Page 38

GEORDIE

Fresh from the best shower of my life, I step into the clubrooms and a wall of heat hits me. Beer and sweat hang thick in the air. The place is packed. Our supporters are raucous, jubilant at our hard-fought win. They shout good-naturedly across tables, against the backdrop of clinking glasses and the scrape of chairs on the old wooden floors. It all but drowns out the 80s rock music playing in the background.

Everyone’s talking a bit louder, laughing a bit harder. The special buzz that only comes with a win runs like an electric current through the room. The bar is three deep. As one person peels away, pint and pie in hand, another takes their place.

I spot Grant Darby over by the trophy cabinet, as if the County Cup is already there, and he’s guarding it. He’s a proud president in his Cluanie blue blazer surrounded by a few of his committee and some unhappy Duncraig officials in their own colour of emerald green. His weapon of choice, Robbie Sharpe, stands at his elbow, glass of water in hand, but a satisfied glow like he’s already downed a couple of whiskies .

I scan the mass of bodies, but Jenna is nowhere in sight. As Coach’s daughter, she’s probably buried in some group of locals receiving congratulations on his behalf. The thought of some beefy farm boy or scruffy tradesman taking the opportunity for a hug; arms that aren’t mine around her, other hands on her perfect waist—fuck, maybe even chancing a sly peck on her cheek—ignites jealous anger in my veins.

I take a place at the leaner, breathing in the familiar smell of freshly-washed bodies, with a faint overlay of liniment, finding it soothing. Brodie, Nathan, and Fraser are propped against it, each with a beer already in front them.

“What’s this then?” I frown as Nathan raises his bottle of Stella and takes a long swig. “Feeling cocky after the win?”

“You didn’t hear?” he replies, thumping the bottle onto the table. “Two each, lads. But no more.” He delivers the words in perfect imitation of Coach’s rasping tone, including a passable Scottish accent, and his face contorted into the growling expression we know so well.

We all howl with laughter, like we’re once more a bunch of cheeky high school boys mocking Mr Carswell, our old maths teacher, behind his back.

“But he didn’t say two of what.” Connor shoulders his way between us, sliding a pale gold pint of Tennent’s lager in front of me, and placing two others on the leaner. “If we’re allowed a beer, might as well make it a decent one, eh? No knocking back pissy little bottles of Belgian crap.” He scowls at Nathan’s drink of choice. “We’ll never make a Scotsman out of you, till you learn how to drink, man.”

“You’re really saying that to a guy who can make a damn fine Scotch whisky?” Brodie leaps in to defend the Kiwi boy.

“Now we’re talking,” Fraser says, draining his pint glass. “If Coach didn’t specifically say we can’t.”

“No fucking whisky,” Connor warns. “Or at least save it for when we sneak over to the Railway after this.”

“Sooner the better,” Nathan suggests. “At least they have a MacFarlane’s on the shelf and I won’t have to drink this pissy Belgian crap.” He chortles, unfazed by the winding up by his teammates.

“I’ll stick to my Tennent’s, thanks.” Kyle Stewart sidles in next to Nathan. “We may have won a game, but we’ve got a bloody great mountain to climb in the morning, lads.”

I groan inwardly. Every muscle in my body aches. I’ve got too many bruises to count and a massive grass burn on my side where my jersey rode up as I dived for the try—not that I’d have chosen to do anything less but slide across that ground and press the ball over the white-painted line. The only workout I’m up for after today’s pummelling is with a certain beautiful woman. Maybe tonight, given my last-minute heroics on the field, I could convince her to stay over. Even so, I’d have to haul arse out of bed early in the morning, and leave her behind, tucked up in my sheets. I can’t let the guys down, but the thought of trekking up a mountain is the last thing I feel like.

“Shit,” Brodie says, his mouth terse, “I’d forgotten about that. Tell me again, why the fuck we’re doing it tomorrow? After a big game? Wasn’t the smartest idea, was it?”

Fraser leaps in. “Because, mate, you and the rest of us all bragged about knocking off a Munro, and Cap here”—he says with a nod towards Connor, who’s looking a little embarrassed—“who has been kind enough to offer to take us so we don’t fall off the side of the fucking mountain, has to put his paying clients ahead of dumb bastards like you and me.”

