Chapter 1
Scottie
People don’t ask if you’re okay when you’re big enough to carry the world, so you have to find a place where nobody needs you to carry a damn thing.
If you need a break, that is.
The old seat in the rear row of The Wallace Picture House wasn’t built for a man my size who puts in a shift on the rugby pitch for a living. Eighteen stone and six-foot-four of centre do not fold well.
But it’s where I hide.
The lights go down. Another Tuesday, and I’m wedged into the row for the late afternoon screening. Knees angled out, shoulders tucked in. The red velvet seat groans when I settle, as if it’s surprised I’ve picked it. But I always do. Same chair each week, where I won’t block anyone’s view, nobody acknowledges I’m here and vice versa. Peace and quiet.
This small indie cinema in Stirling is over a hundred years old and a bit shabby. The carpet’s worn thin in the aisles, a muddy red that’s given up pretending it was ever clean. It’s dead quiet here on Tuesdays. Each week, I pull my hood up, buy my old-fashioned paper ticket without conversation, nod thanks, and head straight in.
The screen fills with fake snow and a woman in a red jumper about to discover the true meaning of Christmas in a small town in Maine or Massachusetts that looks like it was designed for a biscuit tin. First Christmas romance of the season. They’re running them once a week from mid-November to mid-December. I like the predictability. Bit ridiculous, but also comforting, if you don’t think too hard about it.
I come here on Tuesdays because training finishes earlier and nobody watches me like I’m about to be put to work. Nobody expects me to run head-first into a wall of meat to gain two inches of grass. If the guy in row F spills his Fanta, it’s not my job to charge and put my face in the way of the fallout. In this cinema, it’s like I’m not even here.
Which is the whole fucking point.
The film rolls on and my head does what it always does in the dark – it wanders. Simply happens when there’s no one to buffer for.
Up in Oban when I was a wee boy, I’d often go for long walks or to the pictures when the haar rolled in from Mull. I left the house when my dad had finished a bottle – to cover the menacing pressure at home with fake explosions. I learned how the silence tightened before the snap. The difference between a night I could ride out and a night I couldn’t.
After Dad’s stroke, I learned to read his face when words wouldn’t come. Then my wee brother fell off McCaig’s Tower, and suddenly two people needed extra support. You don’t ask for things when everyone else needs more than you do. No, you work out pretty quickly to be useful.
Up there on the screen, the woman in the red jumper laughs at something the bloke’s said. Simple problems with tidy endings. I exhale slowly and let my spine settle against the upholstery. Nobody here needs me.
Thank fuck.
I shift. Last Saturday’s Edinburgh ruck still lives in my trapezius. Took a knee to the spine in the second half and kept playing. The forwards nicked the line-out, Brodie took Man of the Match, Finn got the photograph with his pink hair catching the floodlights. I got a bag of ice. Standard distribution.
I’m not bitter about it. Brodie’s a brilliant fly-half, a once-in-a-generation talent. Finn is my flatmate and the best flanker in Scotland. I’m the one who makes the space for them to shine. Every single time. Clear the bodies, spit out blood, and watch somebody else take the bow. And the worst part? I’m proud of it. I do the hard yards so others can take the glory. That’s the deal I made with the world. No fuss. Coaches trust me because I don’t require crisis management. Teammates lean on me because I’ll hold steady.
The contract’s shite, though. I signed it for three years because the Stirling Rebels were the only ones writing cheques big enough to build my brother’s ramp and get my mum’s roof fixed. I was knocking on the door for Scotland last season. But I sold my soul to a start-up franchise in Duncraig because I needed the cash upfront. The bills don’t stop simply because I’d like to gamble on becoming a national rugby asset.
Off the pitch, it’s the same. The one people ring when they need something sorted? Me. It’s who I am.
I spot her halfway through the film.
Four rows ahead on the other side of the sloped aisle. A woman shifts in her place. Her shoulders are trembling. She sits alone, and I don’t mean to stare. But the angle’s there, the cinema’s as good as empty, and the way she’s holding herself hooks my attention.
She’s small. Red scarf around her long neck, narrow shoulders. Light brown hair pulled back in a bun tight enough to look painful. Posture like a drawn bowstring. Then swipes beneath her eye with one knuckle. She’s crying, but you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention.
Her phone lights up against her knee. Once. Then again, a few moments later. She doesn’t check it. Her gaze stays on the big screen. But she’s not watching the movie. I can tell from the way her head doesn’t track the action.
Weird thing is: She seems oddly familiar. It takes a second to place it, because it’s dark and the context’s all wrong. But then it clicks.
Nevin’s girlfriend.
He mentioned meeting a ballet dancer at a spring wedding or something. I wasn’t really paying attention. On and off the pitch, Nevin behaves like the male lead in a film he doesn’t realise nobody else is watching, so I mostly tune him out.
I’ve seen her at one or two matches. Always off to the side, never in the centre. What’s her name again? And what’s she doing here by herself?
I force my gaze strictly forward and tell myself three rules: don’t look, don’t see, don’t care. I break all three in the time it takes to blink. Because since the second I saw her shaking in the dark, my defensive line has had a leak in it.
Despite being hidden in the back, I sink down further in my jacket. I didn’t come here to be a comforter or a witness. I came here to have my peace for ninety minutes. It’s none of my business, anyway. Whatever she’s dealing with is private. Maybe her gran or her dog died – who knows? She’s here to be alone with it. Same as I am. To sit in the dark where nobody pries. I’m not about to be the arsehole who ruins that for her.
