Page 25

Chapter 25

Brodie

O ne week since I flew to London like a lovesick martyr to hand over a sparkly hat.

Hannah’s awesome. Full of energy and ambition, bouncing with nerves and sass all at once. And she’s got pipes. Just like her big sister.

Who, as it turns out, is the love of my life.

I haven’t heard from her since. Haven’t called either. I made my point – couldn’t have been any clearer if I’d painted it on the side of a double-decker. It’s her move now. Space is what she needs, and I’m giving it to her.

It’s torture.

I shove the thoughts down and tape up my ankles. Tight enough to hold, not enough to turn my feet blue. Then I wind the tape around my head. I love rugby, but I’m too pretty for cauliflower ears.

Focus on the game.

Second half’s about to start, and it’s a big one. Glasgow.

My old team. The team that kicked me out based on lies and rumours.

Callum Fraser.

That fuck-ugly piece of shite’s on the pitch right now, lording it up like he’s Scotland’s gift to rugby. Smashing his skull in is a real temptation, more so than ever. Now I’ve got a real reason to do it. The thought gnaws just behind my teeth, wanting out. But I can’t give in to that.

Can’t risk the sin bin today.

We’re just behind – only by a few points. Nobody would’ve expected it, least of all me. On paper, Glasgow should’ve stomped us by now. But we’ve kept up, clawing back every time they pull ahead. That first half was savage. Scrums like battering rams, line-outs nasty enough to draw blood. And we’re holding our own.

Finn’s been a beast at the breakdown, Scottie’s cut through their defence like a fucking laser, and Jamie’s been robust as ever – relentless, boshing any poor sod who so much as breathes in his direction.

We’re still not always consistent, still finding our feet. But today, the boys are working like a well-oiled machine. It’s a sight to see. Days like these, I remember why I love this game. Why I put up with the bruises, the broken bones, the endless pressure.

But none of it fills the gaping hole where Charlie’s meant to be. Not when I can still hear her ordering me to sit still while she rubs arnica into my back, claiming it’s for recovery and not an excuse to touch me.

I told myself if she didn’t show today, I’d find a way to let her go. I’d have to. Even if I’ll be carrying the echo of her for the rest of my life.

Coach Wallace shouts a line about keeping composure and sticking to our game plan, but it’s all a blur. I know what he’s saying, know what’s expected.

Keep your head, MacRae. You’re the captain. Lead by example.

And I do.

I breathe in through my nose, force the air to fill my lungs. One half to go. We can take this. Glasgow’s good, but they’re not unbeatable. Not when we’re playing like this.

And I’m not losing to Callum fucking Fraser.

He was giving me that smug grin all through the first half. I know he’s waiting for me to crack, to boil over and throw a punch so he can gloat while I get sent off and then whine in the press. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. Not giving anyone a reason to write us off. We’re in this fight. I didn’t come this far to fuck it up.

I let out a slow breath and knock my knuckles against Jamie’s.

He grins. ‘Game to shut these arseholes up?’

‘Born ready. Let’s fucking maul ’em to death.’

We jog back onto the pitch. The cold hits harder than the crowd noise, but there’s more of it tonight. Muffled cheers, claps, a low thrum of energy building in the stands. End of December and freezing, but folk still showed up.

Aye, we’re getting somewhere with the Stirling Rebels. Bit of respect in the air now.

I lock eyes with Callum for just a second. He sneers, but I don’t take the bait. He’s nothing. Dust under my feet.

The noise dips. A lull between the chants and shouts, the kind of break that feels like the stadium’s holding its breath. I’m wired, blood fizzing with adrenaline, prepared to show the world we’re not just here to make up the numbers.

We’re here to win.

Finn ruffles my hair, muttering about smashing those dickheads into next week. I nod, shoulders braced. Need to keep my concentration, keep from throwing Callum to the ground and grinding his face into the turf.

Then, in the hush before the whistle, a voice slices through the stillness. Bright. Clear. Unmistakable.

‘Goooo Brodiiie!’

I whip my head up, searching. My brain’s a second behind my body. Because my heart stops for half a beat, then slams back to life so hard it rattles my ribs and plunges straight to my gut.

Charlie?

Yes.

Standing in the grandstand, next to Theo, both of them grinning like they’ve just pulled off the heist of the century.

She’s wearing my Rebels shirt – my fucking shirt – like a damn proclamation.

My number.

My name.

Everything goes quiet.

The breath rips out of me like I’ve taken a hit. For one perfect moment, it’s only her. Standing there, making the universe brighter. The banner is a pink monstrosity with glitter bleeding off the edges. ‘Go Brodie!’ sprawled in loopy letters, and the ten smack in the middle of a glittery heart. It’s garish and loud and entirely too much – and it’s perfect. I suspect Hannah had a hand in the design.

Charlie’s here.

For me.

In public.

I don’t know if I want to laugh or scream or collapse. Boots welded to the turf. The world shifts on its axis, and all I can hear is her voice.

My girl. My fucking girl.

Scottie elbows me, and I barely notice it. ‘Looks like you took my advice, mate.’

I blink at him, brain too scrambled to make sense of anything, but he only grins like a madman and points at the grandstand.

There’s a burn in my throat, as if someone’s crammed a balloon behind my ribs and it’s trying to pop. I glance back up and catch her gaze. She’s lit up, so bright it’s like the sun’s shining right out of her, and she throws her head back and laughs at something Theo says.

The sight of her here… Fuck. It slams into my chest with the weight of a vow, rewrites my DNA.

This is what my eyes were made for.

To see her.

She’s sporting my number, holding a pink glittery sign like some love-struck teenager, and I’ve never been prouder or happier or more humbled about anything in my goddamn life.

And then I clock Fraser’s face. It’s a fucking gift. That scrunched-up look. Sour and twisted, like he’s swallowed a wasp. He knows. He knows this phenomenal powerhouse of a woman is here for me, and there’s not a fucking thing he can do about it. He’s glaring at me like he wants me dead.

Let him try.

Right now, I’m invincible.

Hell, part of me wants to thank him for screwing it up and bringing her into my life.

Charlie waves, and it’s the smallest, simplest thing, but it rocks me. I don’t even think about it – I blow her a kiss. Right there, in front of the entire stadium, the lads, the cameras – everyone.

I want them all to know. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Scottie laughs and claps me on the back. ‘Christ, MacRae. You soft bastard.’

I don’t care. I don’t give a damn if the press writes about it for weeks. That’s my girl up there, and I’m never letting her go. Nothing else matters. Just her. Just this game. Just showing them all that I’m back, and in love, and fucking unstoppable.

The whistle blows. The lads bunch up. My pulse’s still racing, but it’s not from the game anymore.

I exhale slowly, like it hurts to let it go, and square up. Focus. Finish this. Win it for her, for the team, for everything I’ve dragged back from the edge with bloody knuckles and a heart that refused to quit.

I roll my shoulders back and straighten my spine, scan the pitch, and yell at the boys to form up.

And I look back one last time. She’s still watching me, eyes shining with that fire, smile unshakeable. She made her move. Now it’s my turn to show her what she’s choosing.

I nod to her. Three words carved into my heart, caught in my throat. Too huge to speak, so I mouth them in her direction.

I love you.

And then I charge into the second half.