‘What?’ I bite out.
‘You almost smiled, pal.’ Scottie points at my face. ‘Right there. I saw it.’
‘I didnot. You’re delusional.’
‘You did! For a second, you weren’t scowling like an angry troll.’
Finn barks out a laugh. ‘Careful, Scottie. You’ll scare it away.’
‘Piss off, both of you.’
Finn tugs off his boots, grinning as he tosses one into his kit bag. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about this new softer side of our captain. First, that cooking show—’
‘We are not talking about that.’
‘Oh, but we are.’ Finn’s grin widens. ‘Ailsa’s Kitchen! With special guest Brodie MacRae, who’s going to show us how to make…what was it again? Beans on toast?’
‘Spaghetti,’ Scottie supplies helpfully.
Shame pricks the back of my neck like a swarm of midges. ‘My agent made me do it.’
‘Aye, that blonde one’s got you leashed good.’ Finn winks. ‘How she waltzed onto the pitch and put you in your place. Fucking beautiful, big man.’
I chuck my sweaty shirt at his head. He catches it one-handed, still smirking, and tosses it into the laundry bin. ‘You try to act like a block of ice, MacRae, but even I can see it.’
‘See what?’ I ask. ‘My fist coming towards your face?’
Scottie snorts. ‘You ever thought of not looking at her like you wanna fight her or shag her?’
The words hit like a boot to the ribs. I scrub my towel over my face to hide whatever the fuck my expression’s doing. ‘Leave it, or I’ll rearrange your pretty features.’
Finn slaps my shoulder, laughing. ‘Aye, you’re done for, mate. It’s only a matter of time.’
‘Hear that suspicious silence?’ Scottie’s voice drips with mock awe. ‘He’s not denying it.’
Finn sprawls on the bench, legs stretched out. There’s something else in his tone this time. ‘Naw, but for real, pal. You’re different. Less of a raging cunt. It’s a bit unsettling, to be honest.’
I flip them both off, knuckles white around the fabric. ‘Fuck. Off.’
Finn mimics a swoon, clutching his chest. ‘Careful, lads. Our captain’s got feelings.’
I shove past him towards the showers. ‘I’ll show you feelings when I boot your arse into next week.’
Their guffaws follow me.
The shower spray pounds against my shoulders, hot enough to scald. Steam rises thick, clouding my vision until the world narrows to just water and white tile and the thoughts I can’t outrun.
The usual post-training ritual – scrub away the sweat, the mistakes, the fucking noise. But today? It’s not working.
Muscles strain. Not from the drills. From the itch. That clawing need to prove, to dominate, to make every fucker in a ten-mile radius bend.
Memories surface through the steam. My dad drilling passes in the back garden. My brothers tackling me into mud. Always competing. Always fighting to prove myself worthy. Dad’s voice rattles through me, clear as yesterday. ‘If you’re not first, you’re last.’
The shower can’t wash away over two decades of that mindset. I tilt my head back, let water fill my mouth, spit it down the drain. Tastes like rust and regret. It’s not healthy, going ’round being angry at everyone. I know that. Knowing doesn’t make it easier to change. But something’s shifting. The fury that used to consume me is dulling to a throbbing ache. I press my palms against the tile, letting hot water sluice down my spine.
Finn’s laughter still rings in my ears. Scottie’s shite-eating grin. James’s outburst. All of it burrows under my skin. The lads were taking the piss, sure. But they weren’t wrong about everything being inconsistent. We’re all new here. All finding our feet. That granite-faced arse James had a point. We’re not a proper team yet. Just individual players colliding, trying to out-muscle each other, waiting for someone else to make the first move towards trust. Admitting it feels like chewing on glass.
The team’s struggling, but we’re learning. You have to go through pain sometimes to get where you want to be.
