Page 5

Chapter 5

Brodie

I can’t believe she’s making me do this.

I can’t believe I fucking let her.

It’s been ten days since the cooking show, and I’m still getting tagged in videos of me talking about Nonna’s sauce like a cheap Gordon Ramsay.

And now this.

Weans.

The children’s section of the Stirling library looks like a Crayola factory exploded. Shelves crammed with picture books, bean bags in shades that should be classified as visual assault, and walls plastered with cartoon frogs and worms with glasses perched on their non-existent noses.

A fucking nightmare.

And in the middle of it all? A plastic chair designed for someone a quarter of my size. Just waiting to collapse under me and humiliate me in front of twenty tiny humans.

‘This another sick joke?’ I level another of my death stares at Charlie, who leans against the wall looking far too pleased with herself.

Her black turtleneck hugs curves that have no business being that distracting in a children’s library. She’s always been classy – stunning, actually – and somehow that pisses me off more than the fact that I have to actively force myself to look anywhere else. I hate that I’m this easy to wind up.

‘Problem, MacRae?’ Her lips curl into that grin I want to wipe off her face. Preferably with my mouth. Which is a thought I need to delete from existence.

‘I’m not sitting on that.’ I gesture at the plastic chair. ‘It’ll snap like a twig.’

‘There’s a bean bag,’ Charlie says.

‘I’m not sitting on a fucking bean bag, either.’

A librarian wiggles a reproachful finger at me. Her glittery nails catch the light with every movement. ‘Language, please. The children will be here any minute.’

Charlie’s grin widens. ‘Yes, Brodie. Language.’

I scrub a hand over my face, half-heartedly scanning the room for escape routes. There is no escape. Not with Charlie watching over me. I’m doomed. Twenty tiny chairs arranged in a semicircle. A box of puppets. A stack of books.

‘I’m a rugby player, not a clown.’

‘You’re whatever I need you to be today.’ Charlie pushes off the wall and saunters over. ‘The Rebels’ community outreach program needs this. You need this. Your image needs this.’

She pats my chest, her touch burning through my shirt. ‘Now be a good sportsman and read about Hoppy the Hungry Rabbit .’

The librarian offers a thin smile. ‘We’ve actually selected Gordon the Grumpy Goalie today. We thought it would be…appropriate.’

Charlie bursts out laughing, the sound rich and warm and infuriating.

‘Fuck me sideways,’ I mutter.

‘Language!’ The librarian and Charlie retort in perfect stereo.

The door bursts open, and a stampede of small children floods in, chattering and pointing and staring. They’re five, six, seven. I guess. I know fuck all about wee ones. Twenty pairs of eyes fixate on me like I’m some exotic zoo animal.

‘Is that him?’ One small boy tugs his friend’s sleeve. ‘The man from the telly?’

Charlie leans in close, her breath tickling my ear. ‘Smile, MacRae. They can smell fear.’

I glare at the chaos like I can intimidate it into order.

The kids are one thing, at least they’re honest in their curiosity. But the mums? They cluster by the bookshelves pretending to browse, whispering behind paperbacks, and shooting glances that could melt steel. One adjusts her neckline, tugging it lower when she catches my eye. Another acts riveted by her toddler’s attempt to eat a cardboard book while sneaking peeks at my legs. The worst offender doesn’t even try to hide it. Just stands there with her phone, angling for the perfect shot.

I grab Charlie’s elbow and yank her closer. ‘ This was the “safest option”?’

‘Scared of being mobbed by mums? Maybe you should stop treating every female in sight like she’s out to mount you.’ Her eyes dance with unholy delight. ‘No one here to yell insults at you, so yes. Or would you rather do a training video for the detection of testicular cancer? Because that was an option, too.’

A jolt of tension roots me to the spot. ‘You wouldn’t.’

’The script had specific instructions about demonstrating proper examination technique.’

‘You’re evil,’ I hiss. ‘Actually evil.’

