Page 3

GEORDIE

The room heaves with bodies, the air already thick with banter and the smell of beer. I swipe a bottle of Tennent’s lager from a tub of ice on the table and head to the corner where Connor, our captain, has settled his bulky frame into an available armchair. Kyle leans against it, his face already flushed with alcohol.

No judgement there. I intend to catch him up. That is the point of tonight’s party: a chance to get pissed, talk shit and have a bit of a blowout before the start of the season. For sure, we’re only a small-town club team, but where local honour is at stake, we take the game seriously enough to pull back on the booze for a few months. That and the fact our new coach is known to be unforgiving of pissheads. None of us want to catch a taste of his displeasure, nor do we want to let down a guy who’s put his reputation on the line for us.

I’m the baby of this group. But that’s the strange thing about growing up in a small town; the normal lines between those of different form classes and sports teams become blurred. Holding on to some immoveable age-determined class system doesn’t serve you well when you need a team of fifteen players and there’s only so many to go around. So despite six years between me as one of the youngest and the elder stalwarts of the team, like Kyle and Connor, there’s always been an easy camaraderie between us. I’ve missed it.

“Well, if it isn’t Geordie fucking MacDonald,” Kyle says, looping his free arm around my shoulder. I’ve forgotten just how lanky he is until standing here beside him. Handy for a copper to be tall, intimidating—and also since he plays at lock in the team; with his height in the lineout we’re always at an advantage. “Fuck, it’s good to see you. About fucking time. How long have you been back? At least a month and not once have you dropped by the station to see your old buddy Kyle. You slack bastard. Still a fucking useless prick, like always.”

“Good to see you too, man,” I say, unable to suppress a grin. “I can see you’ve managed to retain your extensive vocabulary while I was gone.”

“Fucking oath,” he fires back, his arrogant smirk splitting his face.

Kyle’s stint in the army equipped him with many skills, including the ability to embellish every sentence with at least one offensive word. I wonder how he managed to rein it in after leaving the military to take up a role as a government minister’s personal protection officer. Hopefully, he still can, since now, at the age of thirty-four, he’s embarked on his third career, joining the police and returning to his hometown. From all accounts, he’s thriving in the job. Being a big fish in a small pond suits Kyle’s need to be the centre of attention.

“Missed you at first practice the other night,” I say. As a local copper, Kyle’s job gets him a free pass the rest of us dare not hope for .

“Yeah, work,” he sighs. “Some dumb fucks rolled their car up on the road to Buchanan House. That’s my excuse. What’s yours for not calling by?”

“Yeah, I know.” He’s right. I’ve been slack. “I should have caught up sooner. But I didn’t expect to walk into a shit storm when I got home. Things were pretty wild, but I think it’s sorted.”

Mum’s heart attack blindsided us all. She’s always been the backbone of our family. A nurse by trade, the nurturer. Dad was totally lost, thrust into the role of caregiver. Way out of his comfort zone—the small-town lawyer more at home with legal briefs than shower benches and walking frames. Not that I’m exactly suited to it either, but arriving home the day after they discharged Mum, I could offer some welcome practical and moral support.

While it looks good on the outside—Mum’s gang of friends all think I’m the model son—the family drama wasn’t the reason for my return, just convenient timing. I bask in their approval. It’s a rare feeling to be considered anything other than the bad penny who turns up from time to time. Believe me, while it lasts, I’m not letting on that I came back simply because I’d had a guts full of life on an oil rig.

The money was brilliant, but that was about it. After my first six-month contract with an Aberdeen outfit, I thought swapping the brutal iciness of the North Sea for tropical heat down in Asia might be a smart move. For a few years, it sort of was, but that last stint on the rig in the Timor Sea finished me off. While it left me with a well-stashed bank account, it also made me finally realise how unsuited I am to that life, drifting around the world from one contract to the next .

Not that I’m sure how well fitted I am for this one, either. Being a guy of twenty-eight living at home with his parents isn’t exactly what I dreamed of. Nor is using my electrical engineering skills to coax unruly farm machinery back to life or keep the plant up at the distillery running smoothly.

