Page 11

Chapter 11

Brodie

I take the coastal road back to the hotel. The Isle of Islay doesn’t care who you are. Famous, minted, stacked with medals… She’ll still sucker-punch you with an incredible view, just to prove she can. I crack the window, let the salty air slap my face.

The event went smoothly. The weans today – nine-year-olds with as much grit as half my old Glasgow squad. Taught them the chip-and-chase, and their wee faces lit up like I’d handed them the Six-Nations-Cup. One lad kept calling me ‘Mr MacRae Sir’ until I told him to knock it off and call me Brodie.

Luckily, the parents hung back. I signed some shirts, took some pictures, and made sure the sponsor’s media guy had everything they needed.

Should’ve felt good. And it did, mostly. But the whole time, my neck itched like someone was watching. Kept checking behind me, half-hoping she’d be there. Arms crossed, wearing that crooked smirk that says you’re not a complete dick, MacRae.

Wish she could’ve been there.

I sent Theo the sponsor photos myself. Weans hoisted on my shoulders, mud-streaked grins, the lot. The road curves, cliffs dropping away to reveal Beinn Bheigeir looming in the distance.

My phone vibrates in the holder. Theo’s name flashes.

‘Is she awake yet?’

‘Dunno. Left her snoring. On my way back now.’

‘You’re a saint, MacRae. Tell her to call me when she feels ready.’

‘Will do.’

I chuck the phone onto the passenger seat and it slides into the Co-op-bag stuffed with a can of Irn Bru, a pack of Paracetamol, and a squashed sausage roll in its wee paper bag.

Saint my arse. Saints don’t think about the give of soft skin under their hand, or how her breath snagged when the flannel touched her neck. Saints don’t get hard over memories.

I inhale through my nose, tension pulling tight through my ribs as this morning replays in full HD. Charlie Harrington, curled up in a hotel bed, wrapped in my rugby shirt. Not weak, never weak. But soft, like a sheathed blade. And she let me stay. Let me take care of her. Let me see.

She could’ve pushed me away. Told me to piss off with her cutting tongue and steel-spined glare. But she didn’t.

She let me in.

And now I don’t know where the hell I stand. She’s in my bloodstream. Under my tongue. Living rent-free in every fucking thought I’ve got.

The car eats up another mile of damp road. The sea glints through the rocks, grey and moody under the leaden sky. The clouds break open, and a shard of sunlight slices through, turning the water to silver.

I should’ve pushed her on it earlier, but she was barely holding herself together. Aye, I needed to make sure she rested. To stop her running on empty. But also…

I didn’t want to hear her say last night was nothing.

I bite back my frustration and give the accelerator a nudge.

This is fucking ridiculous. She’s my agent. We’ve been at each other’s throats for months. She’s just got under my skin, that’s all. All this time together and my brain’s fucking up what’s real.

The hotel appears ahead, perched by the shoreline. I park and turn off the engine, sitting there, hands braced at ten-and-two. The key card burns a hole in my pocket. I’m not some deluded romantic pining for something impossible. Fuck, but maybe I want to be the one who gets to see all of her – the fierce and the fragile.

And that terrifies me.

I can cope with pressure. A stadium screaming my name. A match-winning kick in the final seconds. A six-foot-four, twenty-stone forward with a grudge barrelling towards me. National media tearing me to shreds.

But the chance she doesn’t want the same thing? That I could want her and she’d walk away like none of it mattered?

Fucking kills me.

She needs time. And I need an answer I can live with.

I slam the car door harder than needed.

The hotel hallway is empty, carpet swallowing my steps. The key card clicks. I nudge the door open with my shoulder, quietly as I can, balancing the Co-op bag in one arm. The air smells of her. I force my breath steady, grip the bag tighter, and try to ignore how much I fucking like it.

Inside, the room’s dim, curtains still drawn. The only light is the sliver of daylight sneaking through the edges.

Charlie’s still out cold. Sprawled across the bed in a tangle of sheets, cheek mashed into the pillow, one bare leg kicked free.

And she’s still wearing my shirt.

My gut tilts, like the ground’s shifted half an inch.

It’s not just the sight of her in it – it’s the feeling. Like I left something of mine on her, and she didn’t shake it off. She kept it on her skin, as close as possible.

The rugby shirt’s bunched up her thighs, hem riding high enough to show the sweet curve of her arse in those lace knickers. My brain goes places. Forbidden places. Straight into the gutter without brakes. Charlie in that shirt, under me. Her in that shirt, over me. The fabric bunched up around her waist, me gripping her hips. Her in that shirt, snuggled up against me on the sofa, one of those terrible crime dramas playing in the background while she rants about police procedure.

The second thought should kill the first. It doesn’t. Just makes it worse.

Fuck.

I cross the room, as quietly as possible, and set the bag down. Pull out the Irn Bru and the paracetamol, place them on the nightstand. Her lashes flutter and she stirs, shifting onto her side, arm flopping over her face with a groggy groan.

‘MacRae?’ Her voice cracks. She rolls onto her back and stretches like a cat. Fabric pulls tight across her chest.

‘Alive then,’ I grunt.

She squints at me. ‘Tell me you got coffee.’

I rub the back of my neck. ‘Irn Bru, painkillers, water, and a roll.’

‘Didn’t peg you for a nursemaid.’

‘Didn’t peg you for a lightweight.’ I sit down on the edge of the bed. Springs dip. ‘Got your cure here. Hydrate, Harrington.’

She snags the can of Irn Bru, cracks it one-handed. The juice glugs down, and I track the way her neck moves.

‘Better?’ I ask.

‘Still want to die.’ She wipes her mouth. ‘But a bit less.’

