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.
Chapter7
Brodie
We just fucked that session. Turned it into a shite fart. No class to it at all. Yesterday was grand, but we’re inconsistent. And we can’t afford that.
Finn – Scotland’s most annoying flanker – shoves his kit bag into his cubby hard enough to rattle the bench. James stares at the floor, silent as a corpse. My kit reeks of sweat, mud, and failure, clinging to my skin like a second layer of shame.
Finn pulls his shirt off and leans back against the wall. His pink hair sticks up in damp tufts, sweat turning the tips neon. Tattoos crawl down his arms and over his ribs. Mismatched ink and bad decisions. He tears into a protein bar with his teeth. ‘Well, that was a clusterfuck.’
‘Aye,’ Scottie mutters beside him, throwing his boots into his bag with the heavy sigh of a man who knows he’s too strong for his own good. Built like a monster. Thick shoulders. Wide chest. I’ve seen him squatting 240, two times his weight. Sweat drips from his furrowed brow onto the bench. But even now he looks too nice for this shamble of a team. ‘Under-twelves could’ve skinned us.’
‘Aye, but whose fault’s that?’ Finn’s stare burns into my shoulder.
I shuck my shirt off, the fabric catching on my ears. ‘I know there’s lots of pressure, but we must be more precise. You lot are playing like you’ve never held a ball. How’s that my fault?’
Finn steps closer. His breath smells like cheap energy gels. ‘Maybe if you didn’t hold the ball like it’s your baby, we’d get somewhere.’
The room freezes. Scottie stops packing. James lifts his head. My knuckles ache, tendons tight as bowstrings.
‘Pass earlier?’ I grunt. ‘You couldn’t even catch a cold in February, Lennox. How did you learn to play rugby – by wrestling sheep?’
‘Enough!’ James slams his hand against the side of the cubbies. The sharp thud silences everything. ‘Stop acting like twats. We’re bad because we’re not a team. Grow up.’ He snatches his towel, turns around, and walks out. The door slams behind him.
His outburst leaves the room tense and quiet.
Finn spits in the sink. ‘Now that’s an exit. Who knew stoic Jamie had so much drama in him?’
Scottie zips his bag and laughs. Even I feel it tug at my mouth.
It’s getting closer to game day. The pressure’s on. People are losing their shite with each other. Rugby requires an aggressive mindset. It’s primal, bone to bone. Of course, it boils over sometimes.
I’m doing everything I can, grafting my arse off to find my best form, to get us going. It’s frustrating. I’m getting pissed off with myself. Before that scandal, I had an edge to me. I need to get that back to win the physical battle. Otherwise, what the hell am I doing here?
I wipe sweat from my face. ‘James is not wrong. We have to get it together.’
Scottie’s face drops like I’ve just sprouted wings. ‘Stop the press. MacRae admits fault? That’s a first.’
‘Shut up.’
‘No, seriously.’ Scottie slaps a hand to his chest. ‘Have to mark this day on my calendar and print it on a T-shirt.’
‘The apocalypse is coming,’ Finn agrees.
I try ignoring them. They’re both twenty-three, little more than boys. But Scottie keeps staring at me, his head tilted like a confused puppy.