Still, at least here I’ve got my mates. Stomping around a rugby field with the guys you’ve known since you were a little kid has a nostalgic appeal. Christ, I’m getting sentimental in my old age.

“Hey, look at this, mate.” Kyle leans down and pulls up the hem of his jeans, revealing an evil-looking row of teeth marks. “See what that fucking dog did to me? Little bastard. If it hadn’t been for Razor hot on his tail, he would have got a kick up the arse.”

“Don’t feel special,” I say. “Bastard got me too. Just lucky I had these on,” I say, lifting the edge of my own jeans to reveal my favourite tan leather boots.

“Yeah, if I’d known strolling around in a cowboy outfit would save me, I might have rounded up one for myself.” Kyle takes another long swig of his beer.

I accept him giving me stick good-naturedly. So what if I gravitated to the same off-duty uniform as my American workmates on the last rig? Reaching for any combination of the jeans, plaid shirts, and boots that fill my wardrobe neatly solves the problem of what to wear for a guy who doesn’t want to give too much thought to decisions like that. I draw the line at double denim and Stetson hats, but this outfit is comfortable—and provided an unexpected armour against the small black canine guided-missile who thought he might try out his jaws on my ankle as I came in the door .

“Well boys, I never thought I’d see the day.” Kyle grins around the circle of men. “Razor Sharpe lining up to chase our sorry arses around a paddock.”

We’re all a bit star-struck, to be honest. Not every day a local hero turns his back on the national stage to land in a small town like this one.

“Still remember watching him run out of the tunnel that first time at Murrayfield.” Fraser Sinclair turns back from where he’s been admiring the wall of framed awards. “God, I must have only been about four or five. We were all lined up in front of the telly, too scared to even breathe out of turn in case we interrupted the game. Dad was beside himself that a guy from his class at school was wearing the navy jersey. He’s a bloody legend, that bloke,” he adds with an awestruck nod towards the man himself.

Despite his pretty face, Fraser comes from a long legacy of what they refer to around here as ‘hard men’. The tough guys, the enforcers on the rugby field. Softly spoken and mild-mannered, you’d never guess how he morphs into the bloody Incredible Hulk when he ambles out through the players’ shute. Good old Robbie ‘Razor’ Sharpe, our coach, is a man of that ilk. Or was.

“Yeah, might have been only three caps, but the way my father tells it, you’d swear it was a hundred,” Brodie grins, while surveying the platters on the table with a critical eye. He works as a chef in the posh restaurant up at Buchanan House, and you can tell he loves it, but not so much that he’d put it second to rugby. Somehow he’s scored himself a deal where he doesn’t work Wednesdays and Saturdays in footy season. He must be some fucking chef to dictate his terms like that .

“So how come Razor didn’t go further?” Nathan asks, while scooping up a giant handful of crisps, the only thing that looks like regular food at this party.

“Head-high tackle,” Brodie says. “Fractured skull. You see that hearing aid he wears? Not old age. So yeah, he had no choice—had to come off the field for good. Even then, they knew one too many concussions could fuck you over. But he loved the game too much. Coaching drew him in.”

“I feel for the guy,” Fraser says, “but you still can’t help but wonder if in the end Scottish rugby was the better for it. Five championships back to back. You can’t argue with that.” He points to the trophy cabinet in the corner with its gleaming silverware.

“Maybe the man upstairs saw he had a higher calling,” Kyle quips. “First as coach of the Highlanders, followed by the illustrious position at Cluanie R.F.C. where he’s about to lead the team to their first divisional win in seven years.”

“Yeah, guess he saw the light—like you, mate,” Brodie quips. “Centre of the universe, this is. Why the hell would you want to be anywhere else?”

There’s a hidden question in Brodie’s winding up Kyle. No one expected he of all people would come back here to sleepy hollow Cluanie. After his war hero medal, and then a citation from the Queen for heading off an attempt on the life of the government minister he shadowed for two years, investigating shoplifters and issuing speeding tickets doesn’t offer much opportunity for the limelight. But Kyle brushes it off with a grin.

“Saw the interview,” Kyle says, with a nice deflection. “Seems the man had a hankering for grassroots rugby. Back to the heartland. More challenge in whipping a group of motley bastards like us into form, than simply marshalling the talents of rugby gods like Webster and co.”

