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Amy

Something is off. Hamish is up to no good.

It’s not just that his parents and siblings are here for this game, along with my entire family. We’ve had other games like this before. I’m sitting in the audience with everyone and there’s this palpable energy I viscerally hate.

Plus, Carol won’t make eye contact. That means she’s keeping a secret.

I’m pretty sure I know what it is.

Hamish is going to propose.

And he knows that I would rather die by a thousand fire ant bites than be the center of attention again, in a stadium filled with tens of thousands of what he considers to be his best friends.

You know–what normal folks consider to be total strangers.

It’s hard enough being on camera, paparazzi and TikTok influencers younger than some of my jeans taking videos of me in the stands, during his games. I’m not freaking Taylor Swift and Hamish sure isn't Travis Kelce, but we get enough camera time to make it hurt.

Yes, hurt .

Aside from sports channels taking a few seconds out of their normal coverage to focus on family members, the others are all about getting eyeballs and clicks. Monetizing us. Using us.

Turning us into a tool.

And the videos are never flattering.

Sure, Hamish looks fantastic. How could he not? The man is steely muscle and golden skin and copper hair washed in sunlight.

I, on the other hand, end up resembling a shriveled, redheaded mushroom in every shot.

Being the girlfriend of a guy everyone wants to bang means being trolled constantly.

And he just doesn’t understand.

“AMY!” I look over at Mom, who is sucking the ice at the bottom of her soda cup as she walks past me, headed down the stairs.

“Fiona tells me Hamish told her to make sure she’s in her seat at halftime.

” Mom’s wink resembles a pile of spiders in a cage fight.

She’s wearing fake eyelashes so long, I’m pretty sure one tried to fly away and start a new life as a butterfly.

Fiona is Hamish's mom. Fergus is his dad. They're here, along with Hamish's seven–yes, seven! –siblings. We all had lunch yesterday and my ears are still ringing.

Energy is a funny thing. Hamish gets more of it from being in the center of a loud, boisterous, conversation-filled gathering.

I do not .

So here I am, in a stadium filled with forty thousand people screaming and waving scarves and reciting chants on a hot summer day in July.

It's a different kind of excitement in Europe, and especially in the UK, but here at this exhibition game outside of Boston, the energy's still there.

Maybe even more so. It feels like we're in a Mini Britain at these games in my home country, where every transplant from the UK comes out of the woodwork.

And when Hamish takes the pitch, I know the vibration of it all feeds him. He gains strength from it.

I gain strength from him–but in private. Man, do I need more private right now, and I know I won't get it for a good, long while.

And yet–he's proposing. My heart does a somersault, half excited, half terrified. I love him dearly, and I know he’d eat the moon for me, one bite at a time until he was done.

But–married? Me? To one of the most eligible bachelors in sports, worldwide?

It's unreal.

“Where’s everyone ?” I ask, frowning as I stare at Mom's back, her descent careful.

Carol just shrugs innocently. Too innocently.

That woman is a former corporate event planner with a born talent for controlled chaos.

She can't keep a secret, though. Last week, she “spontaneously” asked me to have a spa day with her that involved getting our lashes done, Vitamin C skin treatments, and so much threading and dermaplaning, my skin feels like silk.

Deep-conditioned hair and a nicely layered cut (I can't make it look as good as the stylist did, but I'm getting close) means that all the photos of today's spectacle will make me look like…

well, a slightly more attractive red mushroom.

Wearing an engagement ring.

“We ushered them down to their seats,” she says, looking a little shifty. “Family section. McCormick and Jacoby parties, both.”

My heart actually stops. “ Which family section? You know they're supposed to be separated!”

“They got here early. Security assumed they were friendly.”

I gasp. “They’re not! One of them referred to the other as ‘that gluten-intolerant banshee.’”

“Was that Mom or Fiona?”

“Yes.”

I start to move toward the exit just as the sound of a high-decibel laugh hits the box like an airhorn.

“ Amy, hen! ”

No.

No no no.

I turn, dreading what I already know.

There she is.

Fiona McCormick, tartan tornado and proud mother of Hamish, is barreling up the stairs toward me like a kilted freight train powered by pure enthusiasm.

She’s flanked by Hamish’s dad and the entire Scottish McCormick sibling horde, crammed into a luxury box that now smells faintly of vinegar chips and testosterone. Hamish is the oldest of eight kids.

They’re a walking flock of guinea hens.

