Page 7

GEORDIE

Tying rugby boots on is like a matey, back-slapping hug from an old friend. Even this pair, pretty much new, having only carried me through one practice, not yet christened with even a pre-season friendly match; they still feel good. It’s been too long. I’ve loved this game since I was a little nipper running around in the frost. There’s the brotherhood, of course. Most men like to run in a pack. Maybe it speaks to some long-buried tribalism; the blood of ancient clans pulsing in our veins, drawing us together. I know when I pull on my blue Cluanie R.F.C. jersey I feel part of something special and important—bigger than myself.

Beyond the team spirit that I thrive on, rugby was also a refuge for a kid who struggled with school. This game is something I’m truly good at. I’ll never run onto the pitch at Murrayfield in the navy national jersey, but I know I’m an asset to this club team. There’s a bitter irony that the learning disability which denied me a smooth passage through school and made parts of my life difficult may also have given me the spatial abilities to understand the game with an ease others lack .

I’ve heard people talk about the gift of dyslexia. Not sure I’d speak of it in quite such generous terms, but there’s a little bit of truth in it. While a dyslexic brain struggles to process some types of information, it eats up others.

For me, the moment I step onto the pitch, my brain transforms into a hungry gatherer of clues, relentlessly scanning the field, monitoring the location of other players, analysing the shifting patterns of bodies flowing across the space. It effortlessly anticipates where the next gap will open up. From body language alone, it predicts the movements of my teammates and opponents. It looks for the next tackle, the next kick, the next pass.

At tonight’s practice, as we prepare for a friendly tussle against our second division team, I’m already eager to unleash its capacity. I sense a tingle of electricity, the spark that will ignite when I step out of the change rooms and my brain fires into life. Even knowing it will have to endure an hour of sprints and endless sets of press-ups, boring drills and repetitive rehearsals of set pieces before we get into proper play, it’s ready.

“Raring to go as always, I see.” Nathan Wilder slings a sports bag on the bench beside me.

“Yeah, knocked off early. How’s that temperature unit going? No problems?”

“All good,” he says, as he strips off a shirt and tugs on his practice jersey. “Though it’s old. That electrical fault you fixed? Seems to me it was simply a sign of more to come. I’m going to have a word with the boss. Time to invest some more in the plant.”

“So you can get back to focusing on making the whisky, not worrying about the thing keeping its arse warm. ”

“Exactly. In the meantime, I expect you may well need to become close friends with the damn thing and give it a nudge along.” He pauses to pull on his practice shorts. “Speaking of friends…” He raises his eyes from where he’s been adjusting the ties at his waist. “So, Mac, it seems you’re a bit of a dark horse, mate.” Nathan lifts one of his dark brows and offers a teasing smirk.

“Your point is?” I toss back the question, my brows tugging down in a mystified frown.

“Jenna Sharpe. All the talk of her on Saturday night and you didn’t say a whisper. Then next thing I glance out a window and spot the pair of you cosied up like old friends. Or is it more than old friends?”

I feel a full on rush of warmth from my neck to the roots of my hair. The secret heat invading my body every time I’ve dared to think about Jenna since seeing her again on Saturday is now displayed on my face for the world to see. Well, only Nathan, but I’m not even ready for him to know the truth of it. Too late. Betrayed by my face.

“My older sister’s friend,” I say. “Not mine.”

“Really? Not even a high school crush? No teenage beating off under the bedsheets thinking of her?”

“Fuck off, Wilder,” I scoff, while shuffling uncomfortably at his taunting.

He’s hit a little too close to home. I can’t deny Jenna’s been in my thoughts, but I’m not going to admit to her presence in the shower this morning being the perfect accompaniment to the frantic rhythm of my hand. Nathan’s become a good friend, but not so good that I’m ready to discuss the subject of having a wank while imagining my sister’s friend .

“Hell, she left Cluanie when I was twelve. I hadn’t even noticed girls back then.”

That part isn’t a lie. I was a very late starter. Perhaps it was some self-protective mechanism. The lack of confidence, the low self-esteem spinning off from my dyslexia—not that anyone had put a diagnosis against it back then—meant I was probably closer to fourteen when I dared to return any interest girls showed in me. Of course, I was no stranger to wet dreams and early morning hand jobs. I joined in my mates’ dirty conversations; trading stories—mostly fictional—and eyeing up the possibilities. But I’d never touched a girl, let alone kiss one until some mutually clumsy slurping of lips with Kristie Carter out back of the gym after the school social at the end of my S2 year.

“Surely you were old enough to notice your sister had hot friends?” he says.

“Nope, not old enough for Jenna,” I reply. “Six years between us. She was never on my radar. As I said, she and Rachel went off to uni when I was twelve. And from then I’ve barely seen her.”

