Except it’s already causing trouble. She’s Nevin’s. That fact should function as a brick wall. Concrete, steel fence, razor wire. I crack my knuckles and pretend the inch of air between our armrests isn’t charged. Mum raised me better than this. And the Rebels need me focused, not distracted.
Plus, a stunning woman like that? She’d never look twice at a bloke built for utility and nothing else.
‘I bet for someone of your stature, eighty per cent of the world seems tiny,’ she says after a minute. ‘Must feel like you’re in Lilliput all the time.’
Now I’m the one laughing. It comes out before I’ve decided to allow it. That never happens with people I’ve just met. Christ, I can’t even remember the last time someone got a genuine laugh out of me. Finn makes me grin. Brodie gets a jovial grunt. But this – this full-chested, unplanned bark? She found a part of me I thought I’d bricked over. Took her all of five minutes.
Our laughter fades, and the air between the seats snaps tight as we look at each other. A tingle hits my chest and knocks the breath out of me. I keep staring at her, and the mechanics of the room shift.
What the hell is this?
It’s nothing. Nada. Her boyfriend plays on my team. We’re supposed to be a brotherhood.
Two separate seats with a coat-buffer between them. There’s no law against sitting next to each other in public. We might as well be on a bus. I mean, it’s not like we’re snogging. There’s no carry-on. It’s all innocent and platonic.
If that weren’t the case, I’d already be three rows forward.
Last thing I need is to mess up the team’s dynamic. The Rebels are new to the United Rugby Championship. We’re still finding our feet. I might not particularly enjoy Nevin’s Billy Big Baws routine, but when he’s at the bottom of a ruck with three Irish giants trying to peel his head off, I’m the first one there to clear them out. I protect his ball, and he throws mine. I’ve got him covered. Every single time. That’s the law I live by.
The lights dip as the trailers start rolling. The silence is easy and companionable. But my peripheral vision, trained to track wingers breaking the line, catches movement. Her right knee jitters up and down. A wired beat that judders through the seats.
She’s running on fumes. It’s the same way the lads look in the changing room after eighty minutes on the pitch, holding it together by bloody-mindedness.
I could ask. I could lean over and say, You awright, love? But that demands an answer she probably doesn’t have the energy to construct. Also, words are cheap. Calories are far better.
I lean in, keeping my voice under the booming soundtrack. ‘I’m away to get some snacks. Want anything?’
She hitches, then looks at me with wide eyes. ‘Oh. No, I’m fine.’
‘I’m getting popcorn cause I’m starvin’.’ A lie. I had a large bowl of pasta with chicken after training an hour ago. But she won’t take charity, and she clearly needs the fuel. ‘Help me out?’
She hesitates, weighing the social contract. ‘Only if you’re sure you’re getting some anyway.’
‘Sweet or salt?’
‘Sweet.’
‘Deal.’ I lever myself up and navigate the dark aisle.
The foyer is deserted, and the lad in the kiosk looks as if he’s praying for a coma to end the boredom. I order a bag of sweet popcorn and a large Irn Bru.
So…Nevin Neely.
The name thrums behind my eyes while the machine whirs. Good feet, ego the size of Murrayfield Stadium. He treats rugby like a solo sport and life the same way. Why a woman who sits like she’s made of porcelain and cold-rolled iron picks a man who sucks the air out of every room is a call I’m not being paid to make.
She’s here alone. He’s probably out with the boys, or glued to a mirror somewhere, tickling his own abs.
Again, not my business.
I pay the teenager behind the till. This isn’t a rescue mission. Two people killing time, each dealing with their own damage.
I head back into the dark. She hasn’t moved an inch by the looks of it. Balancing my Irn Bru, I sink into the seat, and hold the bucket out.
‘Tax,’ I say. ‘For watching my coat.’
She reaches in and takes a handful. I take one too, forcing the sugary foam into my mouth. I bloody hate the sweet stuff. It sticks to my teeth and tastes like headache. But the piston-knee has stopped bouncing.
And that? Worth it.
