Heat lances through my gut. It’s like she’s caught between wanting to run and wanting to listen, and I hate that I’m the reason she’s stuck.
Coach glances at me, eyebrows raised. ‘You alright, MacRae?’
I lie with a nod. ‘Aye. All good.’
Charlie shifts on her heels, glancing at the exit like it’s her last lifeline. Mum notices, naturally, and puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘You look lovely, dear. I hope you’re taking time to enjoy the party and not just running around after this lot.’
‘Trying to.’ Charlie looks down at her untouched drink. ‘Not used to being…social recently.’
‘Och, neither’s Brodie,’ Mum says, shooting me a glare. ‘Got that from his father.’
Dad just shrugs. ‘Introverts make the best rugby players. Tunnel vision. Nothing gets through.’
‘Except bricks,’ Coach grumbles.
Charlie laughs, and it’s too fucking soft. Rips through me. She barely flicks her eyes in my direction again. Just says a polite goodbye and drifts off, looking like she’s holding herself together with duct tape and spite underneath that velvet.
I love my parents.
My parents love Charlie.
It would’ve been so goddamn fucking perfect.
Takes everything I’ve got not to headbutt the nearest hard surface.
Mum watches her go, then turns to me, eyes sharp like she’s reading the subtext of my fucking soul. ‘Your agent seems like a good sort.’
I let out an involuntary pained groan and make my way to the terrace.
The cold air smacks me in the face, scraping down my throat like razor blades. Stars overhead, sharp as needles, and my ribcage is too tight to breathe. I brace my hands on the terrace railing and focus on pulling oxygen into my lungs, forcing down the mess clawing up my insides. Love. Lust. Pain. Regret. Feels like I’m bleeding out from the inside.
A spark flickers at the edge of the terrace, and I spot Scottie leaning against the wall, fag glowing between his fingers. He doesn’t look at me. Just lifts his chin in acknowledgement.
‘Didn’t know you smoked,’ I grunt, grateful for the distraction.
He shrugs. ‘One a year, in the run-up to Christmas. Bit of a ritual.’
Neither of us rushes to break the silence. I drop my shoulders like that’ll trick my body into easing up. But it’s no use. Still made of stone.
‘Coach is thinking about having me sit out next week against the Dragons,’ I say, just to fill the air. ‘Says my back needs the rest if I’m gonna be fit for the Knights game at the end of the year.’
Scottie takes a drag and blows smoke toward the sky. His voice is nasal. ‘Coach isn’t wrong.’
‘Aye, well. Not much else to do, is there?’
He doesn’t answer. Just taps the ash off the end with his thumb. The quiet lingers, just shy of uncomfortable.
‘You know, MacRae, for someone who hates being called an eejit, you sure act like one.’
My head whips around. ‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’
Scottie takes another drag, eyes fixed on the horizon. ‘You still love her. It’s written all over your ugly troll face. So, quit acting like a twat and do something about it.’
‘That’s not—’ I cut myself off, throat burning. ‘It’s over. She doesn’t want me.’
‘Maybe. Can’t say I blame her. You’re about as easy to love as a pair of wet socks.’
A laugh gets stuck halfway up my throat. I curl my fingers tighter around the railing.
