Page 23

Chapter 23

Brodie

T he Sin & Tonic reeks of pine needles and pretence. String lights flicker overhead, too bright and too close, like they’re straining to hold the place together. Forest-green velvet panels mute some of the noise, but the bar along the far wall hums with a low buzz of boozy laughter and forced festivity. The back booths – half-lit, wood-panelled, and intimate – look like they were built for secrets.

It’s the only bar in Duncraig. Why the hell are we having our Christmas party here instead of a fancy place in Stirling? Fucking beats me. It’s not a shite bar, but it isn’t class, either. Low key, local, bit lame to be honest.

Mum’s perfume wafts through the air before I even see her. ‘There you are.’ She slots in next to me, Dad trailing with two whiskies. ‘Smile, son. You’re grimacing like a gargoyle. This is a professional event.’

I loosen the grip on my glass of water before it can crack. ‘Having fun?’

‘Your father’s explaining rucks to the MacKenzie CEO’s wife.’ Mum’s laugh grates. ‘Go network. You’re the star.’

‘Not tonight.’

‘Michael, tell your son to stop being a numpty.’

‘You heard your mother,’ Dad says, low and weighty.

A voice you don’t argue with. Same tone he used when I’d whine about extra drills as a kid. Nine years old, shivering on a frostbitten pitch, him barking Again! until my passes stuck. I love the man, but Christ, he could make a drill sergeant weep for his maw.

I adore my parents, I do. But they can be a bit much sometimes. They encouraged all three of us to do organised sports to keep us busy, teach us resilience, make us excel. My dad is my constant rock and biggest pusher. If he senses I’m not giving a hundred per cent, he finds a way to push harder. My mum’s equally tough. Half-Italian but double the amount of Scottish grit. ‘Don’t wait for handouts – earn it.’

Her words, not mine.

My parents make the rounds. The party’s buzzing. Laughter bouncing off the walls, drinks flowing, and I’m not even bothering to hide that I look like a haunted bastard.

Scottie’s giving me shite from across the room, pointing at me like he’s dissecting my misery for sport. Wanker. I give him the finger and turn back to my water, trying not to think about whether or not she’ll show. Whether or not my heart can take it if she does. Or if it can take it if she doesn’t. It’s a rock and a hard place, and I’m trapped in the fucking middle.

This is a MacKenzie-sponsored event. She wouldn’t miss it.

Every second she’s not walking through that door is a knife to the ribs. But if she does…

The boys are scattered around the room, boisterous as ever. Coach Wallace is chatting with one of the MacKenzie guys. Big-shot sponsor pricks with deep wallets and loud opinions. Weirdly, our mysterious billionaire owner’s not here for the glory lap. Though I suppose a reclusive Canadian with a yacht in Monaco doesn’t fancy mingling with the plebs. Wouldn’t want to get too close to the livestock.

I scan the room for the hundredth time and catch Jamie’s eye. He raises his glass, nods toward the door with a question in his eyes. I shake my head. No sign of her yet.

‘Brodie!’ A hand claps my arse. Of course, it’s Finn. ‘Fix your face and stop looking like someone’s pissed in your porridge.’

‘Are you telling me to smile more?’

‘Would look good on you, darlin’!’ He leans in with that signature smirk. ‘Dry your eyes. Don’t lose sleep over one fanny when the world’s practically a buffet. Warm, wet, and eager to let you leave your boots on. Some even come as a double act. Chin up, Romeo.’ He swans off to the bar, already chatting up someone.

Finn’s a total knobhead, but I’m beginning to like that cheeky shite.

The MacKenzie CEO approaches, hand outstretched. ‘MacRae! Hell of a season you’re having.’

I slap on the PR grin. ‘Appreciate the support.’

‘That last match. Brutal stuff. Thought you’d crack your skull on that tackle.’

‘Takes more than that to keep me down.’

His laugh booms. ‘That’s what we like to see! Fighting spirit.’

I nod, scanning the room again. My father catches my eye, nailing me with the patented ‘don’t fuck this up, son’-stare. I’ve been getting that same glare since I was in nappies.

The CEO drones on about quarterly projections and brand alignment. I keep nodding, grunting in the right moments, when the door swings open.

And there she is.

Charlie.

The world contracts, tight as a fist around my throat. Every sound dulls, every face fades, because she’s the only thing in focus. She looks like she stepped out of my fucking dreams to wreck me all over again.