The odd glimpse of her in the street if she was home around Christmas or New Year. A couple of times she breezed in and out of her parents’ house while I was at piano lessons. Apart from those few times, Jenna’s been a stranger to me. Which is why this sudden attraction, spurred on by an unexpected feeling of connection between us in two short conversations at the party, has blindsided me, catching me unprepared. And Nathan, the canny bastard, has shone an unwelcome bright spotlight on it.

“You’re old enough now. ”

I close my eyes. Right this moment I’m regretting my bromance with Nathan Wilder. Already he knows me too well. Might as well concede defeat.

“Unfortunately, yes,” I groan.

“Yes, I knew it,” he says with a fist pump of triumph.

I glare at him, while warily scanning the changing room, and relief floods me as I realise there’s no one in earshot. We’re early and everyone else is late.

“Shut the fuck up, Wilder,” I caution. “Unless you want the next party you go to, to be my wake.” I’m too young to die.

He drops his voice.

“Honestly, mate, don’t let that put you off. I say go for it. Come on, even old Razor can be won over. And anyway, isn’t it about time she bucked her father’s orders? I mean, how old is she?”

“Thirty-four,” I say miserably.

Part of me wants to defend Jenna. He’s right, she shouldn’t be letting her old man rule her love life. She’s smart, strong, independent. Hell, if she wants to start something with a player six years younger than her, then she should. But would she? And even so, could she ever put aside memories of a geeky, awkward kid to see this guy as a serious contender?

“Really? I’d never have guessed she was older than me.”

No one would. Her skin glows, her hair a shiny dark curtain framing it, and those deep soulful brown eyes. Then there’s that body, the glorious tits barely hidden by a skimpy bit of green fabric, and denim painted over the sort of rounded arse that would fill my hands so perfectly. She’s like a walking Sports Illustrated cover girl, before she’s taken her clothes off .

“But shit.” Sympathy is written all over his face. “You have to feel sorry for the girl, in her thirties, with an overprotective father still hanging around. That pep talk he gave us—sounds like he considers her out of our league.”

Well, he might be right on one count. She is so far out of this man’s league. I’ve got nothing to offer a girl like Jenna. It’s as if Nathan has read my mind, and like a good friend, he leaps in to boost me up.

“You’re a good bloke, Geordie. After all the years she’s spent hanging around with the pro guys and their big egos, someone like you would be a breath of fresh air,” he says, all joking swept aside. His confidence in me triggers a surge of hope where up till now there’s mostly been despair. I’ve turned it over in my mind, measuring myself and what I have to offer against what Jenna deserves and falling well short. Nathan’s encouragement suggests this might not be a futile quest. “Mate, if you want to go there, I say do it. Don’t let Razor scare you.”

“Bad advice there, Wilder,” Connor says, sliding in through the door. I freeze, thinking he’s heard too much. “We should all be very bloody afraid of him. But especially you flankers. He’s been chewing my ear about better clearance from the ruck. Reckons it’s the first thing we need to work on. And when he says we, he means you.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Connor has no idea what we’re talking about. I can cope with Razor being on my case when it comes to rugby. The thought of what we might be capable of under his leadership is one thing that’s keeping me from turning tail on this decision to return to Cluanie. I’ll meet any challenge he throws at me head on.

But I’m far from sure I’d go head to head with him over Jenna. Not unless I’m absolutely sure there’s hope for me in pursuing her, and I’m a long way off even daring to assume she’d entertain interest from me.

“So, Connor, as captain, you must know him better than most of us. Does the man own a gun? Like a shotgun, perhaps?”

I could throttle Nathan Wilder and his goofy fucking grin. I know, despite my obvious discomfort, he’s about to bring Connor into the loop.

“Fuck no,” Connor says with a frown, still oblivious to where this is headed. “He might have rubbed shoulders with the nobs, but do you really picture him running around in tweeds at shooting weekends?”

“There you go, Mac.” He pats my shoulder. “As long as you can outrun him, you’re safe.” He turns to Connor with a delighted grin. “Our boy Geordie here’s got the hots for Jenna.”

“No surprises there,” Connor says with a huff. “It might have been dark outside by the pool, but I’m not an idiot. Could tell I interrupted something.”

“You interrupted nothing,” I protest.

“Oh, I saw her face, mate. That was definitely not nothing.”

The thought that Jenna might have even the slightest interest in me is like the grateful thunder of hot water on skin after a game. I allow it to wash over me, let its warmth seep into my bones while attempting to keep my poker face. Not that it’s likely to pass the scrutiny of these two. Nathan, the man from down under who possesses the heart of a sensitive new age guy under his typically blokey Kiwi demeanour. And Connor, who has always made captain of every team he’s ever been in, is known for his ability to read his teammates as well as he reads the game. Plus, he’s known Jenna for as long as Rachel. If he says she was giving me the look, then I believe him.

