I don’t remember everything, but I do remember laughing. Mutual fun for all parties involved, that’s my motto. Even when I’m off my rocker, I’m respectful.
I’d love to say, ‘My maw raised me right.’ But she didn’t raise me. She barely put up with me before she threw me out.
The one on the bed has kicked her duvet off. I get up, shuffle closer, and bend down to tuck it back over her legs. The brunette on the floor’s got nothing. I drape the fur throw over her, hoping that’s enough. I want them warm and safe.
Briefly, I think about lifting her onto the bed, but I don’t want to wake her, and I’m probably too wobbly anyway. Then I pace toward the enormous windows, part the curtain with one shaking hand, and pull it aside.
The view’s too sharp and bright. My eyes blur, then refocus. Whitewashed Alps, chalets – no, lodges? cabins? – stacked like biscuits. Swiss flags flap everywhere, red with that prim white cross. It’s pretty, in a way that almost pisses me off. The Highlands are rougher and wetter. Gloomier and grittier, but also more honest.
I should miss home.
But ‘home’ is a weird word. Doesn’t sit right in my mouth. Not sure what it means, or exactly what I’m meant to miss. Certainly not the former mining sinkhole that’s Duncraig where I had to move when I signed the contract as a flanker last March. Maybe my team. The Stirling Rebels aren’t half bad.
Below, on the snowy street, someone’s got a camera pointed at the hotel entrance. A long lens. Paparazzi. Or I’m paranoid. I flinch away from the window. I need to leave. Find Kit and deck him. Or perhaps thank him. Depends on what happened here.
A knock at the door. The blonde woman lets out a little sigh.
Another knock.
Jesus. Pull it together.
I shuffle to the door, and inch it open. Kit Lascelles-Finch, right on cue, wearing sunglasses indoors like a wanker. God knows what he’s hiding beneath them. He’s always been up to something.
We met at the academy in our late teens. A privately educated toff and a lad from the schemes, two players who hated authority more than each other. We mostly lost touch after he flamed out of the sport. I went to two of his birthday parties. After that, just the odd social media sighting.
So why the hell did I call him on Christmas Eve?
Because I didn’t know who else to phone, and I was fucking wrecked and needed out.
‘Finlay Lennox! You’re alive,’ he declares. ‘But barely, by the looks of it.’
My full name in his Etonian lilt makes me want to puke, but that’s probably the tequila. ‘Where the fuck were you, man?’
‘Left shortly before three.’ A sleazy grin spreads over his face. ‘You said you wanted both sisters to yourself.’
A surge of nausea creeps up my throat. ‘Sisters?’
‘Technically stepsisters, so relax. No blood, just old money.’ He lifts a shoulder, still grinning. ‘And who am I to stand in the way of you shagging nobility? Something about “bridging the class divide” and proving “rugby players aren’t just brawn”.’ His grin kicks up another notch. ‘Well done, you.’
‘Jesus, Kit. What the hell?’ But I don’t ask for details. I don’t want them.
‘You were in quite a state.’ Another lazy shoulder roll. ‘We all self-destruct in our own way. Yours happens to be scandalous shagging. Could be worse. Breakfast or a round of skiing?’
I let out a pained groan. ‘You wish.’
‘I see. Come to Badrutt’s when you’re ready to face the world again.’
‘Don’t think so, mate.’ I shut the door and lean against it, heart tripping over itself.
Finn Lennox. Professional rugby player. Casual power shagger. Regular fuckup.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Just a glimpse. Bile rises when the glass throws my da’s eyes straight back at me. The same light shade of blue, the same look and the face… All of it. I don’t want his fucking eyes. I don’t want anything from him. I wish I could delete him from my consciousness, the way he did with me. Until it was too late to fix things.
The panic claws up so fast I have to turn away. It starts in my spine. My throat clamps shut. Vision tunnels. I brace myself on the doorframe. Try to breathe, but the air won’t go in. My chest seizes, heartbeat’s gone rabid.
C’mon. Breathe. In. Out. In and out.
I picture the pitch. The sound of studs on turf. A line-out call. Anything but this.
