Page 3

Chapter 3

Brodie

T he ball spirals through the air, a perfect arc that should hit Scottie Kerr right in the chest. Should being the key word. It smacks off his fingertips. Hits the ground. Again.

‘For fuck’s sake, man!’ I rake my fingers through my sweat-soaked hair. ‘That’s three times. Are your hands made of butter today?’

Scottie huffs out a breath. ‘Maybe if you didn’t throw like you’re trying to take my head off.’

Scottie’s usually decent, but today he’s got the hands of a wean on a sugar crash. He looks…disheartened.

I don’t have time for that.

‘Maybe if you weren’t moving like you’ve got concrete in your boots.’ I spread my arms. ‘If your feelings are hurt, you can fuck off. I’m here to win. Let’s go again. This time, catch it with your hands, not your face.’

Coach Cameron Wallace’s moustache twitches, lips pressing into a thin line. He’s been breathing down my neck all day, probably wondering if I’ve finally lost it. But I haven’t. I’m just done carrying dead weight.

‘MacRae.’ Coach’s voice is a warning. ‘Ease up.’

I ignore him. We’re five weeks from season start, and half these lads still can’t consistently execute an advanced passing drill. We’re all new here, thrown together. A mix of transfers, academy kids, and cast-outs like yours truly. Starting a new URC team from scratch isn’t easy, I know. But someone needs to light a fire under their arses.

And that job falls to me.

Rare August sun bakes the training ground. We’ve been at it for hours, running the same play over and over because nobody can get their shite together. My shirt sticks to my back, muscles burning from the endless repetition.

I exhale hard and roll my shoulders, trying for patience I don’t have. ‘Five weeks till the season starts,’ I say. ‘You want to play in a real league, or should I start booking tickets for the kiddie touch tournament?’

‘Aye, right.’ Finn Lennox shouts from his position on the wing. ‘It’s always our fault, never the great MacRae’s.’

My knuckles crack as my hands ball into fists. ‘You like to say that to my face, Lennox?’

Finn stretches, lazy as a cat. ‘Already did, mate.’

The rest of the lads shift, watching. They’ve seen this dance before – Finn pushing buttons, me rising to the bait. A few of them chuckle. James MacKenna mutters something to his mate. The rest avoid my gaze, like I’m the one weighing us down. But I’m their captain. The Stirling Rebels’ best player. Even if none of them actually want me here.

Even if I don’t really want to be here.

Coach Wallace’s whistle splits the air. ‘MacRae. A word.’

I head over, cleats catching on brittle patches of dry turf. Wallace stands with his arms crossed, clipboard tucked under one elbow. Everything about him – his stance, his stare, the bark in his voice – screams ex-military. A man used to discipline, control, and others following orders. His expression says I’m about to get my arse handed to me.

‘What’s the problem, MacRae?’

I wipe sweat from my forehead. ‘No problem. Just trying to get the basics right.’

‘By tearing strips off your teammates?’

‘They need to step up.’

‘They need a leader, not a dictator.’ He taps his clipboard. ‘You’re the fly-half. The conductor and the captain. Your job’s not to bark orders. It’s to make everyone around you better. Am I clear?’

A muscle jumps in my forearm. ‘That’s what I’m trying to do. But I’m not here to hold their hands.’

Briefly, I wonder if Wallace is right. If I’m just lashing out to prove I’m still worth something. But I can’t afford to think like that. Not when everyone’s already waiting for me to cock up.

‘No, you’re trying to prove you’re better than them.’ He levels me with a look. ‘And that’s not leadership, son. That’s ego.’

It shouldn’t sting. But it does. Yet, I can’t show weakness. Not here, not now.

‘Run it again,’ Wallace calls to the team. ‘And MacRae? Try working with them instead of against them.’

I don’t answer. Just turn back to the pitch, the weight of his words digging in like studs to my ribs. Fury simmers under my skin. Finn smacks Scottie on the back, a shared silent commentary, as if I’m the one who fucked up. As if I’m the punchline. James catches my eye and shakes his head, distancing himself from whatever potential explosion might happen. Smart lad. The rest of them tense, waiting for the storm.