‘On the contrary.’ Charlie beams at me. ‘I’m your lord and saviour who’s rehabilitating you. Now go read about that grumpy goalie before I sign you up for prostate cancer awareness month.’

The librarian clears her throat. ‘We’re ready when you are, Mr MacRae.’

I trudge toward the bean bag, wondering if getting tackled by the entire Glasgow Knights defence might have been less painful.

Aye.

I grip the ridiculous picture book. ‘Okay then,’ I clear my throat. ‘The Grumpy Goalie.’

My voice booms in the small space. Three children in the front row physically recoil.

‘Maybe a bit softer,’ Charlie stage-whispers from behind me.

I lower my voice. ‘The Grumpy Goalie by…who the fuck writes these things?’

The librarian makes a strangled noise. A mother gasps.

‘Sam McIntyre,’ Charlie supplies smoothly. ‘And that’s another pound in the swear jar.’

‘There’s a swear jar?’ I glance around.

A tiny girl with pigtails points to an actual glass jar on the librarian’s desk. It’s empty now. Won’t be by the time I’m done.

‘Carry on, Mr MacRae,’ the librarian says tightly.

I open the book. The illustrations are bright and garish – a cartoon goat wearing goalkeeper gloves and scowling at everyone.

‘Once upon a time, there was a goalie named Gordon.’ I pause, staring at the picture. ‘Gordon, the goat, was the best goalkeeper in the league. He even thought he was the G.O.A.T. – the greatest of all time.’

Seriously, who writes this stuff? That’s insulting even for a six-year-old.

A small boy shuffles forward on his bum. ‘Like you?’

‘I’m not a goalkeeper in football, mate. I’m a rugby fly-half.’

His face scrunches in confusion.

‘I’m the one who tells everyone on my team what to do on the pitch,’ I explain.

‘My maw says you’re the one who shouts a lot,’ he replies.

A ripple of adult suppressed laughter circles the room. I glance back to see Charlie biting her lip, shoulders shaking.

‘Gordon, the goat, was very good at stopping goals,’ I continue, ignoring them all. ‘But he wasn’t very good at sharing and making friends.’

Christ, this is brutal. I shift on the bean bag, which makes a loud farting noise. The children erupt in giggles.

Let them have their fun.

‘Gordon liked to win,’ I read, ‘but he didn’t like it when others scored goals against him. He would stamp his hooves and kick the ball away and say mean things.’

I look up at the children. ‘Oi, don’t be like Gordon, awright? Nobody likes a sore loser.’

Some of them nod.

Charlie coughs into her hand. I swear I hear her mutter ‘ironic’ under her breath.

‘Or a smug winner,’ I add pointedly in her direction.

The story drags like a muddy scrum. A small girl with rainbow hair clips clambers onto my leg without warning, her tiny hands gripping my jeans for stability. Before I can react, another one – this one with missing front teeth and glitter smeared across her cheeks – scales my other thigh like I’m Mount Everest.

‘You’re bigger than my da,’ Rainbow Clips announces, bouncing slightly on my quadriceps.

‘And louder,’ adds Glitter Face, settling in like she’s found her new favourite chair.

I go statue-still. What the fuck am I supposed to do with them? Push them off? Pat their heads like puppies?

‘Story,’ Rainbow Clips demands, jabbing a sticky finger at the page.

Why do they always have fucking sticky fingers?

The librarian watches with barely concealed amusement.

‘Right. Where were we?’ I balance the book between their heads. ‘Gordon learns to…something.’

‘Share!’ they shout in unison, directly into my eardrums. And they called me loud.

Then a boy hauls himself onto what’s left of my lap. Then another.

What am I? A fucking climbing frame?

Fine. Might as well give them the best story time they’ve ever had.

Gordon learns to share. Gordon makes friends. Gordon realises winning isn’t everything.

Load of pish, if you ask me.

Of course, winning is everything.

