‘You can walk away if you need to. I’ll let you go. But look at me, Charlie. Look at me! I’m saying this only once, and I need to be sure you understand every fucking word.’
I turn around. He’s a storm front, all dark edges and heat.
‘All right. I’ll give you your space. I’ll respect your boundaries. Makes sense. I get it. Just know this…’ He leans forward, gaze spearing straight through me. ‘If thiseverhappens again – if you so much as fuckinglookat me like you want me – I’m not giving you up a second time. And you’ll have to live with the consequences.’
My heart pounds so hard it hurts.
‘I’m not a toy. You get me, Charlie?’ His tone’s quieter now, but still laced with that fierce, unshakable certainty. ‘So, you better think really fucking carefully before you ever let this happen again. Because I’ve got boundaries too.’
That landed. Harder than I want to admit. I steady my voice enough to make it sound like a decision, not a retreat. ‘Don’t worry. It won’t happen again.’
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, elbows on his knees, chin propped on his hands, looking at me like he’s trying to figure out what to do with me. His jaw is tight, shadows cutting hard lines across his face, and I still feel the weight of his words.
‘All right,’ he says. ‘We’ll focus on your agency and my game. Clean slate.’
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything, because I’m pretty sure my voice will crack. He’s doing what I asked – being reasonable, being rational.
I’m almost out the door when something flies at me. I catch it just before it can hit my head – a granola bar. I look up, and there’s a hint of that wicked glint back in his eyes.
‘Eat something, Harrington,’ he says gruffly. ‘God knows you earned it last night. And take off my Rebels shirt before I change my mind, bend you over that fucking dresser, and show you what it means when you wear it.’
Chapter15
Brodie
It’s louder than I expected. Not packed, not deafening. The new stand looms to my left. Five thousand seats, maybe half full. There’s a hum in the stands. Low, electric. Still not nearly as loud as the racket in my skull. My pulse knocks behind my eyes like fists on a locked door.
First home game. The Caerwyn Chargers from Wales. Mid-level, but scrappy, hungry to prove themselves. We’re raw, still figuring each other out, but we’ve got fight. And even more to prove.
End of September and Scotland’s showing its teeth already, wind slicing through my shirt. Sky’s a dull grey. Grass is damp under my studs, slick enough to make traction a gamble. I haul in a breath and flex my hands to keep them warm. Knuckles crack. Good. A reminder I’m still in one piece. Still holding it together.
Finn jogs up beside me. Scottie’s right behind him, eyes steely, mouth set in a grim line. Jamie smacks Finn’s shoulder, muttering something that pulls a crooked grin from him.
I glance up toward the stands. Can’t help it. VIP section’s raised just enough for a clear line across the pitch. A glass-fronted box, open to the weather.
There she is.
Charlie.
Handling the press, making connections, charming, schmoozing. Fierce, poised, magnetic. Her caramel hair’s catching the wind, whipping around her face. And I mustn’t look too long because it messes with my head.
I exhale, shake out my shoulders, and nod to the lads.
We huddle up. Close, focused, no noise but the wind and the buzz of the crowd. Eyes on me.
‘First game. First shot to show who the fuck we are. Keep it smart. Keep it tight. Don’t play for the media.’ I jerk my chin toward the stands. ‘Play for each other. Let’s fucking go!’
The huddle breaks.
I clamp down on the lump rising behind my sternum, scan their faces, and know it’s on me to set the tone. Heart’s in my throat, gut in a vice. But it’s time to move. Time to fight. Time to show what the Stirling Rebels can do and that Brodie MacRae is still worth a damn.
The game’s a blur of impact and instinct. Sweat, breath, blood howling between my ears. I’m in it, but not fucking in it. I’m a microsecond behind every play, pushing past the edge to catch up.
Ball comes flying at me, and I snatch it mid-air, feet digging into the ground. Shoulder to ribs, my arm locked around the ball. Pass to Scottie – clean, quick, right through two massive bastards trying to smash me into the dirt. He bolts up the line, dodges a tackle, and gains another ten.
Good. But I’m still playing catch-up.
The next hit comes fast and brutal. The opposing flanker levels me just as I cut behind the scrum. His shoulder jams into my ribs, and I slam down with a crack that scrapes straight through my spine. Winded. Mud in my teeth, coating my palms as I push myself up. Jamie’s there, hauling me upright, and I’m back in position before the Chargers can capitalise.