I bite down on the words knifing through my throat and will my shoulders to drop, not petrify.

We’re having another go, and this time, it fucking works.

Pure magic.

The ball moves cleanly through the hands like it’s supposed to. No fumbles, no hesitations, no confusion. Scottie takes the pass and straightens his run, dragging the inside defender with him. Finn reads it, steps off his left, and carves through before the defence can adjust. For the first time today, it flows.

Ball to James – pop to Scottie – straight back to me. I fire it wide to Finn, who glides through the space like he’s been greased, legs devouring the metres. He makes it look easy, because when it works, when everyone’s switched on, it is easy.

I don’t celebrate. Just stand there, hands on my hips, breath heavy, sweat dripping down my nose. That’s all I fucking wanted. Exactly that.

Wallace blows his whistle. ‘That’s it, boys. We got work to do. But let’s end on a high.’

Finn lopes past me, barely winded. ‘Aye, rare sight. MacRae actually ending something on a high.’

My neck tightens. ‘Wanna repeat that, Lennox?’

He grins, all lazy confidence. ‘Just saying, mate. Must be exhausting up there on that high horse, carrying that ego around at altitude.’

But before I can open my mouth to scold that cheeky wee fucker, a low engine growl drowns out the banter, and pulls my attention to the sleek black Maserati rolling up to the fence.

Of course, she’d arrive in a car that screams ‘fuck you’ without even needing to honk.

Next thing I know, a visceral shock punches through me – part impact, part instinct.

Because Charlie Harrington steps out of that car like she’s walking onto a runway. The sun catches her hair, turning it to gold. Her oversized white linen shirt – practically see-through in this light – barely skims the top of her denim shorts, leaving far too much leg on display. Long, toned, lightly tanned. Smooth, too. I know, because my fucking brain decides to clock that detail like a goddamn traitor. My mouth goes dry. I’m a man with eyes. Any guy would be looking. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Eventually, my brain catches up with my dick – and reminds me that I hate her guts.

‘MacRae.’ Her voice carries across the pitch. ‘A minute of your precious time?’

Finn whistles low. ‘Who’s that snack?’

‘My agent,’ I growl. ‘And she’s leaving.’

The heels of her ankle boots sink into the grass as she stalks towards us. ‘Actually, I’m not. Since you‘ve been dodging my calls all week, we’re doing this here. Right now.’

‘We’re training,’ I declare.

‘You’re finishing, by the looks of it.‘ She glances at Wallace. ‘Right, Coach?’

‘Aye,’ Wallace says, ‘we’re done for the day.’

The boys start filing off, but not before Finn shoots me a dirty smirk. I’ll deal with him later. I’ve got bigger problems. About five foot five, but with an attitude from here to the moon.

Charlie plants herself between me and the pitch, close enough that I catch the scent of her perfume. Citrus and honey, smoothed out by something darker. Sandalwood? Spite? Hard to tell. But it sticks, just like her.

‘You’re being difficult,’ she states sternly.

‘I’m being a professional athlete. I have to train. It’s what I do.’

‘Professional?’ She barks out a laugh. ‘Is that what we’re calling ignoring your agent’s calls?’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Busy being a pain in my arse.’ She pulls out her phone. ‘You’ve missed a handpicked PR opportunity, declined a photoshoot, and told the Daily Record to, and I quote, “get fucked” when they asked for an interview.’

I cross my arms, which I know shows off my biceps. Not sure if I want to intimidate or impress her. Probably both. ‘And?’

‘And you’re doing Ailsa’s Kitchen on Monday.’ She’s scrolling through what looks like a calendar on her phone.

‘I’m doing what now?’

‘A cooking show. Local channel and YouTube, good publicity, great way to show your softer side. Perfect for your image rehabilitation.’

The laugh that rips out of me is harsh. ‘Not a chance in hell. I’m not doing a fucking cooking show.’

‘It wasn’t a request.’

‘I don’t cook.’

‘You’ll learn.’

‘I don’t do publicity stunts.’

