His phone vibrates in the cup holder. The screen flashes:
CALENDAR REMINDER – MacKenzie Sports Opening 11:00
‘Scottie. That’s in…’ I check the car’s clock. ‘Forty minutes.’
‘Aye.’
‘We’re an hour away, and you’re supposed to be there, not here. It’s a sponsor event. That stuff is important.’
‘I’m aware.’ He silences the notification without bothering to check it.
‘Scottie—’
‘Brodie and Finn are the headlines.’ His voice is infuriatingly calm. ‘I bet nobody even notices that I’m a no-show. MacKenna’s there as well. They’ll survive one handshake short.’
‘This is your professional career.’
‘And you’re my—’ He stops and recalibrates. ‘You’re my priority right now, and that’s that.’
Nevin’s priorities were never in doubt: himself, his reputation and career, his comfort, his family, and then, at the bottom of the list, maybe me. Scottie’s priorities unsettle me, because he doesn’t make me fight for a place.
He’s putting me at the top, and I don’t know how to breathe up there.
He silences another reminder, and my guilt settles heavier.
‘Won’t you get in trouble?’
‘I guess after punching my teammate’s lights out, I’m already in for a monumental bollocking. And I’ll be fucked if I care.’ He hitches a shoulder. ‘Trouble is temporary. Leaving you alone right now isn’t an option.’
‘Then phone them. Tell them you’re ill. Food poisoning. Anything.’
‘And say what, Ava? If I call Wallace, he’s going to ask me why. If I tell him the truth, I’m telling him about you. About Nevin. All of it. And that’s yours to tell. When you’re ready. Not mine and not now.’
He’s right. One honest sentence, and my life becomes a staff meeting. A conversation between men in blazers who don’t know me and don’t care. I didn’t ask him to protect my privacy. He simply did it, the way he does everything. Without a fuss.
‘So you’d rather…not show up? No excuse, no reason, nothing?’
‘If the choice is between lying to my coach or airing your business? Aye. I’d take the monumental bollocking.’
* * *
We arrive at the familiar historic villa in Stirling. A place that says good family, good breeding, good money. The first time I saw it, I thought it was beautiful. Now I can’t unsee what it really is: a cage with a view.
Scottie parks on the street, two cars next to my Volvo, and checks his phone. ‘The dobber hasn’t blocked me. Interesting. He geo-tagged the gym at ten. He’ll be there until half eleven. We have enough time.’
The electronic lock beeps in sequence, and the front door opens. Not sure why I thought Nevin might have changed it – that would have required facing the neighbours after shouting the house down.
In the stairwell, Scottie’s hand finds the small of my back as we climb – a gentle support I lean into. It’s warm, comforting, and a world away from Nevin’s pressure that always shot a spike of compliance up my vertebrae.
At the top landing, my fingers grapple with the Yale key. ‘I can do it. Give me a second.’
‘No rush.’ Scottie waits, his breath fogging in the cold air of the landing.
Footsteps on the stairs below dump a cold wash of panic into my knees.
‘He’s not here,’ Scottie says calmly. ‘And I’ve got your back. I’m more than happy to smash his coupon in with my other hand, if needs be.’
With a brittle noise aimed at humour, I unlock the door, and it swings open.