I’m almost through Gordon’s redemption arc when I realise I’m doing voices. Not just reading – actually performing this shite. The goat gets a gruff Glaswegian accent, the bunny sounds like my Scottish gran after too many gin and tonics, and I’ve somehow given the fox an Edinburgh drawl. Makes the kids howl with laughter.

What the hell am I doing? This is getting dangerously close to effort. But I can’t stop now, so I keep going.

‘And then Gordon said…’ I drop my voice to a dramatic rumble, ‘…“I’m sorry for being such a grumpy goalie. Next time I’ll remember that friendship matters more than winning.”’

The children clutching my legs gasp like I’ve revealed the secrets of the universe. One boy’s mouth hangs open, a string of drool connecting his lip to my jeans.

A mum in the back fans herself with a library brochure.

I half-turn and look at Charlie, expecting her trademark smirk. But she’s not smirking. She’s watching me, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Her phone’s up, capturing the whole disaster, but her eyes aren’t mocking.

For a split second, I catch something else there. Something that digs in low in a way that has nothing to do with fifteen stone of children using me as furniture.

She’s working hard. For me. Like she actually means it.

Is she overcompensating? Is it guilt for how things went down with that bastard Callum? Maybe she’s just determined to fix the mess she helped make. Maybe it’s something else. Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

I close the book with a decisive clap. ‘The end.’

There’s a small silence. The kind that makes you wonder if you’ve messed it up completely.

Then a tiny voice pipes up from somewhere near my armpit. ‘You should read to us again.’

That catches me off guard. A wee lad with missing teeth stares up at me, and something pulls tight behind my ribs.

The mums lean forward, a chorus of hopeful faces. Say yes, say yes , their expressions beg. Christ, you’d think I was offering them a raunchy night out instead of butchering a children’s book.

‘Please, Mr Fly,’ Rainbow Clips tugs on my sleeve. ‘You do good voices.’

‘Aye, well.’ I shrug, like it doesn’t matter either way. ‘I suppose I could come back one day.’

The room erupts in cheers. The kids bounce on my legs like I’ve promised them Disney World. The mums exchange knowing glances.

I gently extract myself from the pile of children and hand the book back to the librarian. The swear jar sits on her desk, a single pound coin alone on the bottom. I dig into my wallet, fish out a fifty, and drop it in. The librarian’s eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling.

Charlie eyes the bill. ‘Fifty? You only swore twice.’

I shrug. ‘Paying it forward.’

We say goodbye to the kids, the mums, and the staff. As we walk towards the exit, Charlie sidles up beside me. ‘That wasn’t so bad now, was it?’

‘It absolutely was. And charity’s not meant to be a damn PR stunt.’

‘It is if you want to keep doing it and not end up needing one.’ She taps her phone screen. ‘This material is gold, Brodie. You, reading to kids. You, smiling. You, not breaking someone’s nose. This is what we needed.’

‘I doubt that.’ I stop next to our cars parked side by side.

She tucks her phone away. ‘Think about it. We’ll push this out on socials. Your accounts and the Rebels’. People love a redemption arc. And a man with thunder thighs covered in happy children.’

I side-eye her. ‘You think the internet’s gonna forget everything because I read a bloody picture book?’

‘No. But they’ll see something else. A different headline. Brodie MacRae: Rugby’s Loose Cannon , or Brodie MacRae: Secret Softie Who Reads to Kids ? What looks better to a potential sponsor?’

I frown because she’s right. ‘You really think this’ll make a difference?’

‘It’s a start. Keep this up, and we can get you something good. And I don’t mean Ladbroke’s.’ She laughs.

‘You’re not funny. And still evil.’

‘But effective.’ Her shoulder bumps mine. ‘Admit it.’

I stare straight ahead, refusing to give her the satisfaction. But something tugs at the corner of my mouth.

‘Never.’

Shocking truth: having Charlie Harrington as my agent might not be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Doesn’t mean I have to say it to her face. She’ll take that victory and lord it over me until the end of time.

Besides, admitting it means letting her win – and I’m not wired to lose.