The car park is silent except for the crunch of my trainers. I feel the heat of her legs, the puff of her breath against my neck.
In this moment I know, I’d carry her seven times around the globe if I had to.
‘You’re very warm,’ she says quietly.
‘It’s the mass,’ I tell her. ‘Takes a lot to freeze me solid.’
The sound of her chuckle travels down my spine and seeps deep into my marrow. Every step I take shifts her against me, the soft press of her chest against my shoulder blades. I’m carrying her across the black ice and pretending this is a favour between friends. My body knows it’s a lie. The fierce, possessive need to keep walking and never put her down confirms it.
Jesus Christ. I’m getting into so much trouble.
I bring us to a halt by the car, and crouch again to let her slide off. She drops onto one foot, steadies herself against the car, and turns to face me.
‘Thanks. I mean it.’
‘Nae bother.’
‘Same time next week?’ she asks.
‘Aye. If the roads aren’t shite.’
‘They’re always shite.’
‘Then I guess I’ll be here.’
‘Bye, Bear.’ She unlocks the car, climbs into the driver’s seat, and pulls the door shut. The engine coughs, sputters, catches on the third try.
I watch her headlights flare. She waves and then she’s gone, lights disappearing into the night.
I stand there, rain soaking through my jacket, replaying the shape of those bruises in my head.
Nevin.
The narrative he spun in the changing room. The saint tending to his broken ballerina. Bullshit. All of it.
I walk to my car. Unlock it. Drop behind the wheel. The seat is cold. The windscreen fogs with my breath.
My phone goes off, and Nevin’s name lights up the screen.
Fuck’s sake?
I stare at it for two rings before answering.
‘Aye?’
‘Scottie. Quick one. Did you get the email about the Christmas party this Friday? Wallace is being a prick about the dress code. Do you think we have to wear black tie? It’s the Sin & Tonic, not The Balmoral.’
I death-grip my phone. ‘Don’t know, man. Have you asked Brodie?’
‘He didn’t pick up. Will try again.’ A pause. Static on the line. Then, almost casual: ‘You haven’t seen a Volvo on the road, have you? Old blue one? Ava’s not picking up. Said she was doing physio at the studio in Glasgow, but she should be back by now.’
The lie forms before I’ve decided to tell it. ‘Naw, mate. Haven’t seen a thing.’
Silence. I can hear him breathing. Weighing. ‘Right. Cheers.’
The line goes dead.
I sit in the dark, staring at the fogged windscreen. I lied to my teammate to cover for a woman I’ve been secretly meeting at the cinema for four weeks. I told him I hadn’t seen her when I’d just watched her drive away. The words came out smooth. No stutter, no tell. And that sickens me more than anything, because it means I’m capable of it when it matters enough. Capable of becoming someone I don’t recognise