Fiona's sporting a sash that reads MOTHER OF THE GROOM in puffy glitter paint. Her earrings could be seen from space.

“Ye look green,” she says brightly as she hugs me. “Is that excitement or food poisonin’? Either way, yer weddin’s gonna be unforgettable.”

“This is not a wedding,” I say, extricating myself from her talons. Hamish definitely got his gingerness from his mother, but time has grayed her hair, which means she uses some kind of hair dye in an effort to reclaim her youth.

Like my mother, though, she seems to have forgotten exactly what her original color was. My mother has gone from brown to ash blonde to near-platinum. Just since I’ve known her, Fiona's gone from a quiet auburn to very loud copper.

“Sure, sure. Not yet, anyway . ”

I look behind me and spot the rest of the McCormick siblings swarming the snack vendor, arguing over hot dogs like it’s a high-stakes negotiation with NATO. Three of them got the ginger gene but the rest are darker, similar to the American McCormicks.

One of them is trying to convince the vendor to deep-fry a churro. Another one’s putting mustard on cotton candy.

I must confess: I still can't remember who is who. I know all their names, of course. Darren's next after Hamish, then Cora, Ian, Matthew, Pookie (I have no idea what her real name is), Brick (again... maybe it's Bridget?) and... Maggie, which is short for Magnus.

“Where’s my mom?” I ask, regretting the question instantly.

Fiona’s entire face changes. She stiffens like a wind-up toy.

The contrast between my ultra-relaxed, too-chill, golden-retriever-energy boyfriend and his mother is so stark, I can't believe they're related.

Other than their boldness, they couldn't be more different.

The woman carries a grudge like the Romans dragged the cross.

Her mouth tightens and she points with her chin. “She’s down there, tryin’ to bribe the mascot into lettin’ her do a TikTok on the pitch. Said he’s her granddaughter’s favorite animal.”

“The mascot’s a… giant foam football.”

Fiona shrugs. “Aye. But Marie says it’s spiritual.”

"Her granddaughter Ellie doesn’t care about football."

Fiona inhales sharply. “Yer sister isna raisin’ her right, then! Wi’ a future uncle sae important in the sport.”

My blood pressure goes up ten points.

Then she just winks and touches my belly. "Ye’ll have ta have the first granddaughter wi’ sportin’ taste, then."

“Uhhh....”

“Also, yer Mum brought bagpipes.”

“Oh, hell no.”

Fiona sighs. “She pulled a twelve-foot inflatable swan outta the boot of her car. Told stadium security it was ‘symbolic.’ Then she asked if she could plug in a fog machine.”

I don't even respond. I just stare into the middle distance and whisper, “I told Hamish. I told him.”

Fiona puts an arm around my shoulder. “Look, hen. When a woman’s got a swan, a fog machine, and an attitude problem, she’s either gettin’ ready to throw a wedding or a WMD.”

“Oh, we’re definitely in weapons-grade territory.”

She laughs. "What can ye do? Yer mum’s a bampot. A bit flashy, aye? Some people dinna ken when ta stop."

I stare at her sash.

Fiona sobers.

“Ye love ma boy?”

I nod, grateful for familiar territory. “More than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

She softens. “Then we’ll make it work. Me and Marie, we’re like two cats in a bathtub. Keep us apart or someone’s gettin’ scratched."

"Cats don't like being bathed. Why would you use that analogy–“

She touches my hair, then starts re-arranging the curls, fussing over it just like Mom. "But we’ll try. Fer you. Fer Hamish.”

I start to smile. Then I glance down at the field.

Where Mom is currently trying to climb into the foam football mascot suit.

“Oh. My. God.”

Fiona sighs. “I did say try .”

I exhale, half laugh, half groan, and take a step back as the chaos of Section 19 threatens to spill into the next county.

I need air.

I need a drink.

I need a life where my mother doesn’t show up at public events wielding musical instruments and shouting about genitals.

I scan the section until I spot my sister Shannon standing in the aisle, leaning in to talk to her husband, Declan, who is—of course—calm, poised, and dressed like an ad for upscale game-day casual.

Shannon, on the other hand, is in full boss mode, gesturing animatedly with a green smoothie in one hand.

I wonder if she had doubts. What's it like being plucked from all the nobodies and loved by a guy with so much power?

Because that's how this feels right now.

When I'm alone with Hamish, it's just us.

Running together, watching funny television shows and movies, talking about sports, watching him do conditioning exercises and trying not to drool.

You know. Normal life.