Page 11

JENNA

I stand on the carpeted steps at the side entrance of the cosy bar area, arms extended, doing a fair imitation of Edward Scissorhands. In each hand, I clutch a fan of tickets for tonight’s match. If Dad had got his act together and outlined the full details of this team-bonding scheme a bit earlier, I could have purchased a nice neat block of seats right on the halfway line. Instead, we’ve been left with the rats and mice, two here and three there—the only ones I could get and still seat all of us in our preferred area of the main stand.

Pairing everyone up for the hotel rooms was simple. But sorting twenty-five people into a crazy patchwork quilt seating plan seemed a logistical nightmare that I really didn’t need to face. Dad agreed, saying that, in fact, a random seat assignment would work well. Rather than placing the guys in their usual social groupings, this lucky dip might forge new connections between players.

I have to admit it’s a good idea, and the guys seem open to it. I haven’t heard any grumbling. The novelty appeals. Of course it would. I’ve learned that often, by treating men like the eager little boys that still lurk beneath their adult bravado, I can get them onside with whatever is needed. What kid doesn’t like a lucky dip? They press forward, snatching them from my hands and then wave them around, trying to work out with whom they’ll spend the next few hours, amongst their raucous laughter and winding each other up.

Earlier, I picked out two tickets for side-by-side seats, and set them aside for Dad and Grant. So once the rest of the team has taken theirs, I’m left with just one—mine. I hope it matches with Geordie, but I’m not trusting the universe to send him my way. After all, she’s been fairly generous with him so far.

I also hope it’s anyone but Kyle. I may be judging him unfairly, but I’m pretty sure I won’t enjoy the thrill of the match as much with his presence at my side. I’m quite adult enough to cope with guys from my past popping up in my life (Adam excepted), but I haven’t quite moved on from the small rush of shame that nipped at me when I first saw Kyle at the party.

I cringe at the memory of us, aged seventeen, having messy, awkward sex in his bedroom while his parents watched television downstairs—two fumbling teenagers experimenting with interesting possibilities for mutual pleasure from their blooming bodies. I don’t think I’ve forgiven him for how quickly he found another girl to join him under the patchwork bedspread his granny made him. Yes, I’d rather not spend two hours elbow to elbow with Kyle.

Brandon Smith saunters towards me with a smile. His kind eyes, blue-grey and soulful, remind me of a younger Geordie—another thoroughly decent young man. Although protective of Skylar, he respects her, showing sensitivity to her needs with a maturity most guys his age lack. She’s a lucky girl to have met a nice lad like him so young, and to know he’s prepared to stick around Cluanie for her. He waves his ticket at me .

“Looks like I get to sit with the boss lady,” he says, with a wink, then drops his head a little shyly, as if unsure he should really joke with me like that.

I loop my arm through his and laugh reassuringly. This kid is cute.

“Looks like you do. And it also means I’ll be able to tell Skylar, hand on heart, that I personally kept you out of trouble. I’m not sure I could stick with ‘what happens on tour, stays on tour’ where she’s concerned,” I warn.

He actually giggles, which only endears him to me even more. As Skylar is dog-sitting Andy for us—not many possible candidates for that job—the least I can do is boyfriend-sit for her. We stroll from the bar, prepared for a big night.

Inside the stadium, the air crackles with anticipation. It’s early in the year for an international test match, and although the evening is cool, at least it’s not threatening snow like the last time I sat in these seats. Fortified with cartons of steaming hot chips and cold cups of beer, Brandon locates our row and I follow him in. While not seated next to Geordie, he’s one row back and a few along, perhaps offering the chance of conversation.

We are reasonably early for the game, but even so, our seats are the only ones not yet filled in the row. The seated spectators all stand, smile, offer greetings and politely allow Brandon and me to pass. Except for one, and I inwardly groan as I realise the man sitting staunch and unmoving is my neighbour for the next couple of hours. I struggle past him into my seat.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Jenna. Good night for it, eh?”

