Page 10

JENNA

As the unofficial, unpaid tour guide, I lead the trail of guys into our agreed lunch stop, a little pub on the outskirts of Stirling. Heads turn as we weave through the crowded dining room, curious diners lifting their gazes at the sight of one small woman leading a trail of large, brawny men. I ignore their stares out of long practice.

What I wouldn’t give to read their minds. Do they see me as some odd female Pied Piper, charming men instead of rats or children? Or maybe a reverse harem story come to life? Both are so far from the truth. I can’t even captivate one man, let alone a whole pack.

Out of habit, I choose a booth near the back for me and Dad. I’ve always tried to find him a quiet spot when we venture out in public. Not that he was anything other than generous with the fans, who waylaid him everywhere we went, but I made it my job to diminish that where possible, by carving out a rare moment of peace. He slides into the seat opposite me with a grunt. The set of his face tells me he’s got something to say. From the frown and the glances across the room at Geordie, I can guess what it is.

“Don’t start,” I warn before he can open his mouth .

To be honest, I’m fed up with Dad’s overprotective behaviour. Maybe because he was never there to chase off boys when I was a teen, from the moment my world and his overlapped once more, he’s made up for lost time. I know it was an unwritten rule at the Highlanders: hands off coach’s daughter. When a player chose to ignore it, all of us suffered. But this is different. Things have changed and damned if I’m going to put up with that shit. I’m drawing a line in the sand. I will sit with whoever I bloody well want to.

“Of all of them, though…” he begins weakly.

I cut him off, disappointed at his preconceived notion that Geordie isn’t worthy of my company. Cluanie is a small place. He’ll have heard talk. Kenneth MacDonald, the town’s lone solicitor, has never held back on sharing his low opinion of his son.

“Dad, I’m only sitting with him. Besides, thought you’d have a soft spot for the man who wears number six?” I quip, keeping it light, even though I really want to lose my shit with him.

Geordie plays in Dad’s old position, blindside flanker. The best Scotland had ever seen, some said, when my father burst onto the international scene. Not that he got the chance to prove the point.

“But the man’s dressed like a cowboy for chrissakes.”

Once I got past my initial surprise at seeing Geordie in what he jokingly called his ‘Texan tuxedo’, I’ve decided it’s kind of appealing. Give me a man in a nicely-cut plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up—my body has declared his strong forearms unquestionably sexy. Then there’s the boots that give him an air of command, like he knows what he’s about—also an undeniable turn-on for me—and I’m not complaining.

“Would you rather I cosied up to Kyle Stewart? ”

From Dad’s look of horror, he’s just decided Geordie MacDonald isn’t the worst option. Cocky Kyle would be any father’s nightmare. That shuts him up. He studies the menu with forced intensity, and I do the same.

The truth is, Dad’s hit a little too close to home. He doesn’t know that since Geordie stormed back into my life a week ago, I can’t get him off my mind. These past three hours in his company have zipped by in a blissful haze.

It’s not just the intoxicating nearness of a nicely honed, fresh-smelling male body, or the shock of golden curls and blue eyes that dance when he talks to me. I like him. He’s kind, funny, modest—all the things that pull me in like a starving bee to a great big sweet pot of honey. Guys like him are my crack. He’s exactly the sort of man I’d be married to right now if things hadn’t gone to shit six years ago with Adam.

Or maybe not. The things about me Adam couldn’t live with—the non-negotiables that prevented him from taking those steps down the aisle; the awareness of my shortcomings he’d let simmer away beneath the surface; the qualities he saw in someone else but not me—they haven’t changed…I’m still the same. Jilted bride or abandoned wife? Maybe the latter would have been worse.

At least there was no messy separation of shared assets and parasitic divorce lawyers leaching every last penny from me in my misery. When Adam bailed on me a week before our wedding, Dad took care of everything. He settled up the deposits on venues left unused; cancelled a string quartet for the ceremony, paying him their fee in full. Same with the band for the reception, who pocketed an eye-watering amount for music never played. When we forgot to cancel the flowers, he collected them himself and dropped them into the women’s’ refuge. He never complained about a single thing, just quietly made my humiliation go away.

