Something like joy sprouts up in a dark corner of my soul.
Brodie leans in, enough to make his presence loom. ‘You’ve got two daughters and don’t deserve either of them. You act like Hannah’s a problem to solve. She’s her own person.’
Dad’s face goes pale, then red.
But Brodie doesn’t stop. ‘And when that cheating cunt broke Charlie’s heart, you didn’t have her back. Told her to suck it up and stay with him. And you kept working with him like nothing happened. You didn’t only let her down. You made her feel like she wasn’t worth anything. That’s fuckingunforgivable.’
I don’t know what’s happening. I’ve never seen anyone speak to him like that.
Brodie steels himself, eyes burning. ‘But you know what? In spite of all that, you being such a disgusting cunt is the best thing that ever happened to me. Because it means I got to meet Charlie. And I’ll be eternally grateful for that.’
His whole face softens, reverent and open. There’s nothing defensive in him now. Just love. He takes my hand and squeezes it gently. ‘Ball’s on your side of the pitch, Harrington.’
Then he turns around and leaves.
Chapter25
Brodie
One week since I flew to London like a lovesick martyr to hand over a sparkly hat.
Hannah’s awesome. Full of energy and ambition, bouncing with nerves and sass all at once. And she’s got pipes. Just like her big sister.
Who, as it turns out, is the love of my life.
I haven’t heard from her since. Haven’t called either. I made my point – couldn’t have been any clearer if I’d painted it on the side of a double-decker. It’s her move now. Space is what she needs, and I’m giving it to her.
It’s torture.
I shove the thoughts down and tape up my ankles. Tight enough to hold, not enough to turn my feet blue. Then I wind the tape around my head. I love rugby, but I’m too pretty for cauliflower ears.
Focus on the game.
Second half’s about to start, and it’s a big one. Glasgow.
My old team. The team that kicked me out based on lies and rumours.
Callum Fraser.
That fuck-ugly piece of shite’s on the pitch right now, lording it up like he’s Scotland’s gift to rugby. Smashing his skull in is a real temptation, more so than ever. Now I’ve got a real reason to do it. The thought gnaws just behind my teeth, wanting out. But I can’t give in to that.
Can’t risk the sin bin today.
We’re just behind – only by a few points. Nobody would’ve expected it, least of all me. On paper, Glasgow should’ve stomped us by now. But we’ve kept up, clawing back every time they pull ahead. That first half was savage. Scrums like battering rams, line-outs nasty enough to draw blood. And we’re holding our own.
Finn’s been a beast at the breakdown, Scottie’s cut through their defence like a fucking laser, and Jamie’s been robust as ever – relentless, boshing any poor sod who so much as breathes in his direction.
We’re still not always consistent, still finding our feet. But today, the boys are working like a well-oiled machine. It’s a sight to see. Days like these, I remember why I love this game. Why I put up with the bruises, the broken bones, the endless pressure.
But none of it fills the gaping hole where Charlie’s meant to be. Not when I can still hear her ordering me to sit still while she rubs arnica into my back, claiming it’s for recovery and not an excuse to touch me.
I told myself if she didn’t show today, I’d find a way to let her go. I’d have to. Even if I’ll be carrying the echo of her for the rest of my life.
Coach Wallace shoutsa line about keeping composure and sticking to our game plan, but it’s all a blur. I know what he’s saying, know what’s expected.
Keep your head, MacRae. You’re the captain. Lead by example.
And I do.