We’ve delayed this trip twice. Connor, a cousin to the famous ‘kilted climber’ himself, Callum MacFarlane, has the mountains in his blood. He mixes his work on the Murray family farm with guiding for a local tour company, taking hikers who fancy bagging a Munro to the top of mountains. None of us would deny the man income to take a group of his teammates up Beinn Greannach so we can claim we’re true Scots who’ve bested a mountain.

“Toughen up Brodie,” I snort. “Besides, it’s no man left behind, right, Connor? So one way or another, we’ll make sure you get back down, though I can’t say I’d want to carry you.”

“We can always stretcher the pathetic bastard,” Connor says with a grin. He volunteers for the mountain rescue too, so if anyone can work out how to get an incapacitated bloke off a mountain, it’s him.

I sense Jenna’s approach before I see her, the tropical fragrance so feminine, its delicate floral note distinctive amongst the manly odours surrounding me. She slides into the gap between Nathan and me, and I don’t move to widen it, grateful for the warm press of her body close, even if it is clothed in layers I’d rather weren’t there.

“Made your dad a happy man today,” Fraser says, grinning at her. “No disrespect, but he’s not an easy man to please, so it’s extra sweet.”

She laughs. “Tell me about it. You only have him for your coach. Imagine what it’s like being his daughter.”

“Pretty tough, I’d say,” Fraser replies. “Can’t be easy keeping on his good side.”

A dirty smirk splits Kyle’s face. “Especially when he finds out you’re spending time with this one here.” He grins at me. Jenna stiffens as if she’s paralysed by an electric shock. I give Kyle a ‘what the fuck?’ glare and then turn my face to hers. It’s masked with a polite smile, as she pretends to ignore the remark and continues to focus on Fraser.

“Well, after that performance out there today, I think you’re safely in his good books,” she says a little too brightly to Fraser, who pipped Brandon for man of the match with his relentless defence.

“MacDonald here has to be, too, after that last try,” Kyle interjects, luring the focus back onto me. “Reckon he deserves to get lucky tonight, eh?” he says with a suggestive wink at Jenna.

She brushes Kyle off like he’s an annoying midgie flitting around on a summer evening, not worthy of her attention. She keeps her face focused on Fraser.

“How you kept your cool after that disallowed try, I have no idea. Up in the stands we were all ready to storm the pitch and sort out the ref ourselves.”

I’m torn. Part of me wants to grab Kyle by the collar and throttle the bastard; while the sensible, rational part argues I do as Jenna is doing right now—ignore him and not give his filthy suggestions any oxygen in the hope they’ll die down.

“Anyway, I think I’ll go get a drink,” she says, turning on that mega-watt smile, although I’m guessing, like me, she’s fuming on the inside. I let her walk away. As the conversation returns to a post-mortem of the game, I slip out of the group after her.

The scrum of people gathered in the bar area works in my favour. I intercept her before she’s made it to the bar, inserting myself into her path. She goes to step around me, and I block her. She changes direction with the agility of an outside centre under the pressure of a defender, but I’m faster .

She halts with a disgruntled huff, arms crossed, her chin tipping in an aggressive question.

“What?” she says, eyes flashing. She has every right to be mad, but her anger is based on an untrue assumption, and I intend to put her straight.

“I didn’t tell them,” I grind out. I want to add ‘And so what if I did?’ I’m over all this secretive shit. Yes, it’s best for both of us if her father doesn’t know; but the guys, for all their winding, would never dob us in, not even fucking Kyle. He might be a right royal arsehole at times, but he’s still a mate of sorts, and mates don’t do that.

We no longer have to worry about Rachel. She’s agreed to leave us to sort this on our own timeline. I’m sure Mum suspects and, of course, these guys in the team must see it, too.

The ugly thought that’s been whispering in my ear this past week, now pushes itself forward, insistent: It’s not just about her father. She’s ashamed of people knowing she’s with you. And with it a question: Is she ashamed of you?