“Wonder what his secret is?” Fraser says. “God knows, he’s going to need something if this team has any shot at the trophy.”

“He makes no secret of it.” Connor looks up from where he’s been quietly picking at the label of the bottle in his hand. Our team captain is the strong, silent type. When he talks, people listen. Connor Murray is one of those guys who commands respect just by being who he is. A natural leader. “Razor has this theory,” he says. Winning is about team culture. Team culture is about love. You know, building those bonds between people. So out on that field, you’re not individuals. You’re a unit. Like a family. And you will do whatever it takes for that family.”

“Well, you know I’ve always loved you guys,” Kyle scoffs. He slaps one arm across my shoulder, the other over Brodie’s, and we laugh alongside him, but I can see the guys are all intrigued by the thought.

“Maybe there’s something in it,” Nathan says. “Certainly worked for Graham Henry.” There’s a touch of awe in his voice as he speaks of his own country’s rugby elder statesman. “Read his book, and I’m sure I saw the ‘l’ word somewhere. Can’t argue when it comes from an All Blacks coach with eighty-eight test wins and a Rugby World Cup.”

“Yeah well, you might be right, Kiwi boy,” Kyle says, looking thoughtful. “So, who are you backing next weekend?”

“Scotland,” Nathan answers without hesitation.

“Traitor,” Brodie, grins.

Nathan flips him a finger and grins back. “Arsehole. Let’s face it—it’s a no-win situation with you bastards. If I go for Scotland, I’m a traitor. If I say New Zealand, you’ll accuse me of disloyalty to the country that took me in.”

“Or maybe win-win,” Fraser offers. “A bob each way. Back whoever is ahead.”

“You offering to put up some money?” Nathan quirks a teasing brow.

He’s a good bloke, this New Zealander. Beyond exercising my skills as an electrician, we’ve spent a lot of time together these past weeks, sinking a few pints. God knows it’s been a relief to escape my father’s judgmental glare for a few hours in the evenings.

“So look at this,” Fraser says with a resigned smile, nodding towards the noisier half of the large lounge where tinkling female laughter tumbles from the group of our paired-up teammates.

Robbie Sharpe is winning over the wives and girlfriends with his wit and charm, while their partners look on indulgently. That’s another thing he’s made a name for in his professional coaching days—involving the players’ families, making them seem like an extension of the team. Happy families equals happy players equals happy team—and happy teams are winners.

“The haves and the have-nots,” Fraser says. “Us being the have-nots. Not a wife or girlfriend among us.”

“Unless exes count,” Nathan says with a bitter laugh.

“You were married, mate?” Fraser probes gently, already tuned in to the air of hurt surrounding Nathan’s words.

“Yeah,” Nathan says. “Eight years and a child later, and she walks out on me. At least one good thing came out of it.” He pulls out his phone, and there on the lock screen is the smiling wee kid, dark-haired and the spitting image of the guy holding it out, with the same sunshine smile Nathan’s had on his dial every time I’ve met him, except for just now with talk of his ex. “It was worth every excruciating minute of it for her.” And it’s just like someone turned the lights back on as that easy Kiwi grin spreads across his face.

“Doesn’t look like we’ll be doing anything to rectify that problem tonight at least,” Brodie observes. Of course, there isn’t an unattached woman in sight. “Unless someone is brave enough to hit on old Robbie’s daughter. I presume she’ll put in an appearance.”

After seeing her at the practice ground on Wednesday, with those beautiful eyes and the hint of a smile—a smile I’ve been pretending was just for me—seeing Jenna tonight is as much of an attraction as the food and booze and a chance to hang out with my mates.

“Yeah?” Nathan says, with a hopeful brightening of his face. Like me, he’s in the middle of a very long woman-drought. “Know anything about her?”

Kyle leans back with arms folded as if he’s been waiting for this exact opening. I hold back. I know more about Jenna Sharpe than most of them—but it’s not the Jenna she is now. She was one of my sister’s closest friends, although careers have driven them along different paths since leaving Cluanie. With six years between us, both she and Rachel always adopted the expected public disdain for younger brothers. It’s all back in the haze of childhood now, but again, that memory of Jenna often being kinder to me than my sister, even in front of other people, jumps forward. I’m totally ignorant about this grown-up Jenna Sharpe, but from the look on Kyle’s face, I know that’s about to be corrected.

