Page 6

Chapter 6

Charlie

O h God. My ovaries. Betraying me with some primal, deeply unprofessional reaction to a hard-bodied grump with kids draped all over him. No, more than betraying. They’re screaming like the front row at a boy band concert.

The Maserati’s leather steering wheel creaks under my grip as I navigate through Stirling’s narrow streets back to Edinburgh. I force my fingers to unclench, nails leaving half-moons in the hide. Rain spits against the windscreen.

Focus on the PR win. Not the way his tone softened when he did the voices. He read a children’s book. He didn’t save orphans from a burning building.

To let myself get blindsided by charisma and good intentions once was bad enough. Doing it again – especially with a client and another rugby player – isn’t an option.

I jab the radio off as I get on the M9. Silence amplifies the memory as I drive. Corded forearms flexing as he held a picture book that looked like a postage stamp in his hands. How steel-cut quads strained against denim. How helpless he looked when those kids clambered onto him like he was a jungle gym.

And he let them.

Not only let them, but encouraged them. With those voices.

The children were entranced.

I was entranced.

‘Stop it,’ I hiss, swerving around a delivery van. ‘He’s a client. A reluctant, pain-in-the-arse client who loathes you.’

The light turns green, and I accelerate, fighting to recalibrate. This was meant to be straightforward. Drag the rugby grouch to a community event. Grab a few photos for damage control. Tick another box in Operation: Make Brodie MacRae Seem Like Less of an Angry Dick.

How his expression melted when that girl with the rainbow clips climbed onto his leg. The genuine laugh – not a media-trained chuckle, but an actual laugh – when one of the boys asked if he could lift the librarian over his head.

I hit the brakes at a red light, and a horn blares behind me.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter to no one, heart jerking. ‘Shit.’

My phone rings in the cup holder. Theo’s name lights up.

‘Tell me you got the footage, boss.’

I thumb the speaker button. ‘In your inbox.’

‘Brilliant. I’ll post the reel before the lunch crowd hits. I’ll tag the library, use #RugbyDads or something.’

A lorry overtakes, spraying my windscreen with gutter water. I flick the wipers up.

‘You alright?’ Theo asks. ‘Sounds like you’re rowing across the Firth of Forth.’

‘Peachy. Just plotting how to spin MacRae’s sudden aptitude for children’s literature.’

‘Pfft. Mums will lap it up. Did he really do voices?’

‘Like a panto actor.’

A Tesla swerves in front of me and noses in without warning. I slam the horn, swerving into the next lane. My whole ribcage jolts like it’s trying to eject me.

Theo clicks her tongue. ‘Drive carefully. I just started working for you, I haven’t had enough time to begin despising you in order to rejoice at your funeral. See you in a jiffy!’

The traffic light ahead turns amber. I floor it, engine snarling through the intersection. I crank the AC, so the cold air bites my collarbones. That doesn’t help. Memory ambushes me: Brodie’s calloused thumb touching mine when I handed him the book. Static shock, or some biological glitch.

Roundabout ahead. I take the third exit too fast, tyres screeching.

The rest of the drive takes me forty minutes, which I spend mostly on calls.

And thinking about him in the library.

‘PR win,’ I remind myself, pulling into the car park behind the café where I’m meeting Theo for lunch. ‘This is a PR win.’

It wasn’t supposed to make me question my professional detachment. But as I grab my purse and step out of the car, I can’t shake the image of Brodie MacRae gently telling wide-eyed kids not to be like Gordon the goat.

Who even is this man?

And why, for the love of god, can’t I stop thinking about his thighs and hands and arms?

The café hums with midday chatter and Edinburgh’s lunch crowd. Theo waves from a corner table, her dark ponytail swinging.

‘You’re late. But better late than dead,’ she says and slides a flat white toward me. ‘I ordered for you. You look like you’ve had a morning. Sit. Caffeinate.’

I drop into the chair and dump my handbag on the floor.

Her blue eyes glint over her cup. ‘MacRae’s reel is already at ten thousand views.’ She spins her phone toward me, showing Brodie with children clinging to him like baby monkeys. ‘Comments are ninety per cent thirst, ten per cent mums asking if he does birthday parties. The rest is filtered by keywords.’

I snatch up my coffee. ‘Perfect. Exactly what we wanted.’

‘What’s perfect is your face right now.’ Theo’s freckled nose crinkles as she smiles. ‘You look like you just saw a big surly bear cuddling a baby bunny.’

I rake my fork through a kale Caesar salad. ‘Stop grinning.’

Theo licks hollandaise off her thumb. ‘You’re the one who sent me that video. A man built like a Norse god of war doing puppet voices. I nearly spat oat milk all over my laptop.’

‘Children respond to animated storytelling. It’s basic psychology.’

‘And their mums respond to biceps the size of their babies’ heads. Did you see the one in the lilac cardigan? Looked ready to climb him like a—’

‘Stop it right there.’ My phone clatters onto the reclaimed wood table. ‘This is about damage control.’

Theo’s straw slurps loudly through her iced matcha. ‘You’re blushing.’