“You reckon?” I say, cautious optimism pushing past my ever-present clawing doubt.

“Yeah, I do,” he says. That’s two votes for me and none for my scathing inner voice. “But go easy. Take it quietly,” he suggests. “Not because of her father, though.”

“Believe me, this is also my sister’s friend here. I have no choice but to do otherwise.”

“Yeah, that’s another angle to consider. But no, that’s not it either. There’s some history there. Jenna comes with a ‘handle with care’ label.”

I have no idea what the fuck he means by that.

“She was engaged. Way back, before she joined the staff at the Highlanders. The guy bailed on her, right before the wedding. I thought Rache would have told you, man. She would have been lining up as chief bridesmaid for sure.”

I feel stupid. Ignorant. Has Rachel ever mentioned anything about Jenna to me? Or did she not bother, thinking it wasn’t relevant? Or was I too caught up in myself, and zoned out while she prattled on, as I tended to do? Should have paid more attention, Geordie . I chide myself.

“Nah,” I say, feeling like a dick. “Rachel and I didn’t talk much for a while there.” Like for about two years. “Nothing bad,” I add. “When I was down in Brunei. Kind of dropped off the earth a bit.”

Long stints on a rig and shore time in Bangkok, I’d immersed myself in booze and pretty girls who didn’t care too much about whether a guy could string a sentence together, just whether he had the money to pay. I’m not proud of the way I so easily slipped into the mould of the average young rig worker, but in my defence I was twenty-two, a kid with more money in my pocket than I’d ever expected to see in a lifetime, especially for a person with my limitations. I don’t want to dwell on it, shame rising in me even now.

“Fuck, I had no idea. He must have been a real dickhead.”

“Apparently,” Connor says. “So don’t you be one, OK?” He cuffs me across the head.

“Believe me,” I say, “if—and I still think it’s a very big if—she has the slightest interest in me, I will be going very carefully. Otherwise, Razor and Rachel will have to fight it out to see who gets the satisfaction of killing me slowly.”

There’s the pad of large feet in the passageway, and Kyle lopes in, ducking his head to clear the door.

“Evening, gents.” He dumps a gear bag with a heavy thud, unaware of his interruption. Thankfully, even Nathan understands it’s time for this conversation to end.

My brain is racing a million miles an hour after Connor’s revelation. As the rest of the team pour in from their jobs, elbowing each other and talking shit, and the changing room fills with their banter and the clatter of studs on concrete, I sit, physically a still point in the swirl of activity, but mentally a spinning tornado of hope and fear, optimism and doubt.

Despite what my mates might think, I’m sure this thing I’ve got for Jenna is more than a sexual attraction. OK, I’ll admit there’s plenty of that. She’s so fucking beautiful. My brain overloads every time it recalls the image of her standing on the stairs, that satin skin peeking from the v of a green shiny top offering a tantalising hint of rounded breasts framing a sweet slash of cleavage; and tight jeans flowing over her curves, leaving little to the imagination. Naked, she’d be a goddess.

But I’ve grown beyond only wanting attractive outer packaging. Somehow between two brief conversations on Saturday night, and the avalanche of childhood memories roaring down, burying me in thoughts of every other conversation we’ve ever had, an obsessive need to really know Jenna—the person, the woman—has taken hold.

Like all young men, once I was perfectly happy with a pretty girl. Now I need more. Not just a girl. Not just a bit of fun. I want a woman who has layers and depths to explore. Someone who I’m secure enough with to reveal my own feelings, hopes, dreams—even my insecurities, of which there are many.

This new self-awareness is frightening. Perhaps it’s because I’ve spent most of my time in a bloke’s world up till now. Most men don’t dwell on these things. They definitely don’t discuss them. And they sure as hell don’t own up to feeling this way. I’ve toyed with the idea of bringing it up with Nathan. He’s got far greater experience of relationships than I have, even though his most significant one imploded. Still, he might be a good sounding board.

“Geordie,” Kyle barks. “Move your arse. Not the time to be taking a moment.”

Five-thirty on the dot and Razor has no tolerance for lateness.

I stand and move mechanically, the harsh clash of my studs on the floor a jarring echo in the now empty room. Meanwhile, in my head, my mind has calmed. The decision to talk to Nathan some more offers a way forward, while the need to focus on the familiar routines of practice offers a reprieve from this onslaught of new and disturbing emotions. I jog out into the sanctuary of the floodlit field.