Green velvet, curves pouring out of that dress like it was made just to drive me mad. Her hair’s pinned up, but a few strands kiss her neck, teasing me as if they know how much I miss having my hands in it.

When she spots Coach, her face softens, and I hate it. Hate that he gets the smile that used to be mine. Then she laughs. It sounds jagged, too bright, too brittle.

I can’t stop staring. Can’t make myself move.

She looks breakable tonight. Like all that fire’s wrapped in something fragile, and I’m the arsehole who smashed it to pieces.

She lets her gaze skid my way, and I see it. Hurt swimming under ice. A fault line splits straight through me. I’m battling the urge to shove past every arsehole between us and just grab her.

Apologise. Beg. Anything.

Acting like she doesn’t sense me in this room like I sense her – that’s like a fucking broadsword down the middle.

I’m still hers, I will always be hers, and it’s killing me.

Coach Wallace’s gravelly voice rises over the buzz. My parents wander over with him in tow, Mum’s laugh slicing through the noise like a knife. Great. Now I’m boxed in on all sides. Parents, coach, sponsor.

Fuck my life.

My stomach twists, and I force down the instinct to leg it to the other side of the bar. Mum’s in full charm mode, gesturing with her prosecco like she’s narrating an epic tale. Dad’s nodding along, giving her the stage like he always does. Coach looks like he’s actually listening, which is a fucking feat in itself.

And then Charlie walks past, blazing a path through the room like a goddamn comet. Her eyes are fixed dead ahead, but Coach spots her and waves her over like she’s just another one of the boys.

‘Harrington!’ he calls out, and Charlie hesitates just long enough for him to notice. ‘Come over here. Got some people you should meet.’

She doesn’t have a choice. Can’t exactly ignore the head coach in front of the MacKenzie brass. So, she squares her shoulders and walks over, looking composed as ever.

She isn’t, though.

‘This is Charlie Harrington,’ Coach Wallace says to my parents, nodding like she’s the MVP of the night. ‘Made a right miracle out of MacRae’s comeback here.’

My mum’s eyes light up. ‘Oh! You’re Charlie!’ She grabs Charlie’s hand and gives it a firm shake. ‘Sandra MacRae. Brodie’s mum. This is his dad, Michael.’

Charlie’s smile stays polite, but there’s a glint of panic in her eyes. ‘Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘All lies, I’m sure,’ Dad says with a chuckle. ‘Though if you’ve heard that being stubborn as a mule is a family trait, that one’s true.’

‘Oh, I figured that out on my own,’ Charlie deadpans.

Mum laughs, delighted. ‘I like you already. We owe you a drink for putting up with him. And for making him cook the family recipe on TV.’

‘Oh, that’s really not—’

‘Nonsense,’ Mum interrupts. ‘God knows he needs someone to keep him in line. This one’s been pushing back against everything since he was old enough to form an opinion.’

‘Mum,’ I mutter under my breath, but she’s not listening.

Charlie glances my way for a split second before forcing her attention back to my mother. ‘Sounds about right,’ she says.

‘Well, whatever you’re doing, keep at it,’ Dad says. ‘He’s looked sharper on the field lately. More focused.’

That digs under my skin. Because beating myself into the ground is the only way I’ve kept from suffocating in the fucking absence of her.

They don’t know. They don’t know I’ve spent the last month dragging myself through broken glass just to get through the day. Don’t know I fucked it all up because I’m a bull-headed prick who pushed her away before she could do it first.

Charlie nods, forcing another smile. ‘I’ll do my best.’

Heat lances through my gut. It’s like she’s caught between wanting to run and wanting to listen, and I hate that I’m the reason she’s stuck.

Coach glances at me, eyebrows raised. ‘You alright, MacRae?’

I lie with a nod. ‘Aye. All good.’

Charlie shifts on her heels, glancing at the exit like it’s her last lifeline. Mum notices, naturally, and puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘You look lovely, dear. I hope you’re taking time to enjoy the party and not just running around after this lot.’

‘Trying to.’ Charlie looks down at her untouched drink. ‘Not used to being…social recently.’

‘Och, neither’s Brodie,’ Mum says, shooting me a glare. ‘Got that from his father.’

