Page 15

Chapter 15

Brodie

I t’s louder than I expected. Not packed, not deafening. The new stand looms to my left. Five thousand seats, maybe half full. There’s a hum in the stands. Low, electric. Still not nearly as loud as the racket in my skull. My pulse knocks behind my eyes like fists on a locked door.

First home game. The Caerwyn Chargers from Wales. Mid-level, but scrappy, hungry to prove themselves. We’re raw, still figuring each other out, but we’ve got fight. And even more to prove.

End of September and Scotland’s showing its teeth already, wind slicing through my shirt. Sky’s a dull grey. Grass is damp under my studs, slick enough to make traction a gamble. I haul in a breath and flex my hands to keep them warm. Knuckles crack. Good. A reminder I’m still in one piece. Still holding it together.

Finn jogs up beside me. Scottie’s right behind him, eyes steely, mouth set in a grim line. Jamie smacks Finn’s shoulder, muttering something that pulls a crooked grin from him.

I glance up toward the stands. Can’t help it. VIP section’s raised just enough for a clear line across the pitch. A glass-fronted box, open to the weather.

There she is.

Charlie.

Handling the press, making connections, charming, schmoozing. Fierce, poised, magnetic. Her caramel hair’s catching the wind, whipping around her face. And I mustn’t look too long because it messes with my head.

I exhale, shake out my shoulders, and nod to the lads.

We huddle up. Close, focused, no noise but the wind and the buzz of the crowd. Eyes on me.

‘First game. First shot to show who the fuck we are. Keep it smart. Keep it tight. Don’t play for the media.’ I jerk my chin toward the stands. ‘Play for each other. Let’s fucking go!’

The huddle breaks.

I clamp down on the lump rising behind my sternum, scan their faces, and know it’s on me to set the tone. Heart’s in my throat, gut in a vice. But it’s time to move. Time to fight. Time to show what the Stirling Rebels can do and that Brodie MacRae is still worth a damn.

The game’s a blur of impact and instinct. Sweat, breath, blood howling between my ears. I’m in it, but not fucking in it. I’m a microsecond behind every play, pushing past the edge to catch up.

Ball comes flying at me, and I snatch it mid-air, feet digging into the ground. Shoulder to ribs, my arm locked around the ball. Pass to Scottie – clean, quick, right through two massive bastards trying to smash me into the dirt. He bolts up the line, dodges a tackle, and gains another ten.

Good. But I’m still playing catch-up.

The next hit comes fast and brutal. The opposing flanker levels me just as I cut behind the scrum. His shoulder jams into my ribs, and I slam down with a crack that scrapes straight through my spine. Winded. Mud in my teeth, coating my palms as I push myself up. Jamie’s there, hauling me upright, and I’m back in position before the Chargers can capitalise.

‘Come on, MacRae!’ Cameron Wallace barks from the sidelines. Our coach is pacing like a caged wolf, eyes blazing. He’s been behind me from the start. Can’t fucking let him down.

Focus. I need to fucking focus.

I take the next pass – perfect spiral, straight to me – and surge forward. Someone’s on my right – Jamie, ready for the handoff – but I see an opening and go for it. Lower my shoulder, break through a gap, but there’s too much fucking pressure. I’m caught, as three of them swarm me, dragging me down. I hit the ground hard, ball tucked tight, no backup. Before I can place it, they’ve snatched it clean.

I hear the ref’s whistle, sharp and merciless, and it’s done. Ball’s theirs. Another fucking turnover.

Time’s running out. We need one good play. Just one more.

But it never comes.

The whistle blasts, slicing through the noise. 14-16. Close loss. Closer than anyone thought we’d get in our first game.

Should feel like a victory. It doesn’t. Not to me.

Because it’s not the team that let it slip. It’s me. I wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t sharp enough. Didn’t read the pitch right. If I’d been faster, better, more tuned in, we’d have won.

The lads are on their knees, breathing rough, slapping each other’s backs like they’re proud of what we did. They should be. They fought like beasts.

But I didn’t lead them the way I should’ve.

I hang back, shoulders tense, teeth set like I’m trying to keep the whole damn day from spilling out.

There’s no pride in today. A loss is a loss.

My lungs are burning, sweat running down my back. My ribs ache, back’s sore, and my thighs are cramping up. I scrub my hand across my skin, wiping sweat from my eyebrows. My forearms are streaked with dried mud.

They’re waving me over to the improvised media tent by the touchline. I want to tell them to fuck off. Not happening. Captain’s duty, can’t dodge this one. I take a resigned breath and slog over. My legs are dead weight. Everything fucking hurts.

Coach is already there, leaning on the rail with that stoic look of his. Gives me a nod. He knows I’d rather be anywhere else. I wipe the sweat off again, roll both hands into fists to keep them from shaking, and step up to the mic.

I look for her. She’s not here. Just cameras and nothing I give a shite about. Right. She’s probably still up in VIP, doing her job. Keeping the journos onside, pushing the narrative. Makes sense.

Even if I don’t see what the hell there is to spin after that performance.

I know I’m talented as fuck. I just need more focus. More bite.

The first reporter doesn’t waste time. ‘Respectable start for a new side, Brodie. How are you feeling about the result?’

