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 ifIdon’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, itiseasy.
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 actuallyendingsomething 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.
