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JENNA

My body leaps at the unexpected thunder of a fist on the bedroom door. My hand skews upwards, the perfect sweep of brow pencil with it.

“Shit.” I glare at the charcoal streak marring my forehead. A lopsided cartoon character stares back from the mirror, one brow raised in perpetual surprise. “Shit,” I repeat, yanking open my dresser drawer, fingers scrabbling for makeup remover.

A racket of voices, music, and laughter tumbles into my room as the door swings open without invitation. I bristle with indignation. There’s a perfectly good downstairs bathroom. Stray visitors should not be invading my space. This party was a bad idea. I told Dad we should have used the club rooms instead of letting people roam through our home. It doesn’t matter that I know a fair few of them—it’s too soon.

I tense, swivelling towards the intruder, a polite but firm protest ready on my lips. The words dissolve when my father, Robbie Sharpe, appears around the corner, his dark curls peppered with silver, hawk-like nose preceding him .

“Mind if I leave Andy up here with you?” Dad asks.

Amusement creases his face. The scruffy black dog tucked under his arm—all pointy ears and whiskers—mirrors my father’s expression. They could be twins, except for the pink tongue lolling between Andy Murray’s moustached lips and his excited panting. He writhes in Dad’s grasp, desperate to reach me.

Andy and I are sort of mates. Lucky he likes Dad and me, because the grumpy arsehole hates everyone else. Even then, I suspect pompous Andy only tolerates us because we feed and walk him. Not like he has much choice of servants these days. He was Mum’s dog, and she was his angel, his defender, his everything. Now she’s gone, and he’s stuck with us.

“Little bastard’s already nipped two people,” Dad says with thinly-veiled pride. The gleam in his eyes is no surprise.

Dad’s always considered dogs like Andy a poor example of the species. Not much use for anything except a household decoration. “Just a bloody meat-eater,” he’ll mutter whenever he spots one perched under a pub table. He’s always looked down on the owners of small dogs with disdain, Mum being the sole exception. Now that Andy has proven himself as a household protection device—albeit poorly calibrated—he might have finally secured his place in the family.

“Who did he get?” I ask, hoping it wasn’t one of the wives or girlfriends. With their slim ankles teetering in ridiculous heels, WAGS would be easy game for a snappy Scottie terrier.

“Kyle Stewart,” he says. “Dog’s pretty much on the mark there. Just as long as it doesn’t get infected and put him out for the pre-season friendlies. Cocky bastard, but we need him. ”

I can understand Andy’s choice. I think if I had to choose a victim from a room full of people, Kyle would be high on my list of targets, too. With a reputation tarnished by memories of him sleeping his way through every girl in our form class—to my eternal shame, including me—I can’t imagine he’s sufficiently changed.

I breathe a silent thanks to Andy on behalf of myself and all the other deluded teenage girls who fell prey to his charms. Kyle is good-looking, witty—kind even, behind the arrogant veneer—but with the sex-drive of a tomcat. He’s one of those guys who makes you feel like the only girl in the world when he’s with you. But harsh experience taught me—and all the others—that rather than basking in the blazing heat while his attention was upon me, I really should have worried about what he was up to when it wasn’t.

“I’m impressed. Good boy, Andy,” I croon and the dog wriggles his whole body with pleasure.

“Then, for some reason, he took a dislike to Geordie MacDonald.”

“No,” I say horrified. “Not Geordie?” How could anyone take a dislike to Geordie? Apart from a glimpse of him at practice the other night, I haven’t seen my best friend Rachel’s younger brother for years, but I still think of him as the sunny kid who trailed along behind us all over town.

Sure, we were mean to him, as befitted his lowly status—after all, he was six years younger—just to shake him off. But like Teflon, he deflected it all, blinded by his adoration of his sister. And while it was rather annoying when he spied on us down at the loch-side reserve, watching us kissing boys and smoking, he was easy to forgive. Without a sibling of my own, I suppose I had a high tolerance for my surrogate kid brother .

I can’t imagine fully-grown Geordie to be any less likeable than ten-year-old Geordie. That bloody dog definitely needs reprogramming.

“I take it all back, Andy. You’re a little shit. Bad, Andy,” I scold. His enthusiastic squirming makes it clear he has zero comprehension of the word ‘bad’. Mum’s overly-indulgent dog-parenting is precisely how we ended up here.

“Och, it’s all good,” Dad says. “No blood.”

Just as well—we don’t have Doc and a string of team medics at our beck and call these days. This isn’t a professional rugby outfit, just a small-town club with limited resources and a handful of enthusiastic volunteers.

“Give him here,” I say, reluctant to be Andy’s minder, but opening my arms anyway. Sometimes you’ve got to take one for the team. Literally.

I press the thrashing beast to my chest. His wiry coat—perfectly matching his bristly personality—feels like cuddling a kitchen broom. He struggles free, launching himself towards the bed. I sigh as he dances across my pristine white cover, leaving dirty smudges. After celebrating his conquest of the bed, Andy rotates in ever-decreasing circles before finally settling on my pillow.

I groan. He’s not only nippy; he’s also a whiffy wee beast. I’ll be drifting off to sleep with his reek in my nostrils. Might be a good night to load up on the alcohol—for sedation purposes, of course. Though I won’t complain if it also blurs the painful edges of this first proper public appearance since Mum died. Sure, I’ve scurried in and out of the local shops, had a drink at the pub with my friend Rachel when she was here a couple of weeks ago, but I haven’t faced a crowd since the day of Mum’s funeral, six months ago. After we laid her to rest in the small kirkyard of St Andrew’s, most of the town followed us back here for the wake. Now there’s a different sort of gathering below, but I still don’t want to face it.