I nod and keep my tone even. ‘Aye, a score like that hurts. But in the end, the Chargers had the upper hand. The lads gave everything. It was a close contest. We had our moments. Plenty to build on. We’ll keep pushing.’

Another voice jumps in, fast. ‘Plenty of eyes on you today, Brodie. How does it feel stepping back onto the pitch with all that…controversy ?’

Honestly? Like getting punched in the nuts and told to smile. I knew it was coming. Knew someone would bring it up. And if Charlie hadn’t made me sit through those extra media sessions – hours of pacing, reframing – I’d probably be throwing fists instead of sound bites.

I was pissed with her for it at the time. But that’s the only reason that guy isn’t picking up his teeth from the turf right now.

I square my stance, meet their eyes. ‘Feels right. Feels like home. I’m here to play rugby. Nothing else.’

Someone else calls out, ‘What’s your take on the team’s potential this season?’

I keep my expression neutral. ‘We’ve got talent. Grit. You saw it. Still a few things to tidy up, but the effort’s there. The belief’s there. And we’re only just getting started.’

Cameron steps in before the next question can land. ‘That’s all for now. Brodie’s got recovery to do.’

I slap his hand low as I pass, shoulder past the reporters, and make for the tunnel.

It’s calmer there. But that doesn’t stop the thudding between my temples. The lads will be gassed up, riding the high of a decent debut. And aye, it could’ve been worse, overall. And yet… It doesn’t sit right with me. I could’ve done more. I should’ve done better.

The changing room’s dead quiet. Steam clings to the air. I’ve half a mind to go find the physio and make him fix whatever the fuck’s wrong with my back.

I’m clean, showered, and dressed, but I still feel filthy. Stale. The game’s clinging to my skin. Chin tucked to my chest, I stare at the floor. My boots are shoved under the bench, mud caked around the cleats, and I’m too fucked to move.

The lads were riding the mood when they left, already on their way to the Sin & Tonic for the after party.

Not me.

Coach said it was a good start. But I was meant to carry us through the tough spots. Break the deadlock. Get us over the line.

Instead, I got put on my arse more times than I care to admit.

I’ve played worse games. Hell, I’ve lost by a lot more. But that was before. Before I had to earn back every scrap of respect. Before I knew what it felt like to have it all stripped away and start over.

The door creaks open, and I can’t even be arsed to look up. Just brush the grit off my jeans, even though there’s nothing there, and mutter, ‘Don’t feel like talking.’

Charlie’s voice cuts through the silence. ‘Too bad. One more interview. They’re waiting.’

My throat pulses, heat rising fast. I bite down so hard I feel it in my ears. ‘I’ve given enough.’

‘Apparently not. They want the man of the match.’

I shake my head. ‘That can’t be me.’

Her heels echo on the tiles, each step measured against the silence. I don’t look, but I feel her watching. A current flickers along my cheek like static.

‘If you weren’t good enough, they wouldn’t be waiting.’ Charlie steps closer, voice low but fierce. ‘You’re not Atlas. You don’t have to carry the whole game on your shoulders. Snap out of it, MacRae. You’re leading a new team. This was never going to be perfect from the get-go. Ever heard of expectation management?’

She doesn’t give me a choice. Crouches in front of me. Her hand’s on my knee, small and warm, keeping me tethered. She grazes the fabric, and it’s fucking nothing, but it feels like everything. She looks at me like I did something right. Like I held the team, held the line, held my own. She believes it. Feels it. Says it like it’s fact. And for some fucked-up reason, that sinks in.

Because she doesn’t hand out faith lightly.

And she’s giving it to me.

Even now.

Even when I can’t give it to myself.

She’s close enough that I see every detail – the way her lashes dip low, that faint line between her brows, the slight quiver of her lower lip. I lift my hand, and my thumb moves without permission, tracing the curve of her cheekbone. She leans into it just a fraction, like she can’t help herself, and it nearly kills me.

‘I hate that you make so much sense.’ Didn’t mean to say it. Definitely didn’t mean it to sound like that.

Her eyes don’t drop. She hears it. All of it.

‘I hate that too.’ Her tone catches at the end.

‘Aye?’ I’m so close I taste her breath on my tongue, and my heart’s pounding hard enough to crack my ribcage.

Her gaze darts to my mouth, and her grip firms on my thigh. I know she feels it too – this agonising fucking draw between us.

And I’m screwed. Because now I know how Charlie tastes. Feels. On my mouth. Around my cock.

I brush her nose with mine, and I’m two seconds away from saying ‘ fuck it’ and kissing her, taking what I want for once instead of holding back.

Her gaze softens, something fragile breaking through before she shutters it behind a breath. Locks it down and swallows the heat like it’ll choke her otherwise.

‘Brodie,’ she whispers. ‘You…did good. They want to hear from the captain. Go give them something good to print. You got this.’

‘Awright.’ I shake out my shoulders like I’m gearing up for another round. ‘Let’s get it over with, then.’

She squeezes my thigh once before letting go.

That was a damn close call.

But I want her to break first.

I want her to close the distance and show me she’s just as fucking helpless as I am.

Because I might be a goner for Charlie Harrington and have fucked up our first shot at a win, but I’m also a proud and stubborn bastard. And I can wait. For the victory and the girl.