‘You’ll adapt. Gordon signed off on this. So, unless you care to explain to the club manager why you’re refusing to do the parts of your job that don’t involve beating others up for a living, you’re doing it and that’s final.’

‘I’m not your puppet, Harrington.’

‘No. You’re my client.’ She steps in close, voice dropping to a whisper that slides down my spine. ‘And right now, you’re also being a nightmare.’

The thrum from her body reaches across the space between us. My pulse kicks hard against my ribs. ‘Find someone else to dance for the cameras.’

‘There’s no one else who needs to dance as hard as you. You want to rebuild your reputation? This is how we do it. One appearance at a time. One cooking show at a time.’

‘Fuck. Off.’

‘You’re repeating yourself. It’s boring.’

But she doesn’t look bored to me. Guess she’s not used to being told no. That’d explain the pink climbing up her cheeks.

A rush of heat surges through me – not just anger, but something sharper. I hate that she has this effect on me. Like she’s carved out a space in my head just to fuck with me. And for a moment, my eyes drop to her mouth.

She notices. Of course she notices.

‘You done staring, MacRae?’

‘You done trying to control my life?’

‘When you stop being a liability? Perhaps.’

I lean in, sweat-soaked shirt clinging to my back, and use my height to loom over her. ‘You really want to push me, Harrington?’

She doesn’t back down an inch. ‘I don’t push, MacRae. I manage.’

I jut my chin out. ‘That what you think you’re doing?’

‘That’s what I know.’ She presses a finger to my chest. ‘You’re doing the show. You’re doing the photoshoot. And you’re going to smile and play nice. It’s in your contract. And believe me, you don’t want to get on my bad side.’

My blood boils. ‘That’s blackmail.’

‘That’s business.’ She steps back, smoothing her shirt. ‘I’m picking you up Monday at nine. Wear something that isn’t black. And for god’s sake, get a haircut.’

‘This a fetish of yours, Harrington? Bossing men around?’

Charlie holds the line, unbothered. ‘You’re the only one who needs this much bossing. Which makes me wonder whether or not you are a man.’

Some of the players whistle and chuckle.

Low blow. Meant to cut. I don’t give any of them the satisfaction of seeing if it landed. Which it did.

She spins on her heel and stalks back to her car – full hips swaying in those painted-on shorts – and leaves me with a pitch full of gawking teammates. I watch her go, fury and something else churning in my gut. My whole team is staring at me like I’ve just been neutered. My head throbs, as if I just took a boot to the skull.

‘Oi, MacRae!’ Finn grins like it’s Christmas. ‘Bit fucked there, eh?’

‘Shut your mouth. Or I’ll do it for you.’

He laughs. ‘I’ve not seen anyone handle you like that. It was beautiful, man. Scottie, did you see that?’

Scottie appears from nowhere, still in his training kit. ‘Saw it. Filmed it. Sent it to the group chat.’

I’m going to murder them both in their sleep.

‘The great Brodie MacRae,’ Finn continues, ‘taken down a notch by a gal in heels. Poetry, that is.’

I let out a grunt. Recently, my signature sound.

‘What’s wrong, Captain?’ Finn wiggles his eyebrows. ‘Can’t decide if she handed you your arse or gift-wrapped it?’

Scottie laughs. ‘Both.’

The tips of my ears are burning. ‘You’re running suicides next practice.’

‘Worth it.’ Finn claps my shoulder as he passes. First time he’s ever done that. ‘Have fun on your cooking or baking show, Captain. Perhaps you can teach me how to make a Victoria sponge?’

‘I can teach you how to eat dirt.’

Finn sighs, mock wistful. ‘Just think, MacRae. A year ago, you were taking down the All Blacks. Now? You’re rolling pastry for daytime telly. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.’

I flip him the bird without looking. If I make eye contact, I’ll end up doing time for assault.

They laugh and I watch them go, the taste of defeat bitter on my tongue. Charlie Harrington played me in front of my entire team. Undermined me, humiliated me, and made my dick stir in the process.

Have I mentioned how much I fucking hate her?