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.Youneed this. Your image needs this.’
She pats my chest, her touch burning through my shirt. ‘Now be a good sportsman and read aboutHoppy the Hungry Rabbit.’
The librarian offers a thin smile. ‘We’ve actually selectedGordon the Grumpy Goalietoday. 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. ‘Thiswas 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 thatwasan 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.’