He’d have been brilliant in PR, with his skilful handling of such a delicate situation with the least public damage. Thankfully, back then, although of interest as Razor’s daughter, I wasn’t so much in the media eye. It was like I woke up one morning and a whole part of my life had been erased. The nasty stain scrubbed away, leaving me good as new. Huh. As if.

Of course, some good came from the whole bruising debacle. Three months later the thought of facing a future with happily-married-to-her Adam in it, a wide gold band glaring at me from his left hand every day of my working life, spurred me to set my sights on the Highlanders job. It was for the best in the end. That’s what I tell myself. Most of the time, I believe it.

I’m ambushed by images of what could have been sometimes. I shove them away, not letting all the ‘if onlys’ eat away at me. If only I had realised in time. If only he had given me a chance to change. Maybe I could have. I know it’s unhealthy to dwell on these types of thoughts, so I only wallow in them when I’m really low.

If my friends ever found out, they’d tell me my inability to part with the exquisite three thousand pound wedding dress is definitely not healthy. They’d be wrong. I open my wardrobe and look at it often. It’s crazy. It hurts, but there’s a reason I keep it.

Every time my fingers glide over the lustrous satin skirt, and trace the lines of tiny pearls hand-stitched on the bodice, my heart breaks all over again. But that pain reminds me I feel . Deeply. It’s a way of reassuring myself I’m not the cold, emotionless person Adam accused me of being. If I were, I wouldn’t stand in my vast walk-in wardrobe and cry .

This week, I’ve revelled in Geordie’s company because the other side of myself is all he sees. Not the ruthlessly efficient, single-minded, driven, and totally fearless business woman, but the softer, kinder side that Adam once loved and then made me doubt even existed.

Geordie sees other things too. The teenager who was kind to an annoying younger brother. The daughter who dropped everything to be with her dying mother. The woman who put her high-powered career on hold to support her father. The motherless child still grieving. The loyal friend to his sister. The older mentor prepared to give a young girl a hand up.

In his own inherent goodness, Geordie recognises the goodness in me and it’s addictive. A nice guy like him actually likes a girl like me. A nice guy like him wants to spend time with me. It’s the first time I’ve felt that way in years, and I want more.

Which is why, as we head for the bus, I seek him out. I’m desperate he doesn’t abandon me for his mate Nathan, the friendly Kiwi bloke, or Brodie with whom he goes way back.

“Wanna listen to some music on the next leg?” I offer, hoping to encourage him back into our shared seat. “Downloaded the new Stellar Riot album yesterday. Haven’t played it yet.” His eyes light up and I hope it’s more than the prospect of the music. I want to believe he’s pleased I’ve given him permission to join me. “If you don’t mind sharing.” I dangle my earbuds. An uncharacteristic shyness grips me. Please let him say yes.

“Thanks,” he says. My breath rushes out. “Didn’t know it was out. You know I drove my American roommates mad with the last one on endless repeat,” he adds with a grin. “I mean, come on, they deserved to hear a decent British band. ”

We like the same music. It feels like the universe just scrawled another big tick beside Geordie’s name on the list of guys that have caught my interest lately. Never mind that it’s the only name on the list.

I slide into the seat, enjoying the feel of his large body tucking in beside me, and the brush of those long fingers as he accepts the ear bud. Soon we share twin smiles of delight at the pulsating music feeding directly into our heads. The y-shaped wire tying us together coaxes my smile even wider. It mirrors the invisible bond I feel growing stronger as the miles roll by.

At the hotel, I reluctantly hand Geordie over to his brother from another motherland, Nathan Wilder. It makes sense these two would pair up—the laid-back Kiwi boy shares Geordie’s easy-going approach to life and ever-present grin. They’ll make a formidable pairing on the field as they manage the almost living, breathing beast that is a rucking rugby pack between them. They’ll be perfect roommates tonight, too.

