Chapter 4
Finn
I catch the ball with my skull.
It bounces off my head with a dull thud, then skitters across the grass like it’s running away from my incompetence. Not my finest moment.
‘Fucking hell, Lennox!’ Brodie bellows. ‘That was aimed at your hands, not your pretty face.’
The cold air bites at my cheeks. It’s our first full-pitch session outside since the holiday break, before the first game of the year on the tenth. The reporters on the touchline are a reminder that my life’s turned into a soap opera. But I’m here to play rugby, not star in Coronation Street. They point their lenses like snipers. I want to flip them the bird, but I keep the urge on a leash.
I’m a respectable man now, apparently.
I wipe mud from my face. ‘Sun was in my eyes.’
‘It’s fucking Scotland in January,’ Scottie Kerr shouts from the other side. The Rebels’ centre, my flatmate, and a gobshite. ‘There’s nae sun. Just admit you’re distracted by thoughts of your wee girlfriend.’
Snickers ripple through the lads. They’ve been at it ever since the post went live last night. The press release and the social campaign are supposed to steer the public perception from ‘reckless serial shagger’ to ‘heartbroken man making a mistake’. But the team doesn’t care about narratives. They care about a good laugh and taking the piss. Can’t blame them.
‘Aye, Finn, what’s it like having a woman who knows what a book is?’ Scottie shouts, his grin wide enough to split his face.
‘Probably too much thinking for him.’ Our Number 8, James MacKenna adjusts his scrum cap. He’s usually quiet, but even he’s getting in on the act.
A few minutes later, the ball – a white and neon green blur – glances off my chest and drops. Again.
‘Lennox!’ Coach Wallace barks my name through the chill. ‘You want to play or piss about?’
He’s right. My body’s here, but my brain’s hooked on dark hair in a high ponytail and rules I’m not sure I fully understand. It’s with a pair of bossy blues that pin me down without trying. With the press of her round arse against my thigh, that soft weight when she settled in.
Don’t even dream about it.
We run the drill again. This time I’m locked in, body moving on muscle memory. Catch, pass, sprint. Repeat. Rugby’s simple when you strip away the noise. Has always been that way for me. It’s the rest of life that’s complicated.
Scottie sidles up during water break, sweat dripping from his forehead. ‘Still weird I’ve never seen that Elite Edge girl around. You’ve been hiding her under the bed, or what?’
I take a long swig to gather my thoughts. ‘We’ve been keeping it quiet, that’s all.’
‘That why you were shagging two birds in Switzerland?’
I splutter. ‘We were…on a break.’
‘A break?’ Connor Duff pipes up from behind. He’s a winger with zero filter. ‘That the one where you broke your dick trying to handle two at once?’
The water bottle crumples in my grip. ‘Fuck off, Duffy Duck.’
‘Seriously though,’ Scottie presses, ‘how’d you land her?’
‘What can I say?’ I shrug, aiming for nonchalant. ‘She loves my natural charm.’
‘And your ability to multitask,’ Scottie shoots back, dry as toast.
More laughter. Brodie, standing a few yards away, shoots me a glare that could freeze lava, then shakes his head. He’s been silent about it all, which is almost worse than the constant ribbing. He’s in on it, that’s why. But that doesn’t mean he approves.
The reporters hovering just beyond the railings are still watching us like hawks, vultures, whatever predatory bird fits. I flip my bottle and catch it, still giving them nothing. It’s not easy.
‘Must be stressful, though,’ Connor muses, ‘trying to keep track of which bits go where. Like playing Twister but naked.’
‘And with extra parts,’ Scottie adds. ‘Sounds exhausting. I get tired just imagining it.’
