Four more meetings, two contract reviews, and a sponsorship crisis to handle.
Welcome to being the boss, Charlie.
This is what I signed up for, isn’t it? To prove them all wrong. To show Dad I’m more than his backup plan and mini me. To prove that walking away from Callum and our relationship wasn’t personal and professional suicide.
To build something that’s mine.
Even if it means handling Scottish rugby’s most competitive and combustible player and most gifted fly-half. Even if it means facing that ferocious stare and devastating scowl every day. Even if it means refusing to notice how devilishly handsome he looked wrapped in sleek black wool and attitude.
Which is irrelevant. The only reason my body had the audacity to react in the first place is because I haven’t had sex since Callum. Apparently, my vagina has developed an unfortunate soft spot for rough men with too much swagger and thighs like tree trunks.
I dig my nails into my palms to centre myself. It’s nothing. A physiological glitch. A side effect of prolonged abstinence. Because I refuse to bethatwoman. The one who gets weak-kneed over rugby players built like brick shithouses. Did that before. Look how brilliantlythatturned out.
I nudge the framed picture of Hannah and Mum back into place. Centre it just so. Better.
I am Charlotte fucking Harrington. I don’t do attraction. I don’t do men with gambling problems and anger issues and enough baggage to sink a ship. Not anymore.
I doresults.
A top-tier asset, that’s all he is. A chance to prove that I can turn water into wine. Even if he hates me for it. And step one? Figure out what Brodie MacRae wants more than he wants to fight me.
I grab my coffee, drain it, and put the empty cup on my desk. Before my next client walks in, I shove Brodie into a mental box and slam the lid. Time to get to work.
And time to figure out how to outplay the man who could destroy everything.
Chapter3
Brodie
The ball spirals through the air, a perfect arc that should hit Scottie Kerr right in the chest.Shouldbeing the key word. It smacks off his fingertips. Hits the ground. Again.
‘For fuck’s sake, man!’ I rake my fingers through my sweat-soaked hair. ‘That’s three times. Are your hands made of butter today?’
Scottie huffs out a breath. ‘Maybe if you didn’t throw like you’re trying to take my head off.’
Scottie’s usually decent, but today he’s got the hands of a wean on a sugar crash. He looks…disheartened.
I don’t have time for that.
‘Maybe if you weren’t moving like you’ve got concrete in your boots.’ I spread my arms. ‘If your feelings are hurt, you can fuck off. I’m here to win. Let’s go again. This time, catch it with your hands, not your face.’
Coach Cameron Wallace’s moustache twitches, lips pressing into a thin line. He’s been breathing down my neck all day, probably wondering if I’ve finally lost it. But I haven’t. I’m just done carrying dead weight.
‘MacRae.’ Coach’s voice is a warning. ‘Ease up.’
I ignore him. We’re five weeks from season start, and half these lads still can’t consistently execute an advanced passing drill. We’re all new here, thrown together. A mix of transfers, academy kids, and cast-outs like yours truly. Starting a new URC team from scratch isn’t easy, I know. But someone needs to light a fire under their arses.
And that job falls to me.
Rare August sun bakes the training ground. We’ve been at it for hours, running the same play over and over because nobody can get their shite together. My shirt sticks to my back, muscles burning from the endless repetition.
I exhale hard and roll my shoulders, trying for patience I don’t have. ‘Five weeks till the season starts,’ I say. ‘You want to play in a real league, or should I start booking tickets for the kiddie touch tournament?’
‘Aye, right.’ Finn Lennox shouts from his position on the wing. ‘It’s always our fault, never the great MacRae’s.’
My knuckles crack as my hands ball into fists. ‘You like to say that to my face, Lennox?’
Finn stretches, lazy as a cat. ‘Already did, mate.’
