The reception smells of wet Labrador. My heels sink into thick carpet as I walk in behind him. A large antique mirror reflects us side by side – him towering and broad-shouldered, me compact but commanding in grey and navy.
I catch the way he looks at me in the glass. And for one breath – one charged, electric second – it’s there. A glint of something raw, something dark, something thatburns. Hunger caged behind smouldering brown eyes, teeth bared against its leash. As if he didn’t expect to want. As if it hit him low, fast, and mean – right in the gut – and he’d rather bleed than admit it.
And I’d rather choke on my own damn pride than admit that I feel it too.
The receptionist glances up from her computer and smiles. ‘Evening and welcome to Islay. I hope the crossing wasn’t too rough. You’re in rooms 204 and 207.’
The key jingles on a tartan fob. Brodie hefts his bag and my suitcase with insulting ease.
Show-off.
There’s no lift, so we have to squeeze through a tiny, narrow, and steep Victorian staircase to the second floor.
‘Still think authenticity’s worth it?’ he asks.
‘Still think complaining’s a personality? Now shut up, get ready, and let’s go save your career.’
The amber glow of Dal Riata’s copper stills bathes the tasting room in liquid warmth. A hint of peat smoke and yeast hangs in the air, settling into wool jackets and polished wood panelling. Outside, rain lashes against leaded windows, but inside it’s all crackling hearths and the velvet burn of single malt.
I perch on a leather armchair at the edge of the small semicircle, watching Brodie handle himself with surprising calm and grace. He slouches comfortably in the central armchair, one ankle hooked over his knee, tumbler balanced on his broad thigh. He looks almost relaxed in dark jeans and a white shirt that stretches across his shoulders.
Because there’s simply no other way for a shirt to be on this body than stretched.
I cross my legs, silk stockings whispering. Brodie’s forearm rests against the chair’s wing, veins mapping tension down to his fist.
‘The transition from Glasgow to Stirling wasn’t what I expected,’ he admits. His voice carries through the intimate space where thirty or so whisky enthusiasts and potential sponsors lean forward in their seats. ‘But sometimes the path you didn’t choose turns out to be exactly where you have to be.’
The master distiller – a burly ex-prop with hands like shovels – nods. ‘Second chances are like good whisky,’ he says. ‘Takes time, patience, and the right conditions to mature.’
A ripple of knowing chortles flows through the room. These are wealthy, cultured snobs who love nothing more than a redemption story they can attach their brand to. And Brodie’s giving them what they want. Humility wrapped in quiet confidence, vulnerability without weakness.
I take a sip of the eighteen-year single malt, letting it scorch a path down my tongue. Pride blooms in my chest. He’s nailing this. Absolutely fucking nailing it.
‘What about discipline?’ The question cuts through the comfortable atmosphere. My gaze cuts to a middle-aged man in the third row. Expensive watch, cheaper suit, old school notebook in hand. ‘Do you think your…extracurricular activities showed a lack of discipline that might affect your captaincy?’
I recognise him. Oliver Pembroke.TheScottish Sentinel’s sports columnist with a hard-on for taking down athletes he deems ‘unworthy’. I’ve tangled with him before. Never ends well for anyone.
Brodie’s shoulders lift almost imperceptibly, but his voice remains steady. ‘Fair question. I’ve always been disciplined on the pitch. Off it, I made a few choices I regret.’
‘Choices?’ Pembroke’s smile is a shark’s. ‘Gambling debts exceeding a hundred thousand pounds isn’t a choice, it’s a pathology. Wouldn’t you agree?’
The room temperature drops ten degrees. I straighten and tighten my fingers around my glass.
Brodie’s jaw works. ‘I played poker. Competitively. But as I’ve said many times before, I never bet on rugby.’
‘But surely, you understand how itlooks?’ Pembroke leans forward, eyes gleaming with predatory interest. ‘A professional athlete with a gambling problem—’
‘I don’t have a gambling problem.’ The first crack in Brodie’s composure. A hairline fracture in the careful veneer.
‘Six figures suggests otherwise. Were you addicted, Mr MacRae? Are you still?’
The master distiller shifts uncomfortably. A sponsor from Edinburgh whispers to his companion. This is spiralling.
‘No bets.’ Brodie says, voice tight.
I taste copper and realise I’ve bitten through my lip.
‘And your temper? The incident with the reporter in Glasgow – was that also a lapse in discipline?’