“You OK love?”

I treasure Dad’s crackled voice—gentle with me, scathing with undisciplined players. He reads me just as he reads them. That’s his coaching superpower: drilling straight into a person’s heart. Rugby players never see it coming, but it’s how he transforms the merely talented into the spectacular.

“Yeah, Dad. All good,” I try to lie. “I won’t be long. Just putting on the war paint.”

His deep, gruff laugh massages my ears; a sound I’ve heard too little lately.

“You don’t need it for that lot downstairs. No one to impress there. They all know you.”

That’s precisely why I do need the mask of makeup. Too many of them know me too well. I need to go out there with the same aura of confidence I used in my past life against wily reporters, intent on confirming the dirt they’ve dredged up on a player—because if I let it slip, it’s not some wayward rugby jock exposed. It’ll be me, raw with the truth: I neglected this place, these people, and worst of all, I abandoned my mum. A choice I can never undo.

Noisy chatter from the crowd taking over my home drifts upstairs. I can’t suppress a smile as the chorus of male voices stirs warm nostalgia. I dab makeup into the faint creases bracketing my mouth. I’ve lost count of the rugby team parties in my life, but I still remember the first .

I was five. Mum bathed me early that night, tucked me in with her usual goodnight kiss to my long, witchy hair, but left without our bedtime story.

Lying in the soft glow of my Spiderman night light, I tracked each arrival. Car doors slamming, heavy footsteps on the path, knuckles tapping or fists pounding the front door. Then raucous laughter, hearty greetings, back-slapping and blokey banter. Through it all, my parents the constant backdrop: Dad’s raspy voice cutting across the chatter, my mother’s indulgent chuckles as young men invaded her house.

Sleep was impossible. How could any child doze off amid booming voices and clinking glasses, all pulsing to the beat of rock music? Snuggled under my plush blanket, I could think only of sausage rolls, their warm, crisp pastry aroma having filled the house all day. And those perfect little pies—dark peppery mince nestled beneath flaky layers. As Dad’s team devoured the feast downstairs, my rumbling stomach reminded me of my five o’clock dinner, served early so I wouldn’t be underfoot.

The door creaked open. A large hand clutching a plate appeared, followed by the cheeky face of our neighbour’s son, Dean. A gawky teen with a curly mop of too-long hair and pitted skin—he would later become the local club’s star winger. But then, he was just the friendly kid next door who sometimes kicked a ball with a rugby-obsessed little girl, showing kindness to the lonely only child from the other half of the semi-detached.

“Sssh,” he said, finger to his lips. “Present from your dad.” My eyes widened at the mountain of food. He nudged Spidey aside and slid the heaped plate onto my bedside table. “I’ll collect it later. Best your mum doesn’t know, eh?” he added with a conspiratorial grin .

Even then, Dad and I had our connection—partners in a world Mum never fully entered. Behind these sweet memories from his early coaching days, lurks an insurmountable sadness. Mum’s gentle, stabilising presence is gone. Death stole her unwavering support for Dad’s legendary career—and for mine, when I followed him into professional rugby with my PR skills. She championed us both unhesitatingly, even when our work took us far from her—her presence distilled into phone calls and FaceTime.

My bedroom door glides open again. It’s vastly different from my childhood bedroom’s, this one all modern lacquer and gleaming brass. As Dad peers around the corner, my nostalgic musings sharpen the changes in his face: fifty-eight years of battling laughter lines and frowns, now overtaken by grief’s deep furrows.

Big softie that he is, he steps inside the room, placing a water bowl and a plate of kibble on my bathroom tiles.

“Thought he might need this,” he says gruffly.

“Thanks Dad,” I say as he slips back out. I glare at Arsehole Andy sprawled on my pillow. Definitely not the pleasant and gracious ambassador for Scotland that his namesake is, but it seems I’m stuck with him.

I return to fixing my face. I’m dreading this party, but I can’t let Dad down. My hand trembles as I attempt eyeliner. Thank god for long lashes that don’t require a steady mascara brush. With no time for a jaunt to Edinburgh, I’d risked having a lash tint and brow wax at the little local beauty salon. An entrepreneurial young woman named Daisy has set up shop in the main street. She’s done a remarkable job for only twenty-five pounds. Perhaps I’ll offer to help promote her place. Selfish, really, since I need her business to survive .

Neat black flicks in place, I reach for a narrow vial. I untwist the lid, and roll the small ball across each thumb before pressing them to my temples. The aromatic herbal oil soothes instantly, the gentle massage casting a protective spell against the possibility of a migraine. Ironic that after conquering the debilitating headaches of my youth through years in a high-pressure career, they should resurface the moment I’m free of it.

Normally, I’d avoid the heavy incense wafting from the town’s new-age shop, but wandering in there by chance last week worked in my favour. My hands had gravitated toward the herbal headache remedy. I bought the vial on impulse—I’ll try anything to avoid old Doctor Metcalfe’s anti-inflammatory injections in the butt. I make a mental note to thank Rain, the hippie-looking owner who recommended it. Unexpected wisdom lurks behind her wild grey mane and enigmatic smile.

I grab a bright red lipstick—far more jaunty than I feel—and paint on courage, coaxing my lips into a confident smile. Not yet ready to brave the noise below, I sit for a moment. I study myself in the mirror, silently summoning the strong, competent woman I see reflected there to step forward and face the evening.