‘I’m overheating. They crank the radiators in here like we’re in Greenland. It’s August. What kind of arsehole needs a radiator in August?’

‘It was a bit nippy this morning. Tell me again how he did the bunny voice.’

I shred a piece of chicken. ‘It’s irrelevant. What matters is the result.’

She leans in. ‘You’re rattled.’

‘Drop it, Theo.’

The clatter of cutlery sharpens. My earlobe throbs where I tugged it during the drive.

Theo sighs, relenting. ‘This new collaborative Brodie’s almost likeable.’

‘Please don’t use that tone. He’s not a rescue dog. He’s a client.’

‘Who you stare at like he’s a leaking dam you’re hell-bent on fixing.’

My knife scrapes across the plate. ‘I fix things. It’s part of my job. Our job.’

Theo’s smile fades. After a moment, she says, ‘From what I can tell, Callum would’ve rather gargled bleach than read to kids.’

The name drops between us like a lead weight. Theo presses further, gentle in a way that doesn’t send me running. ‘He’d probably have called it beneath him, am I right?’

‘Callum only did charity events if there was a TV camera in his face. No big cameras, no big show, no Callum. Brodie’s…a different breed.’

‘Better breed? How do they compare?’

‘One’s a difficult client. One’s a cheating bastard. There’s no comparison.’

Theo’s foot hooks around my ankle beneath the table. ‘You chose Brodie as a client for a reason.’

‘I didn’t choose him. His contract got absorbed when I bought—’

‘Yes, but you fought for him. Upgraded his PR package, redesigned his—’

‘Because his potential has been squandered!’ I realise I’m almost shouting, so I lower my voice. ‘Callum is good, but Brodie? He’s a once-in-a-generation athlete. Gifted. Obsessive. Hungry. The way he dissects game footage, you’d think he’s prepping for—’

Theo’s grin cuts me off. ‘You’re really behind him. No, you’re impressed .’

‘It’s professional appreciation for our biggest asset.’

‘Keep telling yourself that.’

I kick her under the table. ‘Are you my assistant or my tormentor?’

‘Can’t I be both?’

I grunt noncommittally.

‘Was it always that bad? With Callum?’ she asks.

I set down my fork. ‘Not at first. In the beginning, he was…’ I search for the right word. ‘Nice? Perhaps even dazzling?’

‘They usually are.’ Theo’s mouth twists, and a shadow crosses her face. ‘The worst ones shine brightest at the start. Then they crash and burn.’

‘I met Callum when my dad took him on and I had finished uni, working at Harrington’s as a junior publicist. Callum wooed me for over a year before I gave in. He’d fly down to London just to take me to dinner. Send flowers to the office.’ I trace condensation on my water glass. ‘Made me feel like the centre of his universe.’

‘When did it change?’

The café’s exposed bulbs cast shadows across the table. Outside, rain streaks the windows in silver rivulets.

‘That’s the thing. It never really did in our two years together. Until I walked in on him with his trousers round his ankles and his dick inside another woman.’

Theo reaches across, squeezing my wrist. A pulse jumps in my throat. Too much. I shake her off, reaching for my coffee.

‘What a narcissistic tosser,’ she declares.

‘A tosser my father still represents.’ The bitterness tastes metallic. ‘Dad called it “a personal indiscretion that shouldn’t affect our business or your future”.’

‘Your dad said that? After Callum cheated on you?’

‘Which he did multiple times, as it turned out. With multiple women.’ My voice stays flat. ‘One was a sponsor’s daughter. Another was a waitress at his favourite pub. The last one – the one I caught him with – was a TV presenter.’

Theo lets out a long exhale. ‘That’s low. Even for a guy like Callum.’

‘And the worst part? When I confronted him, he wasn’t even sorry. He said… ‘“What did you expect? You’re never here. I felt neglected. Your job’s more important to you than I am.” The irony being that he was my job, and I had just secured a new sponsor for him. I was devastated.’

Theo’s eyes widen. ‘Bastard indeed. I hate that he made you feel like that.’

‘Dad said I should’ve been more understanding of the “pressures” Callum was under.’ The memory still burns. ‘That’s when I quit. Moved here and started Elite Edge.’

‘And now you represent Callum’s biggest rival.’ Theo grins. ‘That’s some delicious karma.’

‘I didn’t do it on purpose, but yes. Brodie despises Callum even more than I do.’ My lips quirk. ‘Might be the only thing I really like about him.’

‘The only thing?’ She arches an eyebrow. ‘You sure about that?’

‘Don’t start.’

‘I’m just saying…’ She finishes the last of her iced drink with an ear-splitting noise. ‘The way you described his arms in your voice message—’

‘Shut up, Theo.’

She smiles, and my chest goes soft around it. ‘You’re not used to having friends who call you on your shite, are you?’

The word ‘friends’ catches me off guard. It doesn’t quite fit. Not with me. When was the last time I made an actual friend? Not a colleague, not a client, not someone who wanted something from me? Never. For a second, something tightens behind my ribs, like a muscle cramp I can’t stretch out.