This is the normal social expectation at the game; while you’re not aiming to become instant best friends, there’s always a small connection established, acknowledging our shared reason for being here. The wiry older man grunts what might be a word, or could simply be a huff of disdain. He barely takes his eyes off the pre-match entertainment.

On the pitch, three kilted drummers in leather jerkins wield drumsticks like Viking axes, the vibration of each beat resonating through the stadium. Two pipers stride from side to side, lungs blasting into their wailing instruments. Their pounding fusion of traditional Scottish music and hard rock is invigorating. However, I sense the man isn’t so much transfixed by the sound, but intent on ignoring me. His wife leans around him.

“I’m Nora and this is my husband Duncan,” she says, with a timid smile.

I smile back, trying to offer her encouragement, or perhaps courage. After all, I only have to sit with the man for the duration of the game. She’s got to go home with him afterwards.

For someone who is about to witness what will no doubt be a spectacular contest, he seems in a foul mood. He snaps at his wife when, after glancing at our food, she suggests they get some, berating her for not thinking of it before they sat down.

She meekly trundles off anyway and returns laden. None of it pleases him. The chips are too hot, the burger cold, and when he enquires as to the cost, he growls about ‘daylight robbery’.

I feel the bright edge of my excitement for the game slowly wearing off with every utterance from his snarling mouth. I pray for the match to start, hoping it will divert his attention from everything he perceives is wrong with the situation—a truly long list of mostly minor irritations magnified through the angry lens with which he views the world .

I try to keep upbeat, talking with Brandon but scared to invoke the wrath of this bear with a sore butt next to me by calling over him to Geordie, who’s only a few along to my left. Just as the pre-game entertainment ends, signalling the teams are due to appear from the players’ tunnel soon, it gets worse.

Directly behind us is a father with three young boys. They are beyond excited at the game. From their chatter, I’ve heard this is the first time they’ve been to a big match. While they’re all wiggle bums, the oldest really cannot sit still. He reminds me of my friend Carla’s son, Noah, a spirited and thoroughly delightful little boy who wears his ADHD diagnosis for all to see. He’s like a perpetual motion machine, and this child is the same.

The gap between one row and the next is narrow, and the child’s bouncing body and jiggling legs frequently collide with the seats in front. Mr Grumpy is bearing the brunt of this. His face contorts as colour rises in his cheeks and eventually he can take no more. He turns to the father, who’s been doing his best to calm the kid. The dad has offered to swap seats with his son, or change him for one of his brothers, but the boy is reluctant; he insists he’s got the best view, and he’s not giving it up without a fight. Wisely, his father hasn’t looked for one, but now Mr Grumpy is bringing it, anyway.

“Do something about your bloody kid, or I’ll come up there and do it for you,” he spits. “I didn’t pay a hundred and fifty pounds to put up with that all night.”

The father looks stunned; the boys scared. We all wait, unsure. And then, from the corner of my eye, I see Geordie rise to his feet. No, no, no Geordie. This man is a ball of tightly wound anger, totally disproportionate to the situation. I’m not sure how Duncan expects anyone to resolve it, but he doesn’t appear in any mood to accept a peacemaker. Not even Geordie’s special brand of sunshine seems an antidote for the black cloud hanging over angry Duncan.

Geordie steps past Nora, leaning in close to the man and I wince, noting he’s within punching range—this guy looks like he wouldn’t hesitate to hit someone. Their conversation is muted by the blare of speakers drifting upwards from the field. However, I see the man’s shoulders almost instantly relax, and he’s soon nodding as Geordie gestures back along the row to where he’s just come from. He arrives back at his seat exchanging quick words to a concerned-looking Fraser Sinclair, who is following the events with interest. Mild-mannered Fraser is aggressive on the field, but I doubt he’d have the mongrel to bring to a fight; and let’s face it, neither of these guys are the type to get into a punch-up at the rugby, or hit an older man, even if he is an obnoxious dickhead, and even if he took a swing first. Fraser just nods and gathers his beer.

