‘Brodie, tell him,’ Finn says.
Brodie is pulling on a shirt. ‘No fucking speeches. We’ve all got places to be. Wives to please.’
‘Charlie isn’t your wife yet,’ Connor points out.
‘Technicality.’ Brodie hikes his joggers up.
I rummage in my bag and pull on my jeans. The patter washes over me. Eighteen months, and they still show up. I’ve stopped questioning whether they mean it. Nevin is long gone – his contract terminated after the board investigation, last I heard he’s languishing in some Championship club in the south – and nobody misses him. We don’t talk about him. Why would we?
I hope he’s taking anger management classes and some therapy sessions.
I’ve practised being loved by these muppets for one and a half years now. It doesn’t feel earned and probably never will. But I’ve stopped waiting for the whistle to blow on this one.
‘Scottie.’ Finn appears at my elbow, voice dropping to something approaching serious. ‘Quick word.’
I’m jutting my chin at him. ‘If this is about Berlin – we’re not going there for my stag d?—’
‘It’s not. Just wanted to wish you luck. You ready?’
The thing in my pocket might as well weigh two stone. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’
‘Good.’ Finn nods. ‘Don’t cock it up.’
‘Thank you. That’s incredibly helpful, as usual.’
‘That’s what best pals are for.’ He slaps my arm and saunters off to torture someone else.
* * *
The last daylight is bleeding out along the horizon. Stadium lights blaze behind us as fans spill across the car park in happy, chattering clusters, scarves and hats and breath misting in the chill.
Ava’s waiting by the gate. Her hair is loose, which is a rare sight, and the wind is whipping strands across her face. She stands out against the grey concrete of the stadium like a flare in the dark.
Then she starts running and jumps at me. ‘You’re the best!’ She peppers my face with kisses.
Warmth spills through me, loosening every tense muscle. She’s mine and I’m hers, and the whole world knows it. On the way to the car park, the fans recognise me. Some wave, some shout congratulations, one kid thrusts a programme at me for signing. I scribble my name and pass it back. Ava waits, patient and amused, her arm hooked through mine.
This is us now. Public and official. Finn has made about thirty-three TikToks about us, and the numbers, apparently, are excellent. Lots of likes. According to his fiancée Theo, that is.
Yeah, we’re all getting married like proper grown-ups.
Ava pulls open the passenger door of her Volvo. ‘Get in.’
The drive takes twenty minutes until the weathered façade of The Wallace Picture House appears in the windscreen. The Art Deco frontage cuts through the dark under vintage bulbs. It’s quiet for a Saturday afternoon.
‘Go save our seats,’ I tell Ava at the door. ‘I’ll grab the snacks.’
‘You better.’ She kisses my cheek and disappears through the double doors to screen three.
The moment she’s gone, I let out a breath and head for the kiosk. The queue is short. I pay for the large bucket, salted not sweet, and step to the side. I reach for my jacket pocket. The box is warm from sitting against my hip. I flip the lid, check the ring is still there. Then I bury it deep in the popcorn.
I’m proposing to a woman in a cinema. With a ring in a popcorn bucket. What have I become?
Two years since we met here in the dark.
We moved in together three months ago. A small flat in Cumbernauld, her hometown, halfway between Glasgow and Stirling. Ava premiered Mary Queen of Scots during the Edinburgh Fringe. Her parents both showed up. They sat on opposite sides, but they clapped at the same time. Progress. Laurel and Lotta came too, long back from Hong Kong.
I showed up with an enormous bouquet of roses and may or may not have cried.
