Page 36

JENNA

I ride the supercharged air in the grandstand like a wave, the anticipation of the match carrying me along with it. A few hundred Cluanie spectators surround me. I’m one small droplet in a sea of bright blue jerseys, with hats pulled low, striped scarves wound tight against the chill breeze the Duncraig opposition has brought with them from their Highland town.

“Pitch is looking grand. Malcolm Lewis got that lick o’ paint on the front of the clubrooms, too. The place is looking proper tidy.” Grant Darby wears a satisfied smile as he surveys the grounds below us.

Seated between him and Laura, we have seats of honour befitting the club president, his wife, and the coach’s daughter—right on the halfway line. We’re safe in a block of hometown fans, but pockets of Duncraig green show a strong turnout of supporters for the visiting team. It’s will be a hard-fought contest today, but I know our guys are ready.

A myriad of scents float on the wind: Grant’s spicy aftershave, Laura’s floral perfume, the greasiness of fried food from the caravan at the rear of the stand, the tang of grass as match officials pace the sidelines, the ever-present whiff of smoke from a fire. Someone’s at home by their hearth in Cluanie, but it seems most of the town is here, ready to watch the local lads, our rugby team, a source of fierce pride for this community.

The murmur of the crowd rises, like a buzz of angry bees, as they catch a glimpse of blue and white. There’s movement in the building opposite. The first of our team emerges from the small hallway that passes for a players’ shute, and beneath my feet the floor of the stand vibrates, the deafening thump of stamping feet. Mine instinctively join in the rhythm, drumming a welcome.

A river of enthusiastic applause flows across the grounds, punctuated by shouts of encouragement for our lads. Chanting voices echo back from spectators clustered on the embankments at the goal ends of the field.

“Let’s go, Cluanie.”

“Come on lads, let’s sock it to ‘em.”

Someone waves a warning for the Duncraig team, a banner with ‘BEWARE brANDON’S BOOT’ hand painted across it. Two teenagers hold aloft another: ‘GO HARD CLUANIE HEARTLAND LADS’. I want to race down and grab it off them to take home as a trophy. Dad will be chuffed to see his ‘heartland’ label catching on with the locals.

At last Geordie emerges, Nathan on his heels, and Connor bringing up the rear, the captain herding his charges to ensure they’re all where they should be.

My eyes track Geordie as he strolls onto the pitch, hair neat, jersey pristine, a glow of pure joy on his face. There’s an intimacy here in these small grounds, the players so close you can read every expression, their excitement and anticipation written large for all to see. My heart clenches as he swings his head my way, and I lock eyes with him. He smiles up at the full grandstand, but I know it’s a smile only for me.

I reluctantly left Geordie’s early last night so he could be well rested for today. It’s getting harder and harder to drag myself away from his bed, my protests about Dad finding out sounding more feeble to my ears. Geordie is wearing me down with assurances that he’s not afraid of my father. He says he’ll deal with the fallout, whatever that may be. But my father’s not one to make idle threats, and he’s still adamant that I’m off-limits to players, so him uncovering the truth can’t possibly end well for Geordie.

As I watch him jog onto the field below, flanked by the men who are brothers to him, his face already shining with the pure joy this game brings, I have a fierce need to protect him from losing this however I can. Even if it means denying what I most want. Even if the secrecy of our relationship frustrates him.

“The lads are looking fit as fiddles. Your Dad’s done a braw job with them.” Grant surveys the men ambling across the field with a critical eye.

They fall into a loose formation, their blue and white hooped jerseys bold against the brilliant green of carefully tended grass. Connor releases the ball tucked under his arm and tosses it to Brandon, who flicks it off to Calvin. The ball continues its progress around the team, snapping back and forth between players in precise passes.

On the other half of the pitch, the Duncraig team mirrors them, confidently flipping a ball around, while ignoring their Cluanie opposition. The message is clear: we’re not threatened by you .

Our boys are a burly lot, but a couple of their blokes are man-shaped mountains. I offer a prayer that Geordie’s speed will keep him out of their clutches. Bruises from last week’s match still bloom mauve and yellow across the gold of his stomach and ribs. No doubt tonight there’ll be more, but hopefully no broken bones. Geordie would be gutted to have his season cut short by injury.