Dad just shrugs. ‘Introverts make the best rugby players. Tunnel vision. Nothing gets through.’

‘Except bricks,’ Coach grumbles.

Charlie laughs, and it’s too fucking soft. Rips through me. She barely flicks her eyes in my direction again. Just says a polite goodbye and drifts off, looking like she’s holding herself together with duct tape and spite underneath that velvet.

I love my parents.

My parents love Charlie.

It would’ve been so goddamn fucking perfect.

Takes everything I’ve got not to headbutt the nearest hard surface.

Mum watches her go, then turns to me, eyes sharp like she’s reading the subtext of my fucking soul. ‘Your agent seems like a good sort.’

I let out an involuntary pained groan and make my way to the terrace.

The cold air smacks me in the face, scraping down my throat like razor blades. Stars overhead, sharp as needles, and my ribcage is too tight to breathe. I brace my hands on the terrace railing and focus on pulling oxygen into my lungs, forcing down the mess clawing up my insides. Love. Lust. Pain. Regret. Feels like I’m bleeding out from the inside.

A spark flickers at the edge of the terrace, and I spot Scottie leaning against the wall, fag glowing between his fingers. He doesn’t look at me. Just lifts his chin in acknowledgement.

‘Didn’t know you smoked,’ I grunt, grateful for the distraction.

He shrugs. ‘One a year, in the run-up to Christmas. Bit of a ritual.’

Neither of us rushes to break the silence. I drop my shoulders like that’ll trick my body into easing up. But it’s no use. Still made of stone.

‘Coach is thinking about having me sit out next week against the Dragons,’ I say, just to fill the air. ‘Says my back needs the rest if I’m gonna be fit for the Knights game at the end of the year.’

Scottie takes a drag and blows smoke toward the sky. His voice is nasal. ‘Coach isn’t wrong.’

‘Aye, well. Not much else to do, is there?’

He doesn’t answer. Just taps the ash off the end with his thumb. The quiet lingers, just shy of uncomfortable.

‘You know, MacRae, for someone who hates being called an eejit, you sure act like one.’

My head whips around. ‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’

Scottie takes another drag, eyes fixed on the horizon. ‘You still love her. It’s written all over your ugly troll face. So, quit acting like a twat and do something about it.’

‘That’s not—’ I cut myself off, throat burning. ‘It’s over. She doesn’t want me.’

‘Maybe. Can’t say I blame her. You’re about as easy to love as a pair of wet socks.’

A laugh gets stuck halfway up my throat. I curl my fingers tighter around the railing.

‘You know I don’t talk about this shite. But it’s you, so… Don’t make me regret it.’

Scottie’s giving me that same patient look he gets before a scrum. Ready to take the hit if it means I’ll finally cough up the truth. Don’t know what it is about that bearded ginger gremlin, but he’s got gravity. Calm. He’s the buffer that keeps half the team from knocking each other out after a shite game. Makes you trust him with stuff you wouldn’t tell your own shadow.

‘What if I cocked it up so bad there’s no coming back?’ I say into the December night without looking at him. ‘Destroyed the one good thing I ever had? She deserves better than me.’

Scottie flicks ash over the railing, giving me his calm, unimpressed signature look. ‘Maybe you did. And maybe she does. But that’s not for you to decide, is it?’

I let out a bitter laugh. ‘Cheers, mate.’

‘You’re my captain. You’re the one who always says to go after what you want, no matter how hard it is. Practice what you preach.’

I loathe how right he is.

Scottie stubs out his fag on the wall. ‘You’ve got two options. Keep pretending you’re fine, or swallow your pride and make it right. Your choice.’

He lets his hand rest on my shoulder for a few seconds before pushing past me and heading back inside. I watch his back as he goes, knowing I’ll owe him for this one.

I stay rooted to the spot, staring at the sky, fighting to breathe through the ache. It’s almost funny. I get my arse whooped by a bunch of massive raging bastards every week for a living and that doesn’t scare me half as much as this. Handing Charlie every broken piece and knowing it might not be enough. Her seeing the truth and realising I was never what she deserved. Loving her with everything I’ve got and still getting it wrong.

But Scottie’s right. I don’t get to decide what she deserves. That’s not my call. My call’s whether I’m willing to fight for her.

I push off the railing, blood roaring in my ears. She’s worth it. Every hit to the heart. Every breath. Every bruise to my soul.