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GEORDIE

Around six in the evening, it’s as though someone turns down the volume in the hospital ward. I catch a glimpse of two nurses at their station, their murmured conversation and muted laughter drifting my way. A care assistant clears away the beige plastic plate, the remains of my equally beige dinner, and, with a kind smile, places a dark milky cup of tea in front of me. The squeaky-wheeled trolley fades into nothing as they disappear down the long corridor.

The three other guys in my room are thankfully all occupied. I couldn’t bear having some chatty type as a neighbour. I’m not in the mood for conversation.

The man opposite dozes, drugged up on something. I wish they’d give me a few tablets to knock me out for a bit. The painkillers have kicked in, so my ankle—wrapped in a bandage—only gives me the odd twinge, but they haven’t even touched the pain in my chest. The guilt and the grief twist together in a brutal knot of regrets.

Connor tried to tell us, with firm but gentle insistence, that Kyle and I shouldn’t blame ourselves. Brandon made his choice when he refused the light we offered. We acted as quickly as we could. By clambering down the icy rock face, we risked our own lives to try and save him—even though it was already too late. I nodded and accepted his words, but I saw the bleakness in his eyes. He blames himself.

I caught the local news on the telly, and the critics have already had too much to say about Connor’s role as leader of our hiking party. It’s unfair. He did nothing wrong. His planning kept us safe through Sunday night’s storm on that mountain and he got the rest of us safely off it this morning, too. We’re all damaged, but none of it is Connor’s fault.

I’ve seen death before. My American mate, Charlie and I, came across an overturned car on a dusty back road on the way to his parents’ place. Two teenagers, thrown from the vehicle; dead on impact. It was confronting, but it was different. Two strangers, not someone I knew; not a person I’d talked to and laughed with over a shared a beer; not someone I’d bonded with in that unique way teammates do.

I don’t know if I’ll ever completely move on from Brandon’s death. For now, it’s raw, the grief gushing like blood from a fresh wound, as if I’ve taken a stray boot to the forehead.

Jenna’s been through it these past six months, and Coach, too. Fiona Sharpe is dead, yet every day, they get up, and show up, doing what needs to be done, putting on that brave game face, even though, lying in bed alone, like I am right now, it must hurt when they think of her.

The man on my left is watching a replay of Saturday’s match between the Highlanders and Leicester Tigers. There was a rumour it was a Tigers’ contract Brandon turned down. Everyone thought he was mad for not going after it the moment he could, but I’m glad he didn’t. What he and Skylar had was worth more than the money and glory he’d have raked in by going pro.

Poor bloody Skylar. She loved that lad. She’s a tough kid, but no eighteen-year-old could come through a loss like this unscathed. All their plans for the future—gone.

I reach for my phone. It took them all afternoon to find an iPhone charger in the ward. One finally arrived with my dinner. Now the screen’s woken up, I immediately tap through to my messages.

There’s only one. From Jenna, sent at 9:15 yesterday morning, right after I switched my phone to silent and swore I wouldn’t look at it for the rest of the day.

I stab at it, guilt flooding me. I cut off any chance for her to explain, simply assumed the worst. Ridiculous as those assumptions were, now that I’ve had time to reflect, it’s clear: Jenna was never going to hook up with Kyle Stewart—and every guy in the van knew it, too.

The one thing no one could have predicted was Kyle being the one to jolt me into seeing sense about my relationship troubles. Kyle, who’s infamous for never having had a relationship that lasted beyond a quick, casual hook-up. Not that different from me, if I’m being honest—before I found Jenna.

I’m desperate to read Jenna’s text, even though I know it’s just going to fuel the ache of regret that settled in while I lay there, subjected to doctors and nurses fussing over my ankle.

Jenna: Geordie, I hope we still get to have that talk tonight. Especially after what you saw this morning. Yes, I slept at Kyle’s, but you know me well enough to know I didn’t sleep with him. Just a bed for the night after one too many at the pub. I’m sorry the guys saw, and I’m even more sorry you had to see me there without an explanation. But some things can’t wait till tonight. Geordie, I’ve been an idiot. You and I are good together. We both know it, and other people see it too. I’m tired of hiding what we have. I’m tired of letting fear win. I don’t care who knows or what they think. Please, let’s take a chance on this. If you still want to.

I toss the phone on the bedside cabinet, frustrated that I can’t talk to Jenna face-to-face right now. This is not a conversation for text or even a phone call.

Mum and Dad are coming up to drive me home when I’m discharged in the morning, and then what?

I can’t go back to my upstairs room at Nathan’s, not on bloody crutches, and damned if I want to be at my parents’ even if there’s a perfectly good downstairs bedroom. How the hell I’ll see Jenna, with no one else around, like we need, I have no idea.

I flop back against the pillows and the movement jostles my ankle in its heavy bandage, causing a jolt of pain. It settles back to a throb. Now, reminded of my injury, it seems sharper and harder to ignore. Thank god the nurses are due with my next round of meds any minute.

When I catch a movement by the door, I turn hopeful eyes towards the flash of blue, thinking relief is at hand. However, it’s not a nurse’s uniform, but the distinctive blue of a Cluanie R.F.C. hoodie.