“She was in my year at school.” He drains his beer, obviously enjoying a chance to hold the floor.

I don’t like the way Kyle says that, a disturbing smugness about him that suggests more. I don’t want to know. I like Kyle, but his reputation with women goes way back, and it’s not pretty. I really don’t want to think about the possibility that Jenna, or my sister—I inwardly shudder at the thought—feature on Kyle’s lengthy list of conquests.

“Went off to uni and never came back,” he continues. “A few years after she graduated, she went to work for her father’s team. Followed him back here when her mum got sick—and then, of course, passed away. Pretty sad, eh?”

Everyone is aware of Razor’s highly-publicised loss. After all, that’s what triggered him to chuck it all in and choose life back here in Cluanie, rather than take on the challenge of leading his Highlanders team to a record-breaking sixth consecutive championship win.

“You’ve been stalking this Jenna, have you Kyle?” asks Brodie, stuffing what looks like a fancy sausage roll into his mouth.

“No,” he says. “You forget—I do detective work for a living, mate. Didn’t see any harm in doing a little background checking. Find out more about what we’ve all signed up for.”

“Ahh, I see background checking. Not checking her out?” Fraser needles at him.

“Yeah, OK, you caught me.” Kyle raises his hands in surrender. “And why wouldn’t I check out the new girl in town a little? Although from what I’ve heard, it will be a brave man who goes there.” He smiles enigmatically as we hang on his words.

“Come on, spill,” Brodie says.

“Well, there was a bit of an incident. Seems the one time in his life that old Razor lost his cool in public was over his daughter. After-match function, one of his players apparently got a bit handsy with young Jenna and found himself slammed up against a wall with hands locked around his throat. Someone just happened to film it—as they do—and it was all over the internet for a few hours till the PR people made it go away. But if you know where to look, you can still find it. Believe me mate, do not go there.”

I take the warning. My outgoing nature has got me in exactly that sort of shit before. Stop on impulse for a friendly chat with a pretty girl and next minute you’ve got an angry father throttling you—or brother, boyfriend, husband—I’ve met them all over the years and it’s no fun. I’m a good talker, but you can’t always talk your way out of that. Plus, I don’t want to shit in my own nest.

Being back with these guys, playing together again, is just the antidote I need for the untethered life I’ve led, and a way of easing into acceptance that I’m back here in my hometown. The place, I said, in my boyish bravado, I’d never come back to. No, there must be less complicated women to get involved with, even here in this little hole, without risking the wrath of Razor and losing my place on the team, if not my life.

Besides, this is Jenna, and my sister would definitely have something to say about that. I’m not sure my sister’s friend is a safe territory to venture into, even now when the age difference between us is no longer relevant. There’s history there that also makes this woman off-limits.

And then, as if on cue, a hush falls across the crowd. The muted yellow lamplight seems to brighten as we jerk our heads up from our conversation. Every eye in the room turns in one direction. Jenna Sharpe stands at the top of the stairs, paused like a princess about to make an entrance at the ball. Except she’s not wearing a ball gown, and I doubt she could look any sexier if she did .

The teenage girl I last saw in shorts and t-shirt lounging on the sand at the little beach down by the loch—she’s long gone. In her place is a dark-haired woman with brown almond eyes set in smooth honeyed skin. She’s in a pair of jeans that fit her ample curves, leaving nothing to the imagination. The shiny emerald green top, slashed in a deep v, reveals a peek of cleavage.

I’m reminded of my father’s less than subtle attention to Nigella Lawson’s cooking show. He always says it’s a compliment to my mum that the only women he ever looks at all have her shapely outline. I’ve inherited his love for a decent set of curves. It’s the only thing I’ve got in common with the bastard.

We all stand there like idiots, the less discreet with mouths dropped open. Jenna is fucking beautiful. Sometimes life really sucks. The first woman to truly catch my eye in ages, and my sense of self-preservation screams at me to stay away from her.