Yeah, I know I’m not the greatest catch, not for a girl like her: university educated, a professional, a career woman, but she’s no snob. You can take the girl out of Cluanie but you can’t take Cluanie out of the girl. Like my sister, there’s a lot of the down-to-earth, small town attitude still there, and so I don’t think she’d be wowed by a man with slick clothes or a flashy car—but this smart and successful woman is no doubt looking for an intellectual equal. She deserves one, too. Guess she thought she’d found it in that arsehole, Adam.

I’m definitely not like him, not only in the way I cherish her, and would never hurt her; but also the man the world sees is very different. No fancy suit, no Porsche in the driveway, no framed paper proclaiming my academic success .

Surely Jenna understands a person with practical skills can still be intelligent? Her father is the perfect example. Surely she knows a man can be successful without flaunting it like a big badge for the world to see? Or maybe she doesn’t.

I’ve proved myself no slouch—topped my trade school class. And there’s no doubt in my mind I’ve been successful: held positions of responsibility on the rigs, trusted with expensive equipment and the lives of men in a dangerous and sometimes unpredictable environment, and damn it there’s a whopping few hundred thousand pound bank balance sitting there to prove my worth in monetary terms. However, Jenna doesn’t know any of those things.

The only place she has seen me succeed is on the rugby field. Fine—I’ve proven I have other talents too, reading her every murmur and movement in bed. If she let me, I’d be just as successful at something more important—caring for her, loving her the way I want to.

But these are the only sides of me she knows, and I can’t shake off the nagging voice. Even though hearing her confirm it would break me, I have to ask.

“Jenna, tell me, what’s the big problem with the guys knowing? Are you ashamed of me? Ashamed to be seen with me?”

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“What? No!” she hisses.

Her forehead creases, the little divot that’s even faintly there when she’s asleep now deepening. I want to stretch out my thumb and smooth it away, but now’s not the time. From the flare of fire in those brown eyes, Jenna is seriously pissed off; and this time it’s with me.

“We need to talk. ”

The words a man never wants to hear from the mouth of an angry woman. They come out as a steely command, a tone I’ve never heard her direct at me. It’s the business-like voice I’ve heard her use on the phone. It’s the voice with which she wrangles difficult clients and pushy sports agents. Just as they don’t argue back against the force of her words, neither do I.

“I think we do,” I agree. “Van’s outside. Unless you’re worried it’s too conspicuous. Someone might see.”

I hate myself for the sarcastic note, but her apparent indifference to Kyle’s words, like a silent protest against their truth, tears at my gut. The day was always going to come when someone would find out. For chrissakes this is Cluanie. Why couldn’t we just laugh it off, accept a bit of good-natured shit from the boys and move into a new normal?

This is not that normal. If the look on her face is anything to go by, normal might be nothing at all. Finished before we’ve barely started. The thought punches me in the chest, and reeling from the blow, I swallow and try again.

“Sorry, Jen. He got me riled, too. If you want to head out the side door past the ladies’ loos. I’ll double back through the change rooms. OK?”

With a nod, she slips away through the crowd, politely accepting a congratulatory hand on her shoulder from one supporter, offering a smile to another’s murmured words in her ear, before disappearing through the door where a hand-painted sign says ‘Lassies’. I make my way in the opposite direction.

“Not leaving already, man?” Brodie accosts me before I can escape .

“Nah, just left my phone in my locker. I’m on call tonight.” The second part of that statement is actually true.

“Fuck, really?” he scoffs. “Surely Sparky could give you the night off after the first game?”

“He’s got some dinner at his in-laws. Needs me to cover.”

“Ooh,” Brodie winces at the mention of Sparky’s mother-in-law. Nerida Hatfield, Deputy Head at Cluanie District High, is a scary lady none of us ever want to see again. “Rather him than you or me, eh?” Brodie says, giving a tight grin as I roll my eyes in knowing agreement, before edging past him.

Usually, I’m eager to leave a place when I know Jenna’s waiting for me at the next stop, but as I head towards the car park, weariness sets in, my body aching and drained, and it’s not only from the hammering I took at the hands of the Duncraig boys this afternoon.