Within minutes, the problem is resolved, and I am in a daze at my good fortune. Duncan and Nora are in Geordie and Fraser’s seats, and Geordie and Fraser are in theirs. The game is about to begin and I get to share it with him.

“Good chips,” he says, cramming one he’s stolen from my punnet into his mouth with a grin.

“Hey,” I say. “Leave some for me. That’s my dinner.”

“No, it’s not. I’ll buy you dinner at half-time, OK? Hot-dogs or if you’re really lucky I might even stretch to a burger.”

“Thanks for sorting out that horrible man,” I say. With this one small action, he’s saved the night.

“Aw, well,” he says. “Felt sorry for the kid. That was me at that age. Couldn’t sit still for a moment. Drove everyone nuts.”

“Yeah, you kind of did,” I laugh. He was an active child.

A swallow works down his throat. “Lots of dyslexic kids have other challenges too. I was one of them.”

Dyslexic. I’d never heard that before about him, but it explains a lot. I know from Rachel how Geordie struggled his way through school. The stark contrast between his failing grades and her own exemplary record provoked tension in the family.

“But,” he says a little too brightly, “overactive kids sometimes grow into half decent rugby players. Besides,” he says, diverting the conversation, “the guy was acting like an arsehole, but he’s got his reasons.”

I raise a brow, curious about what could possibly justify such bad behaviour.

“See his hand.” I follow Geordie’s gaze. I hadn’t noticed the small plastic tube taped to the top of his hand. It’s the catheter of an IV line embedded there. “His wife filled me in as we swapped seats. He’s just come from the hospital. Demanded she break him out. Didn’t want to miss the game. Apparently, the doctors aren’t sure what’s wrong yet. Running tests. So he’s scared. It doesn’t excuse his behaviour, but I get it.”

I get it too. I nod, and turn my eyes back to the field, where movement below us and a roar from the crowd announce the players.

I catch my breath, senses overloading—not from the game, but from him. I’ve watched countless matches, but I’ve never experienced this intense tingling in my veins. It’s nothing to do with the game. I admit it to myself. I’m hopelessly attracted to my best friend’s little brother, and he’s right here, his warm, shiny presence wrapping around me as the sun goes down on Murrayfield and the temperature plummets .

It’s as if the whole ugly situation of earlier never happened. I’m convinced the universe is on my side. Seeing my need to soak up as much of this man as possible, she has engineered the opportunity to do so in a most unexpected way. I’m definitely not complaining. I’d endure a hundred Mr Grumpys for a snippet of time with one Geordie.

Even through our heavy jackets, I’m aware of the heat of his shoulder against mine. I imagine my hands running along the curve of it, tracing his neck, plunging my hands into that nest of curls that peek out of his shirt.

I drag my attention back to the field, joining the enthusiastic applause for our team. The men amble into line, ready for the anthem. A young woman steps onto the podium. The skirts of her tartan dress, a stylish modern version of a traditional costume ripple in the slight breeze. The familiar first bars of “Flower of Scotland” drift from the speakers, and with a smile and a slight toss of her mane of red hair, she begins. Her voice is high and as pure as a breath of Highland air. The crowd joins in and in my chest a tug of pride mingles with the melancholy this song inspires in every Scot. We sing in memory of our ancestors defeated in battle while below a group of young men gather to engage in a fortunately more benign tussle with a less formidable opponent than a red-coated English army.

Geordie and I blend our voices with the crowd. His is deep and tuneful and I smile, although the prickle of emotion from this song always prompts tears. I’m captivated by the sight of him, the light of the floodlights glinting off his hair like a halo. There is something beautiful and magical about Geordie that keeps drawing my eyes towards him .

A camera pans around the stadium, capturing the singing crowd. I trail its progress on the big screen opposite. It zooms in on a row and suddenly we realise it’s us. We lean in close, laughing and offering an exuberant wave to the world. We look so good together, his blonde curls brushing my dark hair. Just for a moment, I’m disappointed the American kiss-cam isn’t a thing here. Right now, I’d happily kiss Geordie MacDonald on international television for the whole damn world to see.