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GEORDIE

I’m lit up with a blaze of energy as we thread our way back through the streets towards the hotel. It takes all my control to amble along normally with the group, Jenna at my side. As she stretches a hand to point at the Saltire flying proudly above Edinburgh castle, in defiance of the Scottish loss, loose strands of dark hair under her Scotland beanie brush my neck. God, my hands long to feel their way into its shiny depths. Her cheeks are flushed pink with the cold and I’d happily offer my mouth to warm those rosy bowed lips.

Everything inside me hums with the need to break into some sort of victory dance, or leap around like an unruly golden retriever, simply because for now she’s all mine.

The small detail that our team took a hiding at the hands of the All Blacks pales beside the rest of the evening’s events. I spent two hours tucked in close to Jenna, our breaths mingling in clouds; our voices, one moment screaming encouragement in unison at a runaway Scottish try, the next united in some enthusiastic booing when the dodgy French referee dished out an unfair yellow card to our team captain .

We joked around with the kids behind us, who think I’m the best person they’ve ever met for bringing them back hotdogs at half time. Even grumpy old Duncan and his wife joined in a bit of banter. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun, or felt so happy, or sensed the total rightness of a situation. I hope she sensed it too.

If her constant upward curve of lips, the sparkle in her eyes, and her hand casually buried deep in my jacket pocket—its warm pressure a welcome sensation against my hip as we stroll back through the streets—are any evidence, she may well have.

However, my light-hearted mood falters just short of the hotel. Two young women catch sight of Jenna, and make a beeline for her, waving wildly, their faces lit in wide smiles.

“Jenna! Oh my god, it’s so good to see you.” The woman with a cascade of blonde hair beneath a Highlanders beanie clasps Jenna to her, although I notice Jenna return the hug half-heartedly.

“It’s good to see you too, Amber.”

“You remember my friend, Tilly?”

“Yes, from the opening night of that new club in Argyle Street.” Jenna offers a polite smile to the other woman.

“God, that feels like a lifetime ago,” Amber gushes. “So, I just have to tell you how much we all miss you. Really,” she sighs with a roll of her eyes, “Jamie Sanderson was so not ready to step into your shoes. Roll on November I say.”

She squeezes Jenna’s hand as my heart plummets at the reminder—in three months Jenna will be gone from Cluanie and gone from my life. Unless something makes her change her mind, she’ll be back in Glasgow, back at the Highlanders. I’d like to think that something could be a someone—me, but I’m not foolish enough to believe I alone could compete with the future she’s built for herself there. Still, the thought of letting her walk away without even trying leaves a hollowness I can’t bear. Maybe I’m not enough reason to stay, but I might be enough reason to wonder what she’d be leaving behind. And for now, that sliver of possibility is all I have to hold on to.

Back at the hotel, we merge into the crowded bar. Surrounded by my friends, I’m knocking back the final drops of my first warming slug of alcohol when I realise Jenna is gone. One moment she’s laughing with Connor on my right, while Brodie corners me to whinge about the disallowed try right on half-time. The next, when I turn back, having tossed in my own share of dissatisfaction at the TMO’s decision, Jenna has disappeared.

Back in the big group, she’s slipped away from me, and my doubts return. That’s me, Geordie MacDonald, great for a bit of fun, but not for a serious relationship. Fine for a brief fling, but not someone you’d attach your life to. Insane as it seems, I think we’d have a chance, she and I, a life together, a good life, if only we could somehow take that first step.

There must be a couple of hundred of us in this room, shoulder to shoulder, doing what Scots do best in defeat: relive the battle in blow-by-blow detail, bolster each other’s hopes that next time victory will be ours, and drink.

In the bar pre-match, and during the game, a cool lager matched my thirst. Now there is no question of choosing anything other than a dram of whisky. My face is flushed with the warm buzz as I finish my second and I’m tempted to reject the idea of a third. While deliberating over the wisdom of more alcohol, I scan the room, pretending it’s just a casual surveillance of the crowd .

Of course I’m looking for her. There’s no sign of Jenna in the crush, and I worry if she’s OK in this group of men. Most appear harmless enough, but there’s always one or two who you wouldn’t want near your wife or girlfriend—or the woman you’re crazy about. Although I have this strange urge to protect her nagging at me, I know it’s stupid. Jenna can hold her own in any crowd. She doesn’t need me to save her. Not that it stops me wanting to.

I’m jostled out of my thoughts by Nathan at my elbow. He’s slightly drunk and louder than I’ve ever heard him. A group of Kiwi supporters are giving him a hard time, reminding him the score tonight shows how unwise it is to have switched allegiance away from the country of his birth, but it’s all good-natured. He tells me New Zealand is a lot like Scotland—except with better weather—and I think the people are a lot like us too. When it comes to sports, we might be bitter rivals on the field, but off it the friendly banter flows as freely as the booze.

