Finn jogs past, pink hair plastered to his head, a wet tangle of candy floss. ‘State of you. Look like a hairy coo.’
‘And you still look like a flamingo fucked a traffic cone. Jog on, ya bawbag.’
‘Love you too.’ He slaps my arse without breaking stride.
I shake my head, laughing.
Brodie hasn’t said a word in fifteen minutes. He stands at the edge of the ruck, arms folded. The others reset without a peep. Brodie’s jaw is set like granite, but his eyes are somewhere else entirely. Somewhere that hurts. That man needs to sort his emotions out. But maybe that’s why he’s so stellar on the pitch – because that’s where he’s channelling it.
We all do, I reckon.
The session grinds on. I make the hit that frees the winger. Absorb the contact. The thing about not being the centre of attention is that you get very good at watching. Tracking the lads is second nature. Brodie barking at the forwards, ice on his back between sets. Jamie scrolling his phone near the touchline, probably checking the Sin & Tonic drinks list. Finn is winding up the scrum coach with some fanboy stuff about Taylor Swift.
Jamie catches my eye and lifts his chin. A single, wordless nod that says good shift, big man. I return it. We’ve never spoken more than thirty consecutive words off the pitch, but in a ruck, he’s the first body I feel arriving at my shoulder. Always. Connor’s the same. Clueless with words, relentless with actions. The pack looks after its own. That’s the covenant. You bleed for the man next to you, and you trust he’ll bleed for you.
And then there’s Nevin. Our hooker.
He’s on the far side of the pitch, working through his line-out throws. Textbook form. The picture of focus. He moves with that private school polish. Shoulders back, chin up, like he expects the world to rearrange itself around him. I’ve shared a changing room with the man for half a season. We’re not close by any stretch of the imagination, but we’re teammates. That means something.
Or it should.
Wallace blows the final whistle. ‘Inside, lads. Get warm.’
My boots squelch on the grass as I trudge toward the tunnel. The sallow light of the changing room bleeds through the door at the far end. I should be running plays in my head, analysing my performance. Instead, I’m thinking about a girl in a red scarf with a laugh that sounds as if she’s kept it in storage.
The changing room hits like a wall. Steam, sweat, and the thick reek of body spray and Tiger Balm fighting a losing battle against the raw, earthy stench of twenty men who’ve spent hours in the dirt. Someone’s blasting The Kidney Flowers from a tinny speaker.
Connor’s boots slap past, leaving peat-prints. Jamie shakes water from his scrum cap and hangs it on the peg. I peel off my shirt and wring brown water onto the tiles. Finn’s already stripped to his Gucci boxer briefs, towel slung over one shoulder, admiring his tattooed self in the fogged mirror.
‘Oi, Lennox.’ Jamie lobs a sock at his head. ‘Stop shagging your own reflection. It’s hard to watch.’
‘You mean you get hard watching.’ Finn catches the sock. He’s a phenomenal flanker and a colossal pain in the arse. ‘Don’t be jealous. Green’s an ugly colour on all of you. Why do I have to repeat myself?’
‘Not as ugly as your Barbie hair,’ Connor throws in.
‘This gorgeous pink?’ Finn runs a hand through his strands. ‘Iconic. You just have no sense of style, Duffy.’
‘And if you had dynamite for brains you wouldn’t have enough to blow your nose.’ Connor’s trying, but he’s no match for Finn.
‘Looks like my late gran’s rinse,’ Brodie grumbles, face set in its usual scowl.
Finn winks. ‘Your gran had taste, then.’
‘And your gran sells crumpets.’
‘That’s the best shite talk you’ve got, MacRae?’ Finn shakes his head. ‘What’s next – “Yer da paints flags on roundabouts”?’
I grunt non-committedly and shove my kit into my bag. Their familiar banter washes over me. This is the part I’m at ease with. Listening. Laughing at the right moments.
Jamie swipes through his phone. ‘Sin & Tonic tonight? Gwen’s posted about two-for-one cocktails.’
It’s a bit of a shitehole, but it’s the only pub in Duncraig village, where the club has most of us put up.
‘Gwen?’ Finn perks up.
‘The new owner,’ Jamie says coolly.
‘What’s the story there?’ Connor pokes. ‘Do you fancy her?’
