‘This,’ he declares, ‘is Charlie Harrington’s day off.’
I swallow sourness and what’s left of my pride. ‘Aye, aye, Capt’n.’
The door closes, and silence floods in from all sides.
I stare at the ceiling. I should feel better. Lighter. Grateful. But instead, something quiet curls in the hollow space he left behind. And I don’t know if it’s shame, the hangover, exhaustion, or something much, much worse.
Chapter11
Brodie
Itake the coastal road back to the hotel. The Isle of Islay doesn’t care who you are. Famous, minted, stacked with medals… She’ll still sucker-punch you with an incredible view, just to prove she can. I crack the window, let the salty air slap my face.
The event went smoothly. The weans today – nine-year-olds with as much grit as half my old Glasgow squad. Taught them the chip-and-chase, and their wee faces lit up like I’d handed them the Six-Nations-Cup. One lad kept calling me‘Mr MacRae Sir’until I told him to knock it off and call me Brodie.
Luckily, the parents hung back. I signed some shirts, took some pictures, and made sure the sponsor’s media guy had everything they needed.
Should’ve felt good. And it did, mostly. But the whole time, my neck itched like someone was watching. Kept checking behind me, half-hoping she’d be there. Arms crossed, wearing that crooked smirk that saysyou’re not a complete dick, MacRae.
Wish she could’ve been there.
I sent Theo the sponsor photos myself. Weans hoisted on my shoulders, mud-streaked grins, the lot. The road curves, cliffs dropping away to reveal Beinn Bheigeir looming in the distance.
My phone vibrates in the holder. Theo’s name flashes.
‘Is she awake yet?’
‘Dunno. Left her snoring. On my way back now.’
‘You’re a saint, MacRae. Tell her to call me when she feels ready.’
‘Will do.’
I chuck the phone onto the passenger seat and it slides into the Co-op-bag stuffed with a can of Irn Bru, a pack of Paracetamol, and a squashed sausage roll in its wee paper bag.
Saint my arse. Saints don’t think about the give of soft skin under their hand, or how her breath snagged when the flannel touched her neck. Saints don’t get hard over memories.
I inhale through my nose, tension pulling tight through my ribs as this morning replays in full HD. Charlie Harrington, curled up in a hotel bed, wrapped in my rugby shirt. Not weak, never weak. But soft, like a sheathed blade. And she let me stay. Let me take care of her. Let me see.
She could’ve pushed me away. Told me to piss off with her cutting tongue and steel-spined glare. But she didn’t.
She let me in.
And now I don’t know where the hell I stand. She’s in my bloodstream. Under my tongue. Living rent-free in every fucking thought I’ve got.
The car eats up another mile of damp road. The sea glints through the rocks, grey and moody under the leaden sky. The clouds break open, and a shard of sunlight slices through, turning the water to silver.
I should’ve pushed her on it earlier, but she was barely holding herself together. Aye, I needed to make sure she rested. To stop her running on empty. But also…
I didn’t want to hear her say last night was nothing.
I bite back my frustration and give the accelerator a nudge.
This is fucking ridiculous. She’s my agent. We’ve been at each other’s throats for months. She’s just got under my skin, that’s all. All this time together and my brain’s fucking up what’s real.
The hotel appears ahead, perched by the shoreline. I park and turn off the engine, sitting there, hands braced at ten-and-two. The key card burns a hole in my pocket. I’m not some deluded romantic pining for something impossible. Fuck, but maybe I want to be the one who gets to see all of her – the fierce and the fragile.
And that terrifies me.
