‘You shouldn’t even have been in that room! If anyone took a photo—’
‘They didn’t. No one did. They’re good lads.’
I don’t know how to answer. All I can see is the headlines. The fallout.
‘Charlie. For the last fucking time: I didn’t gamble. I just sat there with them because they’re bonding, and I’m supposed to be their captain, and—’
‘And telling them about us? Is that bonding too?’
‘I wouldn’t do that to you. I didn’t tell them, Charlie. You heard Scottie. They figured it out. I’ve given you everything. Every damn part of me. And you still think I’m going to break it.’
I say nothing. A lot of nothing. For too long.
Because…
‘That’s it, Charlie.’ His voice is flat. ‘I’ve had enough. I’m not a fucking plaything. It’s over.’
Silence. Dense as fog, pushing in from all sides.
And I know he’s gone.
Not just physically. But he’s gone from me. I can feel his absence. I want to scream. Punch something. Anything to drown out the roaring in my ears.
Instead, I curl up on the bed, dragging the covers over me like a shield. I jam my fist to my mouth to keep from making a sound. If I let it out now, I’ll fall apart. And if I fall apart, I’m not sure I’ll be able to collect the pieces.
Then I grab my phone and book the first flight back to Scotland.
Damage control. Fixing things. Regroup.
It’s what I do.
Chapter21
Brodie
Have I mentioned how much I hate Charlie Harrington?
Because now I know how it feels to love her. And it’s over.
AndItold her it was.
I’m not the kind to stick around while she yanks me back and forth like a dog on a lead. She drove me too far.
I also acted like a dick with anger issues. So, there’s that.
Aye, she gave me reasons. Not trusting me? Not talking to me? She crossed a line there.
I fucked up, but I didn’t play. I sat there like a twat and still managed to lose her. And I let my temper get the best of me again. When I’m hurt, I lash out. A low, mean swing to cover the sting.
That was four weeks ago, and it still feels raw.
The boys are scattered around the changing room, getting patched up. Cuts, bruises, niggling injuries from a brutal first half. There’s talk, low and grim, the stink of sweat hanging in the air.
Derek, our physio, presses his thumb deep into the muscle above my spine, and pain streaks through me. I suck in a breath between clenched teeth but don’t let anyone see it on my face.
A memory hits me. Charlie, pressing an ice pack on my back, calling me a bloody masochist for battering myself like this.
I stopped looking for her in the grandstand three games ago. She’s been avoiding me for a full month. After South Africa she handed me off to Mac like a boot caked in shite – someone else’s mess to scrape off.