This pre-season social trip is a good chance to test hotel room combinations for the odd away game. Dad’s already paired up with the Club President Grant Darby, who was waiting for us, after driving down yesterday for a work meeting. They’ve disappeared into the bar and I leave them to it, while I herd the guys to their rooms.

Getting the right match ups is important. Although I haven’t spent the time with these players I’d normally have with a pro team—and working out compatible roommates wasn’t my job at the Highlanders—I know what’s needed. A bit of local knowledge has come in handy, and I think I’ve set up sleeping arrangements that will keep the peace.

If it weren’t for the embarrassment of making the request, I’m sure Geordie and Nathan would have come to me, like two small boys on school camp, asking to room together.

Connor, as captain—and quite frankly, the most sensible one of the lot of them—is a natural choice to keep an eye on young Brandon. Not that I’m worried the guy will get drunk and do the dirty on Skylar. He seems a good kid, and he’s besotted with her. It’s a useful situation, really—Skylar binding him to Cluanie—because he’s the team’s secret weapon. Until we reveal him at our first pre-season friendly next weekend. A fullback with a deadly accurate boot and I’d bet a hundred pounds he’ll be the first points-scorer of the season.

Fleet-footed Brodie, and quiet Fraser Sinclair—who apparently transforms into a beast when he ties on his boots—are another natural pairing. Along with Connor, they’ll ground the team with their elder statesman status, having played for Cluanie since they were five-year-olds.

Kyle Stewart saunters past, an arm clapped around the shoulder of another younger player. For his roommate, I picked someone steady, despite his age, and I’m trusting Dad’s judgment on this one. He swears Kyle is a reformed character from the teenage boy I knew. Not enough to trust him near me, of course, but according to Dad, his time in the army in the hellhole of Afghanistan, and then a stint in close personal protection, has shaped Kyle into a new man.

That’s just as well on two counts. Firstly, it wouldn’t do for Cluanie if he tarnished the friendly, helpful reputation of the local coppers with his antics. Second, the younger men in the team thrive on good mentors.

Dad’s nuanced understanding of the dynamics of team culture comes from keen observation and subtle manoeuvring of people on and off the field. That’s what makes his teams into champions. He’s rarely wrong about his players, and I’d hate Kyle to stuff this up. Having Razor Sharpe show faith in a man is a precious gift, one I hope Kyle doesn’t throw back in his face.

A helpful porter hovers, eying my compact bag with surprise. I’ve learned how to travel light.

“Thanks, I’ll be fine,” I say as he reaches for it. “Front bar, four o’clock,” I call to the guys assembled in a scrum by the elevator. I’ll dish out tickets there before we set off en masse towards the hallowed ground of Murrayfield. It’s a bit of a walk, but the brisk air will be a welcome refresher on the way back tonight.

“Got it, m’am.” Kyle snaps off a sharp salute with a grin.

The others laughingly mimic him, and I can’t help but smirk back. They’re good guys, these men of Cluanie, perhaps even Kyle.

I turn and head for the opposite bank of elevators that will take me to my lonely room in the left wing. In my other life, I’d be in that huddle, my room close enough to the team in case I was needed. There’s been more than one night I’ve sat in a hotel room, clothes dragged on in a hurry, a veneer of professionalism pulled over a still sleep-weary body. It’s incredible how the threat to a player’s reputation, or the team’s, can ignite the brain to suggest solutions, even if it’s two a.m.

Tonight, there’ll be none of that. I’m just the travel agent. I drag my little carry-on case behind me across the marble foyer, the clatter of plastic wheels my only companion, while the group of men opposite trade happy banter.

Tonight I’ll sleep uninterrupted. A simple fact that emphasises how much my life has changed. Jenna Sharpe, the professional, isn’t needed by this team, my talents in wrangling the media redundant.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up alone. Another simple fact that shows in some ways nothing has changed at all. There’s no one here who needs Jenna Sharpe, the woman, either.