The Sin & Tonic reeks of pine needles and pretence. String lights flicker overhead, too bright and too close, like they’re straining to hold the place together. Forest-green velvet panels mute some of the noise, but the bar along the far wall hums with a low buzz of boozy laughter and forced festivity. The back booths – half-lit, wood-panelled, and intimate – look like they were built for secrets.
It’s the only bar in Duncraig. Why the hell are we having our Christmas party here instead of a fancy place in Stirling? Fucking beats me. It’s not a shite bar, but it isn’t class, either. Low key, local, bit lame to be honest.
Mum’s perfume wafts through the air before I even see her. ‘There you are.’ She slots in next to me, Dad trailing with two whiskies. ‘Smile, son. You’re grimacing like a gargoyle. This is a professional event.’
I loosen the grip on my glass of water before it can crack. ‘Having fun?’
‘Your father’s explaining rucks to the MacKenzie CEO’s wife.’ Mum’s laugh grates. ‘Go network. You’re the star.’
‘Not tonight.’
‘Michael, tell your son to stop being a numpty.’
‘You heard your mother,’ Dad says, low and weighty.
A voice you don’t argue with. Same tone he used when I’d whine about extra drills as a kid. Nine years old, shivering on a frostbitten pitch, him barkingAgain!until my passes stuck. I love the man, but Christ, he could make a drill sergeant weep for his maw.
I adore my parents, I do. But they can be a bit much sometimes. They encouraged all three of us to do organised sports to keep us busy, teach us resilience, make us excel. My dad is my constant rock and biggest pusher. If he senses I’m not giving a hundred per cent, he finds a way to push harder. My mum’s equally tough. Half-Italian but double the amount of Scottish grit.‘Don’t wait for handouts – earn it.’
Her words, not mine.
My parents make the rounds. The party’s buzzing. Laughter bouncing off the walls, drinks flowing, and I’m not even bothering to hide that I look like a haunted bastard.
Scottie’s giving me shite from across the room, pointing at me like he’s dissecting my misery for sport. Wanker. I give him the finger and turn back to my water, trying not to think about whether or not she’ll show. Whether or not my heart can take it if she does. Or if it can take it if she doesn’t. It’s a rock and a hard place, and I’m trapped in the fucking middle.
This is a MacKenzie-sponsored event. She wouldn’t miss it.
Every second she’s not walking through that door is a knife to the ribs. But if she does…
The boys are scattered around the room, boisterous as ever. Coach Wallace is chatting with one of the MacKenzie guys. Big-shot sponsor pricks with deep wallets and loud opinions. Weirdly, our mysterious billionaire owner’s not here for the glory lap. Though I suppose a reclusive Canadian with a yacht in Monaco doesn’t fancy mingling with the plebs. Wouldn’t want to get too close to the livestock.
I scan the room for the hundredth time and catch Jamie’s eye. He raises his glass, nods toward the door with a question in his eyes. I shake my head. No sign of her yet.
‘Brodie!’ A hand claps my arse. Of course, it’s Finn. ‘Fix your face and stop looking like someone’s pissed in your porridge.’
‘Are you telling me to smile more?’
‘Would look good on you, darlin’!’ He leans in with that signature smirk. ‘Dry your eyes. Don’t lose sleep over one fanny when the world’s practically a buffet. Warm, wet, and eager to let you leave your boots on. Some even come as a double act. Chin up, Romeo.’ He swans off to the bar, already chatting up someone.
Finn’s a total knobhead, but I’m beginning to like that cheeky shite.
The MacKenzie CEO approaches, hand outstretched. ‘MacRae! Hell of a season you’re having.’
I slap on the PR grin. ‘Appreciate the support.’
‘That last match. Brutal stuff. Thought you’d crack your skull on that tackle.’
‘Takes more than that to keep me down.’
His laugh booms. ‘That’s what we like to see! Fighting spirit.’
I nod, scanning the room again. My father catches my eye, nailing me with the patented ‘don’t fuck this up, son’-stare. I’ve been getting that same glare since I was in nappies.
The CEO drones on about quarterly projections and brand alignment. I keep nodding, grunting in the right moments, when the door swings open.
And there she is.
Charlie.
