The screaming started about three weeks ago. And the first time he raised his voice, I raised mine to match. Stupid. So bloody stupid. I told him that shouting wasn’t going to make me agree with him, and for about three seconds, I thought I had cracked it. Nevin glitched and went quiet. He looked at me as if I had grown a second head. Then his face shifted into a furious shape I didn’t recognise, and the silence that followed was worse than any yelling.
He didn’t speak to me for three full days. Not a word. As if I didn’t even exist.
The next time he shouted, I stayed still.
And still.
And still.
He is under a lot of pressure. Rugby is tough. Especially in a new team where everyone has to prove themselves. And it’s fine. I can take it. You won’t last five minutes in ballet if you can’t handle someone shouting at you.
Nevin’s anger has a rhythm. You have to wait for the downbeat. I learned the choreography until the edges of me eroded smooth enough to slide past his temper without catching. Mostly. Dancer’s discipline, repurposed. I move quietly, hold my breath, and wait for the storm to pass.
I need these ninety minutes here today to process the injury. To calibrate before I re-enter the shitty production that is my life.
Could I call someone? Not really. Dad is offshore rotation. Mum is in Ireland with her boyfriend Derek. And at twenty-four, I’m expected to stand on my own two feet.
Second position. Feet apart. Stable. Haha.
Shame I’m currently one tendon snap away from falling on my arse for good.
The jitter spreads to my shoulder. I keep my hands folded in my lap, fingers laced. The position they teach you for the curtain call when you’re not the one taking the bow.
The wet comes first. Then the heat behind my eyes. I press my knuckles to cheek, breathe through my nose. Count the inhale. Four counts in, hold for four, release for four.
It doesn’t work. My body knows I’m lying.
My chest jerks once. Salt tracks down my face, and the screen blurs.
Eventually, the credits roll. The music signals the end of my ninety-minute ceasefire with reality. I pocket my phone and wipe my face.
As I push to my feet, my right protests with a sharp complaint from the injury that holds my career hostage. I distribute my weight, favouring the left side. Left foot firm, right foot light. Towards the exit doors. Towards the car, the drive home, the questions. The inevitable yelling.
The rear row comes into view. Someone still sits there, alone in the shadows.
A mountain of a man squashed into a seat that’s far too small for him. Arms that belong on someone who should be throwing cabers at a Highland Games. The low light catches the red in his hair and his beard. He is enormous. Doorframe-dwarfing enormous. But his shoulders curve inward, knees angled out, elbows tucked. All that mass, apologising for itself.
My brain files the observation and keeps walking. But my heartbeat has other ideas. It trips once, and I pretend not to notice.
He stares straight at me, and my breath snags.
Shit.
I know him. That’s Nevin’s teammate. One of the Stirling Rebels. I’ve seen him at the matches, always on the periphery. Never loud. What’s his name again? Something with an S…Struan? Sean?
There’s no escape. He holds my gaze with a puzzled look. As if he knows he has seen me somewhere but can’t remember where. Does he recognise me?
He could have witnessed everything. The whole miserable breakdown. Icy panic pricks my skin. He is a Rebel. He has Nevin’s number in his phone.
Oh God. No. God, no.
One text from him – Saw your missus at the flicks, pal, looking a state – and the interrogation awaiting me at home upgrades from ‘Level 1: Suspicion’ to ‘Level 4: Inquisition’.
And I won’t survive Level 4 tonight.
I don’t speak or smile as I walk in his direction. I straighten my spine. He is watching me, but he isn’t leering.
My finger lifts to my lips. It’s not a beg, more a conspiratorial signal between two people who are both currently pretending to be invisible.