Sunlight cuts through a slim gap between the curtains, striping her legs. I want to nibble the inside of her knee. Want to drag this rugby shirt over her head slow, watch her squirm. Want to order room service pancakes and argue about syrup brands until she snort-laughs again.

‘How was the event?’ she asks.

‘Good. Kids were class. Made sure they got all the photos they needed for the sponsor.’

‘Did you do my job for me, MacRae?’

I shrug. ‘Somebody had to.’

‘You’re staring. Do I have something on my face?’

I swipe my tongue over my teeth. ‘No. Just getting used to you looking this…’ I tip my head, searching for the word. ‘…less terrifying.’

She grins. ‘Enjoy it while it lasts.’

‘Theo says hi. You’re to call her when you’re up for it, not a minute earlier. Her words.’

‘Yeah, I really should check in with her.’ She reaches for her phone. ‘Look at you. Not a single tantrum today. Proud of you, MacRae.’

Before I can reply, her phone trills. She sits up fast, the rugby shirt sliding off one shoulder. Her whole face shifts, softening in an instant when she sees the screen.

‘Button! How are you?’ Her voice wraps around the nickname like melted honey. I pull my legs onto the bed and lean against the headboard next to her, watching. How her thumb worries the edge of my Rebels shirt. How the crease between her brows dissolves.

‘That’s amazing! I knew you could do it!’

Charlie tucks her knees up, drowning in my rugby shirt. Her voice warms, brightens, and I feel it like sunlight through glass.

‘Daddy’s being silly. Ignore him. Remember what Nana said? Harringtons thrive on challenges.’

A pause. Her throat bobs. ‘No, Han. You’re right. It’s okay to be upset. And perfect’s boring. You’re volcanic.’ She shoots me a glare when I grunt. ‘Yeah. Like Beyoncé.’

Charlie’s got this glow about her. Protective, proud. Like there’s nothing in the world she wouldn’t do for this girl.

‘Mum’s right, you got this. And I know you. I know you can do this. If you want it, you go for it. You hear me?’

They chat a bit more – school, friends, some true crime show that Hannah’s obsessed with, a rabbit named Blorbo – before Charlie sighs. ‘Alright, superstar. I’ll call you soon, okay? Love you to the moon and back.’

The call ends. Charlie stares at the screen, thumb hovering for a second longer than necessary. She sets the phone down, but doesn’t let go. Her fingers curl around the edges like she’s holding on.

Her jaw shifts. Not a frown. Not a smile. Something caught between the two.

I say nothing and simply observe. Letting her have the space. Letting her decide if she wants to share whatever it is.

After a long breath, she picks at the hem of my shirt. ‘That was my little sister.’

‘She sounds grand.’

‘She is. God, she’s brilliant. Wilful as hell. Drives me mad sometimes, typical teenager stuff. Hannah’s also got Down’s syndrome, and she’ll be the first to tell you that’s the least interesting thing about her.’ Charlie exhales and leans back into the pillows beside me, her shoulder leaning against mine. ‘Mum got pregnant with her when I was ten. Risky pregnancy and a total accident. But the best kind. Hannah grew up into the most determined kid I’ve ever met. And now she’s sixteen.’

‘Aye, teenagers can be knobs sometimes.’ I grin. ‘But she’s got your fight, then.’

‘Very. And Dad loves her. I know he does. But he…sees her as something he has to protect at all costs. Not a liability, more a responsibility. He thinks her best chance is in a special care home. Somewhere she’ll be “looked after.” My mum and I disagree vehemently.’ She straightens. ‘Hannah doesn’t need constant “looking after”. She needs people who support her, believe in her. Like all of us.’

I don’t hesitate. ‘And you do.’

‘Always have, always will.’

I take that in. ‘Hannah’s lucky to have you.’

‘No. I’m lucky to have her.’

Man, my heart’s full-on breaking right now. It feels like she trusts me with the softest part of her. I bump her foot with mine. ‘Your sister’s got Harrington steel. She’ll outshine the lot of you.’

Her laugh cracks. ‘You’ve never even met her.’

‘You’re her sister. That’s enough.’

She looks at me then. Eyes glinting wet. ‘Callum met her once. At a charity gala last Christmas. Asked Dad why we brought “the slow kid”.’

My gut twists, and I want to smash his face in. Again. ‘Fucking prick.’

‘I know. God, I know.’ A tear slips and she swipes it away angrily. ‘Hannah asked if he was my Prince Charming. I told her princes are overrated. Dragons steal more treasure.’

I don’t think. Just reach for her. Haul her in. She stiffens – instinct, pride, that iron-willed Harrington armour – then melts, face buried in my neck. Her tears scald my skin. Her shoulders shake a little.

I hold her tighter.

Something’s happening, and I’m too far in to tell myself it’s just a passing thing. But fuck me if I know what to do with it.

‘She’d like you,’ she mumbles into my collarbone.

I trace my hand up her spine. ‘Doubt it. I’m shite at karaoke. But I’d love to meet her.’

Charlie pulls back, eyes red-rimmed and blazing. ‘You mean that?’

‘Aye. Can’t wait to be levelled by the two volcanic Harrington girls.’

She sniffles and giggles at the same time, then sits up. The moment breaks, just a fraction, and she’s already shifting gears, pulling herself back together.

But something in me doesn’t reset.

I brush my thumb over her cheekbone to catch the last trace of salt. She has no clue how close I am to slipping. How much of me she’s already taken without trying.

She stretches, shaking it off. ‘Right. We should get ready. It’s a long drive to Skye.’

Charlie’s back on her feet. Walls up again. But I’ve seen what’s underneath. Fine. She can pretend I didn’t get in. I won’t.