I keep one ear on the conversation, dropping in a small barb here, responding to a bit of winding up from the Kiwis there, but my eyes and mind are elsewhere. I’m still looking for Jenna.

When at last I see her, she’s at the bar, three back in the queue. Any half decent man would make way for her. I feel like striding over and pushing them aside, easing the way through. However, Jenna’s not the sort to want a knight in shining armour, especially here where she doesn’t need rescuing. She’s navigated nights like this many times. She doesn’t need my help.

Again I wonder—what does she need from me? She’s grateful for my skills as an electrician. She enjoys my company. I know she appreciated my handling of what could have been an unpleasant blot on tonight’s fun with grumpy Duncan. I like to think she got to see my maturity and the way I have with people, old or young. Nora, poor old Duncan’s long-suffering wife and that young single dad, coping with three lively lads—they all know I’m a good guy, and I think Jenna knows it too. But I’m not sure she sees me as anything more than an amiable rugby-watching companion.

Aside from the fact her father might kill me, other things stand between us. My past relationship to her, as a surrogate kid brother, for a start. I’m baffled by how to take the steps necessary to get us out of that territory, because right now, thoughts of anything more may well feel almost incestuous to her. In that case, the kind of move I’d like to make would be repellent.

Even if she doesn’t see our current relationship as that of family, it’s still looking dangerously like it might get stuck in the friend zone. I’m not sure how to get out of that either. I’ve never had a friendship with a woman. I’ve lived in a world dominated by men for so long. Sure, there were a few women on the rigs, but I tended to steer clear of them, a wise precaution when we all lived in close proximity and there was no easy escape if things went wrong.

Having Jenna as my friend would be a rare gift, and one I’d be happy to share with my sister; but I already know it would never be enough. Watching her pair up with some other guy, having to support her choice to play happy families with someone else—I haven’t got the strength to live through that.

So, somehow, I have to take action, but discovering just what to do and when to do it is more challenging than if someone handed me a copy of War and Peace and told me to read it and write a book review. More frightening than dealing with the twin spectres of Rachel MacDonald and Robbie Sharpe, hovering menacingly at my shoulder, whispering all the ways they’re going to hurt me if I hurt Jenna.

Nathan breaks away from his post-mortem of the game with the triumphant All Blacks supporters, and nudges me hard.

“So, Geordie, my man, we may have lost the game, but at least you scored a win tonight.”

He wraps a floppy arm around my shoulder and slurs his words. The smell of whisky wafts across. I’m glad I’ve paced myself, thinking it’s wise to keep my wits about me. I can’t guarantee I wouldn’t do or say something stupid or clumsy in front of Jenna, with too much alcohol on board. While it might give me a shot of courage, it could also leave me depressed and wallowing in my doubts. It has that effect on me sometimes. But Nathan’s got nothing to lose. He not only loves to make whisky, he loves to drink it.

“You could call it that,” I say. “Not sure time spent in my company has convinced her, though.”

“Come on Geordie, the woman thinks you’re adorable. She looks at you like she’s looking at a cute puppy.”

I wince. These words are not the reassurance I’m looking for.

“I was hoping for a bit more than a pat on the head and her telling me I’m a good boy.”

His laughter bursts out across the room, and heads turn. Quiet Nathan transforms into a raucous drunk, but anyone can see he’s of the friendly variety.

“Looks like she might need you to be more pit bull than Labrador right this minute.”

He inclines his head towards where Jenna is now leaning on the bar, waiting patiently for a server to acknowledge her .

The sight of a man draped across her extinguishes all my earlier warm, charitable thoughts about our Kiwi brothers. He’s distinctive by his size and his All Blacks supporters jersey. I see her shake him off, but his arm returns. I burn with rage that he should touch her, and then make matters worse by continuing to do so when she’s made it clear his attention is unwanted.

I’m moving in his direction, but Nathan’s arm shoots out in front of me.

“Down boy,” he says. “She’s got this.”

And she has. With narrowed eyes and a defiant shrug, she flicks him off. Words fly from her mouth. I can’t read her lips, but I can see from the expression on the jerk’s face that she’s put him in his place. He sensibly edges away from her. She turns back to the bar, presses her card to the machine, scoops up two drinks and makes her way to a booth on the far side of the room where her father and Grant Darby are still deep in conversation. She places the drinks in front of them with a smile as if nothing’s happened. In her mind, it hasn’t. It’s just me who is all riled up and still considering finding that arsehole in the crowd and smacking him in the face. Only knowing how unimpressed she’d be stops me.

I watch her stroll out in the direction of the sign that says ‘Toilets’. Seeing her casual confidence and quiet competence in every situation reminds me once again: Jenna has her life well under control—why the hell would she want me in it?