‘There’s no story, you absolute fucktard.’ Jamie takes a swig of water, pretending to be unfazed, which is his standard mode.
I’ve never seen him actively fazed.
‘Ah! So you’re finally getting pumped?’ Connor slaps a palm against his hairy chest. ‘An early Christmas miracle.’
‘Piss off and stub your toe.’ Jamie takes his kit off. ‘Coming, Scottie?’
I hesitate. Friday night. The lads. There’s no match for us this weekend, and I could use a pint. ‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe means aye in Scottish, so you’re in.’ Finn kicks his briefs into the bottom of his locker and wraps a towel around his middle. ‘MacRae?’
Brodie grunts. ‘Naw.’
‘Poor old Captain Misery.’ Finn swings his washbag in a lazy circle as he backs toward the showers. ‘Who pissed in your protein shake?’
Brodie’s neck goes corded, the muscles bunching up to take the impact of a scrum that isn’t there. He doesn’t answer. The whole room knows why. His monumental fight with Charlie in South Africa five weeks ago. One minute, they were all secretly lovey-dovey, the next it’s all the Silence of the Lambs. I guess that’s what happens when you mix business with pleasure and neither of you knows how to back down.
But what do I know about love?
I lost my virginity five years ago in a Glasgow pub bog with the drummer of some punk band. Didn’t tell her it was my first time, but she didn’t seem to notice the fumbling. It’s been mostly casual bits and pieces since then. Nothing serious. Definitely nothing that’d turn me into a seething headcase like Brodie. And sweet FA since I joined the Rebels earlier this year.
Nevin strolls in from the shower, towel around his hips, steam rising off his shoulders. He’s got that air about him. The one where he knows everyone’s watching, and he’s decided to let them.
‘Lads.’ He nods and drops onto the bench opposite me. ‘Right then, what are you up to?’
‘Sin & Tonic,’ Jamie says. ‘You in?’
Nevin exhales with a weary sigh. ‘Can’t, mate.’ He rubs his jaw. ‘Ava’s not doing great.’
Ah, so he’s asked about tonight as a prompt to complain. Dick move.
Finn raises an eyebrow. ‘Your girlfriend?’
‘Aye. She’s injured her foot during rehearsals for The Nutcracker.’ Nevin checks his reflection in the mirror behind Finn. ‘Some tendon thing.’
Finn pauses in his hairstyling. ‘That the ballet she’s in?’
‘She was.’ Nevin’s second sigh is laced with irritation. ‘She’s in fucking bits over it. Reckons they’re trying to push her out and replace her for good.’
Connor exchanges a confused look with Jamie.
‘Total paranoia, obviously.’ Nevin turns back to us. ‘But she’s losing it. She’s a glass doll right now. Terrified she’ll shatter if she moves wrong. Won’t even eat properly because of all that stress. Walking on eggshells around her doesn’t even cover it. I feel like I’m her therapist half the time. It’s draining, but…the things you do for love, am I right?’
‘My sister did ballet,’ Connor says. ‘That stuff’s tough, man.’
Nevin ignores him. ‘Her anxiety is through the roof.’ But then his bravado falters for half a beat. ‘Not sure what to do. My sister had a depressive episode at uni, and I missed it.’ His mouth pulls into a bloodless line.
Connor rubs the back of his neck, looking like he’d rather be discussing foot fungus or haemorrhoids. ‘Sounds…heavy, mate.’
‘It is what it is. Someone’s got to look after the broken ballerina.’
I grip the bench until the wood bites my palm.
Glass doll. Broken ballerina.
The image doesn’t fit. It doesn’t fucking fit at all.
The woman I sat next to in that cinema demolished a bucket of popcorn with the ferocity of someone who’d missed three meals. She cracked jokes and had a laugh that sounded rusty, sure, but real. Alive. Even in the dim light, there was a fire in her eyes that could burn a house down.
