrating into the rhythm of the game.

When it was Vic's last full day in New Zealand, we remained in the suite, savoring the quiet intimacy. Charlie and the rest of the organization had arranged a private, semi-romantic picnic dinner for us at a local park as a gesture of quiet support.

We arrived at the designated spot, a secluded rise in a small park overlooking the Waitematā Harbour. It was a thoughtful gesture but I thought it was a bit much. The team had laid out a thick, woven blanket and scattered half a dozen flickering LED candles, creating an intimate, soft glow against the deep twilight. A wicker basket sat open between two comfortable pillows.

“This is an exceptionally generous act, amore,” Vic murmured, his voice heavy with appreciation as he took in the quiet view. The city skyline was beginning to illuminate behind us, but here, the focus was entirely on the water and the immediate, private scene.

We settled onto the blanket. The dinner was luxurious in its simplicity: a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, a curated board piled high with local cheeses, grapes, cured meats, and crusty bread, culminating in a delicate chocolate tart.

Vic poured the wine. “To a week of difficult healing,” he toasted, clinking his glass against mine. “And to your successful return to coaching.”

I smiled, the memory of the hospital fear feeling distant, attenuated by the present quiet. “Thank you for anchoring me. You’re the reason that I stayed relaxed this week.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said, reaching out to gently trace the fading bruise near his eye. “I don’t belong here after and you know it. However, seeing you back at work, exercising your purpose—that was the best recovery medicine I could ask for.”

We ate slowly, the conversation low and easy, filled with quiet reflection on the grounding moments we’d shared: the quiet markets, the greasy satisfaction of the food truck lunch, and the comfortable silence of our time in the arena. The tension of Scott’s confrontation and the clinical worry of the hospital check-up were fully contained by the security of this moment.

As the tart was finished and the city lights twinkled in earnest, Vic turned to me, his gaze serious, weighty.

“I leave at first light,” he stated, his thumb smoothing the skin of my hand. “I hate having to leave and you being alone in the this beautiful.”

“I won’t be alone,” I assured him, lifting my head to meet his eyes. “I have protection, and I have the work. And you will return.”

He nodded, the look in his eyes holding a fierce, silent promise of an immediate, non-negotiable return. He didn't promise soon; he simply said, “I'll be back.” He pulled me close, the kiss deep and long, carrying the taste of wine and the promise of his commitment. It was a kiss of farewell, but delivered with the force of an oath.

He finally pulled away, resting his forehead against mine. “Now, let’s get you back to the suite. You need your rest, and I need a few hours of quiet before I face a fifteen-hour flight.”

We gathered the items. Hand in hand, we walked back toward the city lights, the sense of quiet, charged completion settling over the close of the chapter.

When we returned back to the hotel, we returned the picnic basket and blanket to Lorraine. She said that housekeeping and the kitchen staff will take care of the blanket and the dishes we used. As we got back to the suit, I knew that Vic and I wouldn’t be sleeping at all that night.