“No doubt the blue and white will be taking home the win today,” Laura says, a proud smile on her face as her eldest son, Todd finds his mother in the crowd. The scrum half is a cocky wee rooster of a lad, known for his scrappy attitude. He waves up at Laura with a confident grin before strutting back to join the warm-up.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I retrieve it, glancing at the screen with a frown. The last thing I need is a client with an urgent problem. This game is the only important thing on my calendar today and I don’t want to miss it. But the name on the screen is not a client—it’s my boss. Well, former boss, I suppose, though even now I don’t dare to ignore a call from Kieran MacGregor, CEO of the Highlanders.

“Kieran, hi.” I clasp my phone tight to my ear to drown out the sound of the crowd.

“Where the hell are you? Lots of background noise.”

“I’m at a match. Five minutes from kick-off.”

“Surprised to hear so much noise from a local crowd. And for a small town team.”

I stiffen at the faint derisory note in his voice. Pride and defensiveness surge in me. These lads may be small town, but the guys shambling across the field below me are as dedicated as they come, as hungry to win as the flashy players in the pro teams. Maybe more so when you’re not playing for the money, but with your heart.

“Big turn out,” I say. “The whole town’s here. That’s how we do things up north.”

Kieran has lived all his life in Glasgow, so even the clubs he played for in his youth had a city veneer. He needs to come up here if he really wants to understand rugby.

“Well, I need to see if I can tempt you away from the bright lights of Cluanie. Listen, Jenna, the place has gone to hell while you’re away.”

As the referee strides onto the field, his jersey a gaudy slash of pink, the crowd’s mutterings become a clatter drowning out Kieran’s next words.

“What’s that?” I raise my voice.

“I said we need you back. Not in November. Now. What do you say? I’ll even add in a little bonus as a sweetener. Few thousand pounds. A bit of cash to spend on some shopping, maybe? I know you won’t have been doing too much of that up there.”

I bite my tongue, holding back a sharp retort. Shopping? That’s what he thinks I’d spend a bonus on? Not the mortgage on my apartment, or upgrading my car, or even just saving it because that’s what sensible people do with money. Certainly not investing it back into my new business, which has already attracted more clients in six months than I’d dared hope. Typical of a man like Kieran to assume a woman’s first thought would be clothes and shoes.

And that little dig about ‘up there’—the subtle contempt in his voice when he talks about Cluanie, as if civilisation ends at Glasgow’s city limits. As if I’ve been stranded in some cultural wasteland, desperate for retail therapy .

I feel the comfortable press of Grant and Laura flanking me. I soak up the comforting blanket of the hometown crowd wrapped around me.

Below me, Skylar and her friend jump up and down, enthusiastically waving the “brANDON BOOTS IT BEST” sign she made in our office yesterday afternoon.

My gaze sweeps across the field and there’s Geordie, his smile wide as he and Nathan jog forward to the halfway line where the two teams gather for the toss. As if he feels my gaze, he turns towards me, lifts his chin, and then—giving me a taste of my own medicine—shoots a mischievous wink. Something warm and certain settles in my chest. In that moment, my heart knows its decision.

Connor and the Duncraig captain step forward to meet the referee and the coin spins off his thumb, glittering in the sunlight, the future of the match perhaps hanging in those few seconds of flight. At the same time, I give Kieran the answer that determines my future, too.

The home crowd roars in approval as Cluanie wins the toss, and Connor elects to play into the brisk breeze in the first half, a tactical choice to face the challenge head-on while legs are fresh.

“I didn’t hear that,” Kieran yells down the line. “Say again.”

“I said I’m not coming back, Kieran.” I bellow back at him. “Not now. And not in November. You’ll have my resignation letter on your desk on Monday.”

My pulse quickens, not with doubt, but surety. I’m backing myself here, giving my fledgling business the space and attention it needs to fly. And I’m backing Geordie and me too. Our relationship is still new, still secret—fragile even—but I want to give it a chance to be so much more.

Who would have thought Rachel’s pesky little brother would transform into the man running confidently across that field? Having found him again here in Cluanie after all these years, I’m not about to walk away before we’ve properly begun. I watch him take his place behind the kicker, shoulders squared, focused, and ready, oblivious to my decision that will change everything for us both.