‘I don’t have time for friends,’ I mutter.

‘Too late.’ She taps my hand with her fork. ‘You’re stuck with me. At work and otherwise.’

‘Lucky me.’ But I know she’s right, and I’m smiling, and we both know I mean it.

‘So.’ Theo leans forward, eyes dancing. ‘About those forearms…’

I throw a napkin at her face.

My phone vibrates against the café table, and Hannah’s grinning face lights up the screen.

‘Hey Button! You’re early.’

‘Charlie! Hello! Hi!’ Hannah’s words tumble out in a breathless rush, consonants softened by the gap in her front teeth. ‘Miss Lorna says I’m ready for the big casting! I’m singing Beyoncé. The one with the…the…’

‘ Halo ?’ But I’m teasing her. Of course, I know the song my baby sister’s going to perform at her school’s Christmas show. Three and a half months away, and I’m almost as excited as her.

‘No! The cowboy one. About Texas.’

‘ Texas Hold ‘Em .’ I bring the phone closer, drowning out the café clatter. Hannah’s been a Beyoncé fan since she was a toddler. ‘You’ll slay, Button.’

‘But Daddy says it’s too hard. I should pick easier songs.’ Her voice dips, and I see her twisting the hem of her sequinned jumper. ‘He says don’t get your hopes up.’

Theo’s watching me, fork suspended over her eggs benny.

I turn my back to the room. ‘Daddy’s a pillock. Remember what we practised?’

A giggle bursts through the speaker. ‘Harringtons don’t do easy. We win! Daddy is being silly.’

She handles Dad’s mood swings better than I ever could. Makes him laugh when I’d just argue.

‘Damn right, Button. Now send me the track.’

Through the phone speakers, Hannah’s voice wobbles on the first verse but gains strength by the chorus. A sting lodges just below my collarbone, so sharp it makes me swallow twice . She’s improved since January, vowels rounding, pitch steadier than my heartbeat.

Theo mouths ‘ holy shit’ behind her napkin.

‘You’re smashing it, Han. Just ease off the vibrato a little.’

‘The what?’

‘The wobbly bits.’

‘Oh! The shaky-shakes. Miss Lorna says that’s my style.’

‘Your style’s brilliant.’

She hums, considering. ‘Okay. But Charlie?’

‘Yeah, Button?’

‘Will you come? Even if I’m not perfect.’

Rain blurs the café windows. I still see Dad’s face when the doctor placed Hannah in his arms. She’ll need extra help. She’s never going to live her own life. Best to adjust expectations early.

I was ten when she was born, but I remember it so vividly. And I remember how it hurt me hearing him speak about his own daughter like that. My beautiful little sister with so much fire and sass, a great sense of humour, ambition, kindness, and also an extra chromosome.

There’s so, so much more to her than that.

Maybe he thought he was being pragmatic, attempting to shield himself from disappointment. Maybe he thought if he braced himself for the worst, it wouldn’t hurt so much. Or maybe it was just his way of taking charge, like everything else in his life – putting plans in place, risk management. He’s still like that, talks about ‘sensible options’ for Hannah’s future. By which he means care homes and residential support. And I know it comes from a place of love – but of fear, too. He wants her to be safe. To have someone to look after her when he’s gone. But his love is a cage, built from good intentions and low expectations for her. And far too high ones for me.

Pillock, as I said.

‘Button. Look at me.’

A beat. ‘I’m looking.’

‘You’re already perfect to me. Everything else is just…sparkles.’

‘I love sparkles!’ Hannah’s breath hitches. ‘So, you’re coming?’

‘Yes! Of course. Front row.’

‘And when I sing it on TV one day, you’ll be watching, right?’

‘Every damn minute. Now go drill that bridge. You’re a star, baby sis. Love you so much.’

‘Love you infinity-squillion.’

The line dies. I stare at my reflection in the dark screen – smudged mascara, cheeks blotchy.

Theo clears her throat. ‘She’s quite good.’

‘Of course. She’s a Harrington.’ I check myself in my phone camera, swiping under my eyes. ‘We’re made to excel.’

Theo’s smile falters. ‘Your dad really said that to her? About the song?’

I stab a rogue crouton. ‘He’s an arsehole with a spreadsheet where his soul should be.’

I’m gripping the fork like a battle axe. Theo nods, wise enough to let it drop. Outside, the rain slows to a drizzle. I text Hannah’s music teacher three times before the bill comes.

The café door jingles shut behind us as Theo and I make our way back to the office. Edinburgh’s grey damp wets my cheeks. I check the time, flicking through emails on my phone.

Work. Focus. Excel. That’s what I’m here for.

Brodie MacRae is a job. My ovaries are not allowed to weigh in.

The Rebels’ fixture list burns behind my eyelids. Three weeks until their first game. Three weeks until Brodie either becomes Stirling’s star or confirms every critic’s sneer that he’s washed up.

Three weeks for me to step up my game and put him in everyone’s good graces. And perhaps a smidge out of mine.